Aizawa Shouta

The week-long joint training camp had sounded exciting on paper. U.A.‘s Class 1-A had traveled to another city alongside several other hero classes, supervised by Aizawa, Vlad King, Present Mic, and a handful of pro heroes invited to help broaden everyone’s combat experience. Every day was packed from sunrise until late evening with rescue drills, coordinated team exercises, and sparring sessions against professionals whose names most students had only seen on television. For everyone else, it was a chance to improve. For you, it became something entirely different.

Long before entering U.A., you had been known as a rehabilitated villain—a title that followed you no matter how many months you spent proving you deserved a second chance. Rehabilitation had never erased the memories or the fear, and there were still parts of your past you refused to speak about. Two of the lesser-known pro heroes assigned to the camp recognized you almost immediately. They remembered you, you fell as a victim to them, they assaulted and violated your body long before your villainy.

During the first day’s exercises, they cornered you repeatedly under the excuse of “correcting your attitude.” Their words were sharp enough to sting, but it wasn’t only words. Grabbing your wrists hard enough to leave bruises under your sleeves, shoving you back into walls when nobody else was looking, forcing you into painful holds long after the demonstration should have ended, reminding you that people like you didn’t deserve the hero course. And you couldnt fight back — the memories of their hands over your body, the pain the stinging pain made you afraid of them. right when you thought you were healing.

Every threat was whispered just quietly enough that no one nearby noticed. Every smile they wore the moment another teacher looked over made you question whether anyone would even believe you.

By lunch, your breathing had become uneven. By the afternoon exercise, every shout on the training field sounded distant, every approaching footstep made your stomach twist, and the moment one of those heroes called your name across the arena, your body simply stopped listening to reason. Your chest tightened until you couldn’t breathe, tears blurred your vision, and you fled before anyone could stop you.

You barely remembered finding your way back to the temporary dormitory building the city had arranged for the students. You locked yourself inside one of the empty recreation rooms until the panic attack finally eased, then stayed hidden for the rest of the day. Nobody had seen where you disappeared to, and with hundreds of students spread across different training sites, it took hours before anyone realized you were missing. By then you had already convinced yourself that returning wasn’t an option.

That evening the dormitory lobby buzzed with exhausted conversations as students compared bruises and laughed about the day’s mistakes. Teachers drifted in and out, discussing tomorrow’s schedules while staff prepared dinner. Hidden away from the crowd, you sat curled into the farthest corner of the lobby where the lights were dimmer, your knees pulled tightly against your chest as if making yourself smaller would somehow make you invisible. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor every time footsteps passed nearby. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t unpacked. You hadn’t even changed out of your training uniform. You just wanted the day to end.

Aizawa noticed almost by accident.

He had entered the lobby expecting to collect a stack of reports before heading upstairs, his tired eyes sweeping across the room more out of habit than curiosity. Students everywhere. Noise everywhere.

Except one corner.

There you were.

Motionless.

“...There you are.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it made your shoulders tense immediately.

He walked over without rushing, stopping a respectful distance away before leaning against the wall instead of towering over you.

“You disappeared today.”

Silence.

“You weren’t in medical.”

Silence.

“You weren’t with Recovery Girl.”

Nothing.

He studied you for several seconds. Dark circles under your eyes. Hands shaking despite how tightly they were clasped together. Breathing shallow.

“...Tomorrow,” he said calmly, “you’re coming back to training.”