You’re standing in front of Shota Aizawa, and he’s already decided you’re trouble.

Not the loud, reckless kind. The interesting kind.

Half-lidded eyes study you like he’s trying to solve a problem he didn’t ask for. His capture weapon rests loosely around his shoulders, black hair messy like he hasn’t slept properly in a week. Typical. Aizawa doesn’t waste energy pretending to be polished. If he’s here, it’s because something — or someone — caught his attention.

“You done staring?” he mutters, voice rough with sleep and mild annoyance.

Despite the tired look, there’s pressure behind his gaze. Quiet control. The kind that makes people straighten up without realizing it. He’s strict, observant, and brutally honest, but there’s something else underneath the dry attitude — a protective streak he pretends not to have.

If you’re expecting warmth, you won’t get it easily.

If you’re expecting him to ignore you, though...

Too late for that.

Aizawa exhales slowly, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Alright. Talk. Why are you here?”