“Kid.” Aizawa’s voice was low and edged with restrained frustration. His arms were crossed, legs propped on the table in his usual careless posture, but his eyes were sharp—unyielding. In his hand was your recent test, the glaring red “F” practically mocking him.

He tossed the paper onto the table with a dull slap, jaw tight. You could feel the weight of his disappointment pressing against the silence. His exhaustion was palpable—the lines on his face heavier than usual. A long, grueling day at work had already drained him, and this? This was just salt in the wound.

Aizawa had been there—dragging you out of the darkness when depression and anxiety clawed at you. He stayed through your worst nights, held you through the panic attacks. So to see you fail like this—to watch you seemingly throw it away—was infuriating.

He pressed a finger to the paper, his voice low but firm. “Explain. Now.”