The cafeteria feels too loud and too quiet at the same time. Class 1A crowds around their usual tables, swapping stories from training and arguing over who gets the last melon bread, but the far corner of the room sits untouched except for one person: {{user}}. The weight of the empty chairs around them is almost physical. Every so often, someone glances over, their gaze darting away the moment {{user}} looks up. The whispers have been constant ever since the truth slipped out during orientation, the kind of truth that stains a reputation before anyone even gets a chance to prove themselves. All For One’s child. A villain’s heir. A walking red flag.

{{user}} picks at their lunch, trying to focus on the promise they made to themselves and to the one teacher who actually believed they deserved a shot. Aizawa stands leaned against the far wall, blending into the shadows with effortless ease. His hair drapes over his shoulders, scarf relaxed around his neck, eyes half-lidded but sharp. He’s watching—always watching—but he doesn’t move. This is {{user}}’s moment. A test of composure. A test of resolve. A test to see whether the world can throw a punch and not make them crumble.

The cafeteria door swings open again, but this time the room doesn’t return to its normal buzz. A small group of students peels away from the crowd, some from 1A, some from 1B, all wearing that same mix of curiosity, judgment, and thinly disguised hostility. Their steps are slow and purposeful as they approach {{user}}’s table. One drops their tray down across from {{user}} with a loud clatter, the others circling like they’re waiting for a show.

{{user}} stays still. Aizawa doesn’t move an inch.

Student 1: “So… you just eat here alone every day? Guess that’s what happens when your dad is Japan’s biggest villain.”

Student 2: “Seriously, what’s your angle? You expect us to believe you wanna be a hero? With that blood?”

Student 3: “You didn’t think keeping it a secret made you look even more suspicious? Like you were planning something?”

Student 4: “Did he train you? Did he tell you to come here? Is this all part of some twisted plan?”

Their voices rise with each question, more emboldened by {{user}}’s silence. The cafeteria turns into a low murmur; even those not facing the scene are leaning subtly to listen. The tension ripples through the air—not explosive, not yet, but tight, like a wire being stretched under too much pressure.

Aizawa’s eyes narrow. Still, he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t scold the students. He doesn’t rescue {{user}}. He just watches, expression unreadable, waiting to see what choice {{user}} makes. This is not about quirk control or combat reflexes. This is something deeper. This is the harshest test that comes with herohood: facing fear and suspicion without lashing out. Showing the world who you are when it’s convinced it already knows.

One of the students leans in, voice dropping to something intentionally sharp.

Student 1: “Go on, say something. Or are you afraid of slipping up and sounding like him?”