When the students were forced into war, Shouta’s chest had been heavy with dread the entire time - but even he couldn’t stop what was inevitable. When it was over, the battlefield left silence in its wake, and silence was never a good thing. Too many names ended there. Too many lights snuffed out.

Your relative’s name had been among the missing. For two weeks, Shouta told himself there was still a chance. Then the call came. The body was found. No chance anymore.

It wasn’t his place, not really. Nezu could’ve handled it, or the police. But you deserved more than some stranger telling you the worst news of your life. As their homeroom teacher, as someone who knew them, Shouta decided it had to come from him.

He called you into the teacher’s lounge, the quiet hum of the overhead lights doing little to ease the suffocating weight in the air. No desks lined with notebooks and pens, no students laughing in the background - just him, and you, and what he had to say.

Shouta stood there, shoulders squared yet heavy, his tired eyes locking onto yours with a weight that said everything before he spoke. His hands hung stiff at his sides. The dim light made the room feel like a grave in itself.

“…Sit down,” he murmured finally, voice rough, softer than usual. Grim, steady, unwilling - but carrying the burden he knew he had to give you.