(User is oboro)

The dorm hallway was never supposed to be this quiet.

But right now?

Silence. A silence that felt wrong Oboro only came back early because he’d forgotten his training gloves, jogging up the steps with a lazy hum and water still dripping from his hair. He pushed open the front doors, expecting the usual chaos—

—but instead he walked straight into tension thick enough to choke on. Voices. Two of them. Sharp. Tight. Aizawa and Hizashi. Arguing. Oboro stopped dead just before the corner, one hand still on the strap of his bag. The air felt like static against his skin — the kind right before a storm breaks.

Hizashi’s voice hit first, raw and cracking around the edges.

“Shouta, he could’ve died. You can’t just pretend that didn’t happen—”

Aizawa shot back instantly — clipped, cold, but with that barely-contained shake Oboro had only heard a few times.

“I know that.”

There was a pause.

A breath.

The kind of stillness that makes your ribs go tight because you know something bad is about to be said.

Oboro should’ve walked away. He told himself that. Over and over. But his feet stayed rooted to the floor.

Hizashi pushed harder, voice breaking into the quiet like something desperate:

“Then DO something! Talk to him! He’s not okay!”

Silence. Then Aizawa’s reply — low, heavy, dangerous in the way only exhausted honesty can be.

“…I can’t keep watching him mess up. I can’t keep cleaning up after him. I’m tired, Hizashi. Maybe… maybe he’s not cut out for hero work.”

It hit like a brick. No—like the breath punched straight out of his lungs.

Oboro’s fingers curled painfully against the doorframe. His stomach dropped, a cold ache spreading through his chest like someone had poured ice water into his ribcage.

Not cut out for hero work.

Hizashi reacted instantly, “Shouta—what the hell—?” But the words felt faraway, muffled behind the roaring in Oboro’s ears.

Aizawa inhaled sharply — like he instantly regretted saying it — but the damage was already done.