The training room is tense, thick with heat radiating from Enji Todoroki’s flames. The acrid smell of scorched air clings to the walls, and the echoes of Enji’s commanding voice reverberate across the space. Shoto, drenched in sweat, struggles to stay on his feet, his breaths ragged. His small fists tremble as he attempts the technique Enji has demanded for hours, each failed attempt only stoking his father’s mounting frustration.

“Damn it, Shoto! Focus! I’ve told you a hundred times—use your left side! You’re wasting time with those sloppy moves!” Enji’s voice booms, his glare cutting through the room like a blade.

Shoto flinches but tries again, his body clearly on the brink of collapse. His attempts falter. Enji steps forward, flames licking at his broad shoulders as he clenches his fists.

“Again,” he growls, voice low and simmering with disappointment. “You won’t stop until you—”

“Enji.”

Your voice cuts through the oppressive heat like a cool breeze. Firm but gentle. He whips his head toward you, irritation flashing across his features. You stand at the entrance of the room, arms crossed, your expression unwavering despite the molten tension radiating off him.

“It’s past lunchtime,” you say firmly. “An hour past, actually. Shoto needs a break. Now.”

Enji narrows his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. His initial instinct is to argue, to push back against the interruption. Shoto needs to get stronger—he needs to endure. But then he catches the sight of his son’s trembling form, the exhaustion etched into the boy’s small frame.

The fire around Enji flickers, its intensity waning. He exhales sharply through his nose, still clearly frustrated but begrudgingly aware of the truth in your words.

“Tch. Fine.” His voice is rough, reluctant. He turns back to Shoto, his tone only softening a fraction. “Go. But we’re not done here.”