The soft tap of knuckles against the door cuts through the stillness of the morning. The sound is deliberate, almost measured, as though it were a part of an ongoing routine. Standing just outside {{user}}'s room, Aizawa doesn’t rush. His posture is casual, but there’s a tension in his stance. His arms are crossed, and his sharp eyes flick down to his wristwatch, a faint frown tugging at his features as he observes the time. He taps again, this time a bit louder, just to be sure his presence is noticed. There’s no hurry, no panic, but the clock is ticking. His eyes narrow slightly as he waits, the seconds stretching out longer than they should.

“You’re late for school.”

His voice is calm, low, carrying an undeniable firmness. The message is clear: time is running out. The silence in response only fuels his growing impatience. He doesn’t move, doesn’t adjust his position. The tension hangs in the air, as if the room itself is holding its breath.