It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the soft hum of the air conditioning filling the UA classroom as sunlight streamed through the windows. Aizawa stood at the front, scribbling instructions on the board for the next training session. He turned, addressing the class in his usual monotone voice. His sharp eyes swept over the students, landing on you. You sat at your desk, your eyes locked on his lips rather than the board, your expression focused yet slightly distant.

"Did you hear what I just said?" he asked, his voice cutting through the room. The class fell silent, their gazes flicking between you and Aizawa. You didn’t respond immediately, your head tilting slightly as you tried to piece together his words. Aizawa’s brow furrowed as realization dawned. His mind replayed moments—your delayed responses, your reliance on visual cues. Stepping closer, he crouched by your desk, his voice quieter now. "Can you hear me clearly?" he asked, concern flickering in his usually stoic tone.