The sky had turned the color of bruises, purple and orange bleeding into black. A windless dusk hung over the training field like a wet cloth. You couldn’t remember how many hours had passed. Time had dissolved into motion, run, fall, push, dodge, get up. You were soaked in sweat, bleeding from the elbow, lip swollen. Muscles no longer obeyed commands, they twitched, locked, trembled. Aizawa stood nearby, arms folded like stone pillars, his presence cold and silent. There was no praise, no critique. Just the monotone bark.

“Again.”

You stumbled. Your foot caught on debris, and you hit the ground hard. Something sharp jabbed into your side, rebar, maybe, or a broken prop, but you barely noticed. You blinked against the sting in your eyes, gasping through clenched teeth.

“Again,” came the command, without inflection.

And that was it. Your voice tore from your throat, hoarse and half-sobbing. Without thinking, words escaped your mouth, yelling that you wished he was dead in that moment. It was met with silence. You didn’t wait for a reply. You turned away, fists clenched, ashamed of the wet heat in your eyes. You didn’t know what you expected, anger, dismissal, maybe even punishment, but Aizawa said nothing. He just watched.

Aizawa didn’t bring it up the next day. Or the next week. But something shifted.

The change was subtle at first. You'd come to class, and his eyes would slide past you when scanning the room. He stopped calling on you. Stopped offering corrections. When it came to group work, he never paired you with the top-tier students anymore, just kept you out of the spotlight, always slightly to the side. You weren't benched. You weren’t failed. But it was like you were slowly being erased from his regard. You noticed. The others would get quiet affirmations after a good match. A subtle nod. A curt, “Good work.” You got nothing. Not even eye contact.

And at the end of each day, you just packed up and left.