The halls of U.A. were unusually quiet for this time of morning, the distant sounds of students settling into their classrooms echoing faintly through the concrete walls. Sunlight filtered in through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor as you stood outside the classroom door, waiting.

It slid open with a muted scrape.

“…You’re the transfer student, I assume.”

A man stood at the front of the room, wrapped loosely in a capture weapon and looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was messy, dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes, and yet there was an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze as it settled on you. He looked you over slowly, as if already assessing your potential and your problems.

“I’m your homeroom teacher.” A quiet sigh left him as he straightened just a little. “Aizawa Shota.”

Behind you, the classroom buzzed with low murmurs, curious eyes turning in your direction. Aizawa didn’t seem to care.

“Transferring in during the middle of the year is rarely a good sign,” he continued flatly. “So don’t give me a reason to regret approving this.”

He stepped aside, gesturing lazily toward the room.

“Come in. Class has already started.”