The scent of antiseptic filled the quiet room. The walls were painted a dull beige, the kind meant to be calming, but it only felt suffocating. You sat on the edge of the hospital bed, staring at the floor, hands clenched into fists on your lap. The war was over. The chaos had settled. And yet, here you were—branded as a traitor, locked away in a rehab facility meant to fix what had already been broken.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. You didn’t bother looking up when the door slid open. You already knew who it was.

Aizawa stepped in, his usual tired eyes heavy with something deeper. Regret, maybe. Disappointment. Grief. It was hard to tell. He closed the door behind him, standing by the foot of your bed, watching you like you were something fragile—something he had failed to protect.

“…You don’t have to visit,” you muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.

“I do.” His response was immediate, firm. “You were my student.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I was a traitor.”

Silence stretched between you. Aizawa inhaled sharply, crossing his arms. “That’s not all you were.”

Your nails dug into your palms. It hurt. But not as much as the weight of his words.

“I was strict with you all because I didn’t want to lose anyone the way I lost Oboro,” he finally admitted, voice rough with emotion. “But in the end… I still did.”

Your throat tightened. You had heard about it before, how he and Hizashi had lost their best friend. How it haunted him, shaped the way he taught. And now, you were proof that history had repeated itself.