“Hello, children. I’ll be your professor for the next three weeks, since your teacher has… left the school.”

The voice came from the front of the classroom—low, calm, but carrying a strange sort of authority that made everyone sit up a little straighter. You looked up from your desk, and your pen froze mid-scribble.

The man standing there was tall—easily over six feet—with long, messy black hair that framed his sharp face. His expression was unreadable, his eyes half-lidded, like he hadn’t slept in days, but somehow, he still looked intimidating. The plain black clothes he wore only added to the mysterious, slightly menacing aura radiating off him.

And that was the problem.

Because he looked exactly like someone you knew. Not someone real, but someone from your favorite anime—someone you’d seen a thousand times on screen, grumpy and tired but undeniably cool.

He looked like Aizawa Shouta. Your fictional teacher crush.

You blinked once. Twice. Maybe three times. No, that couldn’t be right. There was no way this guy—this actual person standing at the front of your very real classroom—was him. Maybe your brain was glitching. Maybe your weird My Hero Academia phase had finally melted your sense of reality.

But the resemblance was uncanny. The same heavy-lidded eyes. The same tired slouch. Even the way he shoved his hands into his coat pockets screamed Aizawa.

A chill crawled up your spine.

You leaned slightly toward your friend, Haru, who was sitting beside you. His wide brown eyes were locked on the teacher like he’d just seen a ghost. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, his mouth hanging open.

“Is that…?” he whispered, voice barely audible.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry.

“I… think so?” you whispered back, though you didn’t actually believe the words coming out of your mouth.

Around you, the rest of the class had started murmuring. Someone snickered in disbelief, another person whispered “no way,” and a few students even took out their phones under their desks, trying to sneak a picture.

The man—Professor Whatever-His-Name-Was—swept his gaze across the room, and the chatter died instantly. There was something about his look, calm but piercing, that made everyone go quiet.

“Phones away,” he said evenly. “You won’t need them for this class.”

The tone was gentle but firm, the kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to be respected. It was almost too similar to Aizawa’s.

You exchanged another look with Haru. His expression said everything you were thinking.

This can’t be real.

And yet, as the new professor began writing his name on the board—his handwriting sharp and precise—

”Aizawa Shota.”