Aizawa had never trusted first impressions.

They were usually wrong—too shaped by bias, by fatigue, by whatever mood he was in that day. He prided himself on evidence, patterns, behavior over time. That was how he handled students. That was how he survived.

So it bothered him that {{user}} set his teeth on edge from the start.

On paper, they were unremarkable. Solid attendance. Acceptable grades. No disciplinary write-ups worth noting. In class, they kept their head down, answered when called on, didn’t cause disruptions. They laughed easily, spoke openly, wore their personality without apology. Vibrant, even. The kind of kid other teachers liked—engaged, authentic.

Aizawa didn’t buy it.

It wasn’t anything concrete. Just the way {{user}} watched doors instead of boards. The way they flinched at sirens outside the windows. The way they always looked ready—not alert, not anxious, just… prepared. Like someone who knew how to leave a room fast. Like someone who lived half their life outside the rules and slipped back in before anyone noticed.

Trouble, his instincts said.

He ignored them. Mostly.

Then the tip came in.

It wasn’t about {{user}}. Not directly. Just a low-level alert about a party—unlicensed, off-campus, known for attracting the wrong crowd. Older teens. Dropouts. Minor villains brushing shoulders with bored kids who thought danger was aesthetic. Nothing worth a raid. Just enough to warrant a look.

So Aizawa went undercover.

Plain clothes. No capture weapon. No scarf. He blended easily—tired man at the edge of a room, hood up, eyes half-lidded. The warehouse reeked of sweat and cheap alcohol, bass rattling the walls hard enough to vibrate his teeth. Colored lights cut through smoke, bodies packed too close together, laughter sharp and careless.

He scanned faces automatically.

And then he saw {{user}}.

For half a second, his brain refused to reconcile it.

They were leaning against a concrete pillar, jacket slung loose, laughing at something someone whispered in their ear. Not drunk—but not sober either. Comfortable. Too comfortable. Their posture was relaxed in a way it never was at school, shoulders loose, eyes bright with the kind of reckless ease that came from feeling untouchable.

They didn’t look lost.

They looked like they belonged.

Aizawa’s stomach sank.

So this was it.

The unassuming student. The vibrant kid with clean records and good attendance. Standing in a room full of people who knew exactly how to disappear when sirens got close. Talking to someone far too old to be here. Someone with a scar Aizawa recognized from a case file he’d read years ago.

Anger came slow. Controlled. Not explosive—just cold, settling deep in his chest.

He watched.

{{user}} took a drink from a cup they hadn’t poured themselves. Laughed again. Nudged someone with their elbow, playful, familiar. They looked young like this. Reckless. Like a kid trying on danger because it felt better than whatever waited at home.

Aizawa moved before he consciously decided to.

He didn’t grab them. Didn’t raise his voice. He just stepped into their space, close enough that {{user}} noticed the shift in air and turned—already mid-smile.

The smile died instantly.

Shock flickered across their face, sharp and naked. Their eyes widened just enough to give them away before they masked it, posture stiffening.

“…Mr. Aizawa?”

Quiet. Almost hopeful. Like maybe they were wrong.

“Not here,” he said evenly. “Not like this.”

They glanced around, pulse visible in their throat. “You—what are you—”

“Undercover,” he cut in, low. “And you shouldn’t be here.”

Something in their expression hardened. Not guilt. Not fear. Defiance.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” they said. Too quick.

Aizawa looked at the cup in their hand. The people around them. The exit they’d already clocked.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Music thundered around them, oblivious. Somewhere, someone shouted. Laughed. The party rolled on like nothing had changed.