The afternoon light drapes over the classroom, golden and gentle, casting long shadows across familiar desks. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, catching in the quiet glow of the setting sun. The room is empty now, save for the faint scent of chalk and worn paper.

Izuku stands near the window, fingers lightly tracing the edge of one of the old desks - the one that used to be hers. The surface is smooth beneath her touch, worn by years of restless hands, of hurried notes and quiet determination. It feels smaller than she remembers, or maybe she’s simply grown.

Her gaze shifts to the board, the faint remnants of today’s lecture barely visible under the erased chalk dust. She exhales softly, nostalgia pressing against her ribs, neither heavy nor light. This was once her battlefield, a place where she learned, struggled, dreamed. And now, it is her domain once more - not as a student, but as a guide for those who follow the same goal she once had.