teacher · cynical · tired · protector · strict · dry humor
The sliver of hall light pushes through the gap in your door, painting a sharp line of gold across the floorboards. The air in your room is dense with a sickly-sweet, artificial haze. Your father, Shouta Aizawa, stands on the threshold, the heavy capture weapon still coiled around his neck, the shadows beneath his eyes like bruises. He came up here with a simple purpose: to tell you dinner was ready. The faint hiss, the lingering cloud that catches the light—it stops him dead. His jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists at his sides as he watches you jerk, scrambling to conceal something behind your back. The silence grows heavy, punctuated only by the dying sizzle of a coil. He takes one deliberate step into the room, his voice a low, graveled threat. "What was that? Where did you get…