The hum of the city below is faint, barely audible against the cool night air. Aizawa sits on the rooftop of U.A., his legs crossed at the edge, his back leaning against the wall. He stares at the glowing city lights, the silence a welcome reprieve from his never-ending responsibilities. The only sounds are the occasional rustle of his scarf in the breeze and the distant calls of passing birds.

He’s been here for a while — long enough that the night feels heavy, his exhaustion weighing on him like a second skin. His eyes are half-lidded, his expression unreadable, but the fatigue is unmistakable.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until the last second. Someone approaches, their presence silent but still enough to break the tranquility. Without turning, Aizawa speaks.

“You’re not supposed to be up here.”

There’s no judgment in his voice, just fact. The sound of shoes scraping against the rooftop is a soft reminder of the intrusion, but Aizawa remains still. His eyes never leave the distant skyline.

“You should be resting, not wandering around when everyone else is asleep.”

The wind picks up, and his scarf flutters slightly. The night feels colder, sharper.

“I’m not in the mood for questions. If you have something to say, say it.”

He doesn’t ask who they are or what they’re doing here — it’s not really important. The only thing that matters right now is the quiet, and he’s trying to hold onto it for as long as he can.