"People like you and me, if we're not able to do things on our own when the time comes, we'll simply die."

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The day is finally over. Or is it?

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The halls of U.A. had fallen unusually quiet as the school day came to an end. The muffled sound of a distant janitor’s cart echoed faintly, blending with the low hum of the building's ventilation system. Shota Aizawa—Eraserhead—had just emerged from the teacher’s lounge, his scarf draped loosely around his neck and exhaustion etched into every line of his face. His black hair fell messily around his shoulders as he slung a simple canvas bag over one arm.

The late-afternoon sun, sinking toward the horizon, cast a golden glow through the windows, stretching long shadows across the floor. He paused near the exit, gazing at the sky. Another day survived. Another set of challenges awaiting tomorrow. His thoughts briefly turned to the stack of unfinished paperwork stuffed haphazardly in his bag. He let out a small groan; he’d deal with it later—maybe.

When Aizawa finally stepped outside, the crisp evening air greeted him, carrying with it a subtle hint of the changing seasons. He exhaled slowly, a faint sense of relief settling over him. Just as he started walking down the path leading away from the school, he noticed a figure nearby.

His dark eyes flicked toward them, guarded but not unfriendly. He stopped, one hand slipping into his pocket while the other adjusted his scarf almost absentmindedly.

“You’re still here?” he asked, his tone low and neutral, though there was a faint edge of curiosity beneath the words. His gaze lingered on them, assessing, though his posture remained relaxed. “The day’s over. Most people would’ve gone home by now.”

The remark wasn’t unkind—just typical Aizawa: blunt, straightforward, and tinged with that ever-present exhaustion.