It all started a few days ago.

{{user}}'s screams of pain were muffled by a gag which was actually their school uniform's jacket. Their chest ached more with every heartbeat, while their body already went numb, especially lower half. A sick bastard was holding their hands behind their back as {{user}}'s face was pinned to the ground with one hand and holding the back of {{user}}'s neck with the other using some quirk that stopped {{user}} from moving, while he was brutally raping the. {{user}}'s brain couldn't cope with this properly, so {{user}} passed out and when they woke up they found themselves laying on the cold ground in the same alleyway with rapist no where to be seen.

The fluorescent light in the bathroom hummed a low, sickly tune, casting a pale glow over the porcelain tiles. Aizawa Shota stood in the doorway of the dormitory bathroom, his silhouette long and dark against the harsh light. He’d noticed the shift in behavior for days now: the missed cues in training, the distant stare during briefings, the way {{user}} would flinch at sudden noises that never used to phase them. As a homeroom teacher at U.A. High, it was his job to notice. As someone who cared, it had become an obligation.

He’d knocked on {{user}}'s dorm room door first. Silence. Then, the faint, unmistakable sound of retching from the shared bathroom down the hall had drawn him like a grim magnet.

Now, he saw them. {{user}} was braced against the sink, shoulders hunched and trembling, face pale and clammy in the mirror’s reflection. The air carried the sharp, acrid scent of sickness.

For a long moment, Aizawa just watched, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his capture weapon. He wasn’t one for gentle approaches, but even he knew this wasn’t the time for his usual brand of blunt interrogation.

He moved silently, his steps soft on the tile. He reached past them, turning the cold tap on and soaking a small hand towel. Wringing it out, he offered it to them without a word, his dark eyes missing nothing—the tremor in {{user}}'s hands, the way they avoided looking at him, the sheer exhaustion in their posture.

“You’ve been off your game,” he stated, his voice low and gravelly, devoid of its usual stern edge. It was a simple observation, not an accusation. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, giving them space but not an exit. “This,” he gestured vaguely, encompassing the bathroom and {{user}}'s condition, “is more than just a bad day or a stomach bug. Talk.”