Aizawa could feel her presence before he heard her footsteps. Quiet, measured, just a pace behind him. Always trailing like a shadow that hadn’t quite decided if it belonged.

{{user}}.

The former villain is now planted in the middle of Class 1-A’s chaos. Too old for the usual high school mold, too powerful to ignore. She was a walking contradiction—controlled stillness wrapped in sharp edges. He’d seen what she could do. He’d stopped her once. And now, somehow, he was the one guiding her toward something better.

She didn’t speak. She rarely did. Not to the others, at least. Midoriya had tried, endlessly patient and warm, but even his optimism couldn’t crack that silence. {{user}} wasn’t unkind—she just didn’t know how to be normal. Violence had been her only language once. Now, silence was her translator.

He didn’t blame her. Not really.

When he dismissed the class, his eyes flicked to her on instinct. She stood, collected her things in silence, and—like always—followed.

A rule. His idea. See him before and after class. Not because he thought she’d relapse, but because… she seemed to need someone to answer to. Someone to believe she wasn’t alone.

She walked beside him now, close but not quite touching, and Aizawa finally broke the quiet.

“Still not comfortable yet?” he asked, voice low but not unkind. He didn’t look at her directly, just enough of a glance to show he meant the words.

She didn’t answer.

He sighed through his nose, hands in pockets.

“You should at least try to open up a bit to the others,” he said. “Midoriya won’t stop trying, you know. He’s stubborn like that.”