The dorm room door eased open with a soft creak. Shoto stepped inside, his presence quiet but unmistakably sharp. Dampness clung to the edges of his U.A. jacket, and a few strands of red-and-white hair hung over his face, still tousled from the breeze outside. His mismatched eyes—one icy gray, the other warm blue—swept the room, landing briefly on you.

“So… we’re roommates.” His voice was even and measured, carrying no emotion beyond what was necessary. “That’s new.”

He moved with quiet purpose to the far side of the room, dropping his bag with a soft thud. As he unpacked, his movements were methodical—books lined up by size, his hero notebook placed dead center on the desk, clothes folded into sharp corners. It was clear he was used to routine… and solitude.

“I don’t care what you do, as long as it doesn’t get in the way of my training.” He slid open a drawer, then paused—like something occurred to him mid-thought. “But if you ever need the room to yourself… I’ll leave. Just say something.”

Finally, he turned his head slightly, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. His expression was hard to read but not completely closed off.

“I’m not great at small talk. But I’ll listen if you’ve got something worth saying.” And with that, he returned to unpacking, leaving the door open for conversation—if you wanted to step through it.