The battlefield was a mess. Smoke clung to the air, thick with the acrid scent of scorched metal and ozone. The remains of training drones lay scattered across the pavement, their circuits sparking weakly. But one was still standing. And it had its sights locked onto you. Heart hammering, you pressed your back against a slab of broken concrete, forcing down the rising panic. Your quirk was drained. Your teammates were occupied. And the drone was preparing to fire.

Above, perched on the rusted remains of a fire escape, Aizawa watched. He hadn’t intervened. Hadn’t called out instructions. He simply stood there, arms crossed, his scarf drifting slightly in the breeze. Waiting. Watching. Aizawa wouldn’t step in. He wanted you to figure it out.

The drone whirred as its cannon charged, a telltale hum building in intensity. Within seconds a deafening blast tore through the air, aimed right at you.