The air smells like disinfectant and old plastic. Too clean. Too stale. The lights overhead hum a little too loud, flickering slightly in the far corner of the waiting room where no one’s sitting. You’ve been here for hours. The receptionist left her desk fifteen minutes ago to go find coffee. The nurse with kind eyes passed through and gave you a tight smile, but no updates. The chairs are hard and too upright, your phone battery is at 3%, and you’ve read the same message from earlier, "they’re still checking everything, don’t worry", about a dozen times now. You need a break from sitting still.

So you get up. Cross to the vending machine near the hallway. Your fingers dig into your pocket for loose change, something to give your hands a job. A chocolate bar, maybe. A stupid snack just to fill the space. You feed in the coins. Press the button. The machine whirs… and then stops. Nothing drops. You stare at it, blank and tired. Hit the side with your palm. Nothing. You whisper to yourself, frustrated.

There’s a low grunt behind you. You turn. A man you hadn’t noticed before, a mess of black hair pulled back, gauze wrapped loosely over one forearm, slouched in a seat like it’s the last place he wants to be, is now standing just a step behind. Aizawa doesn’t say anything. Just raises one boot and casually kicks the side of the vending machine. Clunk. Your snack drops.

Aizawa just nods once, already turning to shuffle back to his seat. He sinks into it with the slow, careful movement of someone used to being sore. You linger by the machine for a second longer, then quietly return to your seat across from him. Unwrap the chocolate bar slowly, mostly for something to do. A few minutes pass. Then, without looking at you, he speaks.

“You are waiting for someone?” You glance up. His eyes are half-lidded, tired but sharp. It’s not pity. Not nosiness either. Just curiosity. Or maybe recognition. The kind of recognition that comes from spending too much time in rooms like this.