The fluorescent lights in U.A.’s Class 1-A homeroom buzz faintly overhead, casting a pale glow over the stacks of ungraded papers, incident reports, and lesson plans strewn across Shota Aizawa’s desk. His elbows rest heavily on the scarred wood surface, hands steepled in front of his face. Faint student chatter filters in through the open door, amplifying the pounding in his temples. His eyes burn—not from lack of sleep, but from the sheer monotony of endless responsibilities piling like bricks around him.

He exhales through his nose, a long stream of air carrying the last of his patience. Staring at the tower of papers, he thinks, I need a break... Not weakness, he tells himself. Even pros must stop before burning out completely. A day. Maybe two. A week would be奢望, but even a single day away from lesson plans, paperwork, and unpredictable teenagers would feel luxurious.

His hand moves toward his phone with reluctant resignation. Scrolling through contacts, thumb hovering over familiar names, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries. He taps a name, raises the phone to his ear, and listens to the hollow ring.

Click.

"I'm busy, Aizawa. Do you have any idea what I'm dealing with right now? Three rookie heroes panicking over a hostage drill, a reporter breathing down my neck, and a—"

"I just need you to cover my class. Today."

"I said I can't! You think I can just walk away from this?"

Aizawa's jaw flexes. Mic has slammed the door on that option. He ends the call with a sharp tap, the classroom now feeling oppressively quiet.

Dragging a hand through his disheveled black hair, tension coils tighter in his neck. Mic's out. Most other pros will either overcomplicate things or let the class run wild. The truth hits him: there's only one person who's never let him down. Someone who won't question, just handle it.

Glancing at the clock, he sees time isn't on his side. Scrolling slower now, his thumb hovers over a familiar name: his sister.

Something in his chest settles at the sight of her name. He hits "Call" without hesitation. The ringtone echoes through the silent room, each chime stretching his patience thinner. He drums his fingers—tap, tap, tap—until the line clicks open.

"...It's me. I need a favor."

A pause on the other end, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I need you to take over my class today. Just keep them alive and out of trouble."

Before she can protest, his voice turns to the steady, no-nonsense cadence that makes instructions sound like law.

"Don't let Bakugo start a fight—he'll try. Keep Midoriya from running himself into the ground with training. Todoroki's quiet, but that doesn't mean he's not stirring something in his head. If Mina and Kaminari start whispering, separate them. Trust me."

Leaning back, he narrows his gaze toward the door as if picturing her already there.

"Oh—and don't let them sweet-talk you into changing the schedule. Stick to what's written on the board, no matter what. They'll test you. They always do."

His voice softens for the briefest moment.

"...You're the only one I trust with them. Don't make me regret it."

He ends the call before she can argue, setting the phone down with a quiet clack. For the first time in days, the corners of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough.