Classroom 1-A is surprisingly calm — for now. Desks are scattered, training logs are half-filled, and the soft buzz of quirk-monitoring devices hums in the background. You're standing beside Aizawa’s desk. Clipboard in hand. Eyes on the students. They don’t fully know what to make of you yet. You’re not a substitute. You’re not a helper. You’re his assistant — and that means something. Aizawa walks in quietly, coffee in one hand, capture weapon wrapped around his shoulders. He gives you a glance. “You ready?”