Aizawa

The sound of dragging fabric filled the hallway as Shota Aizawa, cocooned in his yellow sleeping bag, shuffled his way toward Class 1-A. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and his perpetually disheveled hair swayed with each sluggish movement. He stopped just outside the classroom, pulling himself upright like a man surfacing from the depths of exhaustion.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, unzipping the sleeping bag and stepping out. "Let’s see what kind of mess I’m working with this year."

With a quick swipe of his capture weapon over his shoulder, he slid open the door and scanned the classroom. The students were scattered in various states of confusion, some chatting, others still settling in. His gaze swept over them, sharp and critical.

"Eight seconds," Aizawa said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of disappointment. The room immediately fell silent, the students snapping their attention to him. "It took you eight seconds to notice me. That’s eight seconds too long. If this were a real fight, you’d already be on the ground."

He adjusted his scarf, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Rational students would already be seated and silent. Clearly, we have some work to do."

Before anyone could protest or ask questions, Aizawa reached into his sleeping bag and pulled out a stack of gym uniforms. "Forget orientation," he said, tossing the pile onto a nearby desk. "If you came here expecting a warm welcome and some kind of pep rally, you’re in the wrong place. We’re starting with the Quirk Apprehension Test. Put these on and meet me outside."

The students exchanged bewildered glances, a few muttering in confusion. A hand shot up—bright, eager.

"But, uh, Mr. Aizawa—"

"Sensei," Aizawa corrected without looking at the speaker.

"Sensei, aren’t we supposed to go through orientation first? Isn’t there—"

Aizawa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If you want to waste your time on ceremonies and speeches, go enroll in General Studies. Heroes don’t have time for that kind of nonsense. Now get moving."

The students scrambled to their feet, some muttering nervously as they grabbed uniforms and hurried out. Aizawa leaned against the doorframe, watching them with a sharp, unreadable expression.

"Let’s see how many of you actually have what it takes," he murmured, pushing himself off the frame and following the last student out.

The front gates of U.A. High School were swarmed with reporters, their cameras flashing and microphones thrust forward as they shouted over one another.

"Is it true that All Might is officially part of the teaching staff?" "Will the Number One Hero take a leadership role at U.A.?" "Do you think the presence of All Might will overshadow the other teachers?"

Shota Aizawa stood just inside the gates, arms crossed and his expression as blank as it was tired. The chaos was grating, but what truly irritated him was the thought of how the commotion would disrupt his students. He let out a slow sigh, adjusting the scarf around his neck before stepping forward.

"Alright, that’s enough," Aizawa said, his voice cutting through the noise with a calm but unmistakably sharp edge.

The reporters turned their attention to him, their questions quickly shifting gears.

"Mr. Aizawa, can you confirm All Might’s teaching position?" "Are you worried about the impact this will have on U.A.’s reputation?"

He raised a hand, silencing them. "I said, that’s enough." His voice was firmer now, and the crowd quieted slightly, sensing the weight behind his words.

"All Might is not on campus today," Aizawa stated flatly, his tired eyes scanning the group. "He’s not available for comment, and even if he were, this—" He gestured broadly at the assembled crowd. "—isn’t the place for it."

"But—" one reporter began, only to stop when Aizawa shot them a sharp glare.

"You’re disturbing my students," he continued, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked no argument. "U.A. High School is an institution for education, not a venue for your headlines. If you want answers about All Might, file a formal request through the proper channels. Until then, leave."

The reporters hesitated, glancing at one another. A few tried to press further, but Aizawa stepped forward, his scarf subtly shifting as if ready to be deployed. His tone remained calm, but there was an undeniable steel behind his words.

"This is your final warning. Respect the boundaries of this school, or I’ll ensure you’re escorted away."

A heavy silence settled over the group. Slowly, reluctantly, the reporters began to disperse, their murmurs fading as they retreated.

Aizawa stood at the gates for a moment longer, ensuring the last of them were gone before letting out a weary sigh. "Media circus..." he muttered under his breath. He turned back toward the school, adjusting his scarf as he prepared to face whatever chaos awaited inside.

"Hopefully they’ll take the hint. If not, I’ll give them another lesson in boundaries tomorrow."

The crackle of energy surged as the villains' firing squad readied their attacks, but Shota Aizawa's sharp eyes had already taken measure of the situation. Without a word, his scarf unfurled as he activated his Quirk, Erasure, nullifying their powers in an instant. The glow of their quirks vanished, replaced by looks of panic.

Shota moved with calculated precision, darting forward with his capture weapon. The steel-alloy scarf snapped around the first assailant, pulling them to the ground with a thud. In quick succession, he disarmed the next two with practiced sweeps, their weapons clattering uselessly to the ground before he knocked them out with decisive strikes.

As the dust settled, the remaining villains froze, recognition dawning on their faces.

"It’s him," one of them muttered, voice shaking. "Eraser Head. He’s got that Quirk that cancels out powers!"

Another, emboldened by desperation, sneered. "So what? He can’t cancel me out."

Shota turned to face the speaker, his eyes narrowing as the villain stepped forward. Their form was grotesque, a hulking figure with twisted, clawed limbs and thick scales covering their body. A clear Mutant Quirk—one his ability couldn’t negate.

The mutant grinned, confidence radiating in every step. "What now, hero? Without your fancy trick, you’re nothing!"

Shota’s response was dry and unimpressed. "You’re not wrong. I can’t erase Mutant Quirks." His scarf coiled around him like a snake as he took a step forward. "But I don’t need to."

The mutant lunged, claws swiping at blinding speed, but Aizawa was faster. He ducked low, weaving under the attack, and sent his scarf spiraling upward. The fabric looped around the villain’s arm, tightening in a split second. With a sharp tug, he wrenched the mutant off balance, sending them crashing to the ground.

The villain snarled, thrashing wildly, but Shota’s movements were deliberate and relentless. The scarf wound tighter, binding their arms and legs as he maneuvered behind them, locking them in place with a combination of his capture weapon and his own physical strength.

Pinned and immobile, the mutant growled in frustration. "You—! You don’t fight fair!"

Aizawa leaned in slightly, his voice a low growl of his own. "Fair? You fired on me first. Besides, life doesn’t give you fair fights. If you wanted a level playing field, maybe you shouldn’t have picked a fight with a Pro Hero."

The mutant fell silent, struggling uselessly against the bonds as Shota stood, the fight drained out of the rest of the villains who had watched the scene unfold.

Aizawa scanned the area, ensuring no one else was ready to make a move, before letting out a tired sigh. "This would’ve been easier if you’d just surrendered."

With his capture weapon still firmly in place, he reached for his communicator. "Villains neutralized. Sending coordinates for pickup."

As he waited for backup to arrive, he cast a glance at the subdued group, his voice as calm and cutting as ever. "Remember this moment the next time you think about starting trouble. You’re not the first to underestimate me... and you won’t be the last."