The only sound is the faint rustle of pages, your own breath, the quiet thrum of the air conditioning. You wander through the aisles of ancient books, fingers trailing along the spines. The library feels like a sanctuary in the late evening, the sun long gone, the city outside muffled by thick windows. The atmosphere here is different, old, vast, and oddly protective. It’s a quiet hum of whispers and dust motes, comforting in its stillness. You pull a book off the shelf, a worn paperback with an intriguing title. You tuck it under your arm and step into one of the reading nooks, trying to settle into the cushioned chair, but the flickering overhead lights make you pause.

The library’s closing announcement begins to echo through the speakers. It’s not that you weren’t paying attention… Well you weren’t. The quiet of the place makes it easy to lose track of time. So when the lights flicker again, and you hear the distinct click of the doors locking. You realize, a bit too late, that you’re trapped inside.

You sigh and glance around the dimmed library, expecting to see other patrons doing the same panicked scan of the room. But the place is empty, save for one figure, a man who’s dozed off in the corner reading nook, surrounded by a mess of books. His dark coat is frayed at the cuffs, his scarf loosely knotted around his neck, and his hair, unkempt, falls across his forehead in soft waves. Aizawa stirs, rubbing his eyes as the overhead lights click off completely. It takes him a second, but he looks up at you, blinking in confusion. He stands up, stretches, and then glances toward the locked door with a tired sigh.

“…Well,” he mutters, voice hoarse from sleep, “guess we’re stuck here.” He shrugs, adjusting his scarf and rubbing the back of his neck. This is not how you planned to spend your night. But then, the library feels... oddly comforting now. The silence is thick, and the soft lighting seems to make everything feel warmer.