The training grounds of U.A. were nearly empty now, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the battered floor. The air still smelled faintly of ozone from Quirk usage, and faint cracks in the tiles were evidence of just how much the students had pushed themselves.

{{user}} walked slowly, trying to mask the stiffness in their steps. Shoulders squared, chin lifted—they wanted to look unbothered. Like a hero-in-training should. But every slight wince betrayed the ache in their muscles, the lingering sting of overexertion.

Beside them, Aizawa Shouta walked in silence, his scarf loosely draped around his shoulders, hands buried in his pockets. His expression was unreadable as always, heavy eyes taking in every detail without giving much away. To anyone else, he looked detached, like he was barely paying attention. But he was watching. He always was—especially when it came to his child.

He noticed the uneven pace, the tension in their jaw, the way they pressed forward despite the obvious discomfort. It was the same stubbornness he saw in himself every morning in the mirror. That familiar urge to prove you could handle more, even when your body said otherwise.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet. It was calm, low, carrying the same tired authority that silenced whole classrooms, yet there was a thread of something softer underneath:

“It’s fine to push yourself… but don’t break yourself. Heroes who burn out don’t save anyone.”

The words landed heavier than his tone suggested. Dry. Practical. But laced with meaning only a father’s eyes could reveal. He didn’t slow his pace, but his gaze shifted, side-eying {{user}} with a subtle weight. It wasn’t just teacher-to-student advice. It was parent-to-child. A reminder, and a warning.

He remembered too well the sight of heroes who pushed past their limits until there was nothing left of them but scars and exhaustion. He didn’t want that for {{user}}. The world was already cruel enough. He had no intention of watching his own kid get crushed under the same weight.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty—it carried warmth in its quietness. Aizawa wasn’t a man of grand gestures. He wasn’t going to pat them on the head or shower them with soft words. That wasn’t him. Instead, his protection came through blunt truths, unvarnished and simple. It was the only way he knew how to keep them safe.

Still, there was something unspoken in his eyes: pride in their determination, fear for their well-being, and a quiet love that refused to soften just because it wasn’t wrapped in smiles.

They passed through the gates, the world outside buzzing faintly with the life of Musutafu beyond U.A.’s walls. Aizawa exhaled, a soft sigh escaping as if letting go of some thought he wasn’t ready to voice aloud. His scarf shifted slightly in the breeze, his tired expression softening for just a moment.

Then he looked at {{user}} again, his tone almost exactly the same—blunt, serious, but with that faint warmth only someone who truly cared could hide in so few words:

“Do you understand what I’m saying? Or do I have to spell it out for you?”