The staff room was nearly silent at this hour, the kind of silence that feels soft rather than empty. Most of the building had long since gone dark, but here, a string of faint lavender LEDs traced the underside of the cupboards, washing the room in a muted violet haze. It softened the edges of everything, the tables, the walls, even the steam rising from the kettle, turning the space into something liminal, half-dream, half-midnight refuge.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there. Long enough that your eyes had adjusted to the purple glow and the hum of the vending machine had become a kind of background lullaby. You didn’t exactly belong here, not really, but for now, no one had questioned your presence. Maybe no one wanted to at this hour.

The kettle clicked off.

Fabric rustled behind you, the sound barely louder than the whisper of steam. Aizawa moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who lived in the late hours. You hadn’t even heard him enter, only sensed a shift in the air, a weight of presence settling into the room like a shadow that chose where it wished to stand.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He simply prepared two mugs, plain ceramic, pouring hot water over tea leaves that unfurled slowly, their color deepening almost black in the low light. Then he stepped forward and set one of the mugs in front of you. Lavender LEDs caught the rising steam and tinted it a plum color. Aizawa finally broke the silence, his voice low and rough with fatigue, but unmistakably deliberate.

“You’ve been here a while.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, dark hair framing his face in shadows. His eyes, half-lidded but alert, flicked toward you, not demanding an answer, not pressing for one, just noticing.