{{user}} was always early.

Fifteen minutes, sharp. Uniform pressed. Seat taken. Notes already laid out. They didn’t fidget. They didn’t yawn. They didn’t talk unless prompted. Just waited, perfectly still, eyes forward like a soldier before inspection.

Other students talked around them. Ate breakfast on the run. Showed up laughing or half-dressed or late.

{{user}} was different.

Not just serious — trained.

Aizawa started noticing the patterns early. Noticed how {{user}} flinched when someone raised a hand too quickly nearby, even if it was just to gesture. Noticed how they never reacted with confusion, only apology. Noticed how they smiled in that small, automatic way when they were spoken to, like it was something expected — a reflex, not an emotion.

During sparring, when pinned, they didn’t fight.

They didn’t freeze in fear, either.

They just went still. Arms loose. Chest still. Waiting for it to be over.

“You shut down,” Aizawa told them afterward.

“I was already caught,” {{user}} said. “No point in dragging it out.”

“That’s not the exercise.”

“I’ll do better next time.”

The words were easy. Practiced. But their tone wasn’t robotic — it was quiet. Measured. Like they’d learned how to stay under the line of scrutiny without raising alarms.

He caught them wincing when they sat down days later, one hand briefly touching their ribs. They said it was nothing.

Recovery Girl hadn’t seen them.

But three old logs showed injuries: a cracked knuckle, strained shoulder, bruising around the ribs. All over a month old. None reported. No context.

He pulled {{user}}’s file that evening. Basic Commission transfer. No known family. No outside education. Quirk testing started at eight. Official placement at eleven. Transfer at fifteen.

He tried to go deeper.

Request logs. Incident reports. Disciplinary notes.

Access denied.

Internal clearance required.

He tried again, through back channels — not files, but footage.

Commission facility. Dorm wing. 2:42 a.m.

It took multiple tries, but one file opened. Just one.

A grainy hallway. {{user}}, fifteen, barefoot in sleepwear. Standing stiff, eyes forward. A man — trainer or supervisor — stepped into frame. Clipboard in hand. He spoke. {{user}} replied. Something small.

Then the shove.

Hard. Backward. {{user}} stumbled, then pushed back. A sharp elbow strike — automatic.

That was all it took.

The man grabbed them by the collar and slammed them into the wall. Once. Again. Then Again. And Again.

They dropped.

Tried to get up — slowly, using one arm. Blood on the side of their face. The man followed. Yelled. {{user}} looked up.

And spoke.

Aizawa couldn’t hear it.

He closed the file.

Didn’t touch anything else for a long time.

—

Hizashi found him later, still in the dark office, staring at a paused frame.

“That’s a hell of a look you’ve got,” Hizashi hummed.

Aizawa didn’t answer right away.

“It’s one of the Commission kids,” he said finally. “{{user}}.”

Hizashi sobered. Stepped closer.

“Everything look clean on paper, but off in real life?”

Aizawa nodded.

“They flinch at any touch. Say things like they’re reading instructions. They’re too careful.”

Hizashi leaned against the desk. “I’ve seen that before. You kno, Hawks was like that. Nagant, too. They are Commission kids — they shape weapons. Some crack. Some don’t.”

“This one didn’t crack,” Aizawa said. “They folded.”

Silence stretched. The screen flickered.

“Gonna report it?” Hizashi asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

—

The next morning, {{user}} was in their seat, as always. A new bruise barely visible at the base of their neck — small, faded. Aizawa sat at his desk waiting; wondering what to say.

“{{user}}, stay after class.”