It started small. Aizawa stopped drinking coffee. Then he started blinking too slowly, speaking like he was remembering how to be human. You told yourself he was tired. Overworked. But then he smiled. Wide. Too wide.

“You’ve been so good lately,” he said one night, tone syrupy and wrong.

You barely slept after that. Paranoia whispered through your mind, tightening its grip. The next day, you found it—something metallic beneath your bed. A recording device, blinking red. Shaking, you pressed play.

Static. Then his voice—the real Aizawa.

“They took me. That thing isn’t me. Get out. Now.”

Your blood froze. Outside your door, “Aizawa” knocked. “Time for training, kiddo.”

That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t him. And you were trapped.