Morning comes way too fast.

Honestly, I'm pretty sure I closed my eyes for maybe twenty minutes before my alarm committed attempted murder against my remaining sanity.

5:00 AM.

A human rights violation.

I groan into my pillow dramatically.

"...I hate heroes."

Then I remember I voluntarily agreed to train with one.

"...I hate myself too."

From the kitchen, Mom immediately yells:

"Language!"

"Sorry!"

I drag myself out of bed like a corpse reanimating through sheer spite and stumble toward the bathroom.

Everything hurts.

My arms hurt.

My legs hurt.

My ribs hurt.

I'm pretty sure muscles I didn't even know existed hurt.

Dabi training yesterday already nearly killed me, and now apparently I decided adding Aizawa on top of that was a fantastic life decision.

Past me is an idiot.

Actually current me too.

The shower helps a little.

Not enough.

But enough that I resemble a functioning human being by the time I get dressed.

Mostly.

I stare at the dark green and black material spread across my desk for a second before leaving.

Mom apparently stayed up late organizing everything.

There are notes now.

Actual notes.

About stitching.

Reinforcement points.

Storage placement.

I smile despite myself.

Then immediately stop because if I think too hard about how supportive she's being, I might emotionally combust before sunrise.

Instead I grab my backpack and head out.

The city is quieter this early.

Cold air bites against my face as I walk.

Streetlights still glow faintly.

The sky hasn't fully brightened yet.

Everything feels suspended.

Like the world itself hasn't woken up.

Unfortunately, Aizawa apparently has.

Because when I finally reach the training location he texted me—an old underground gym tucked between warehouses—he's already there.

Of course he is.

Leaning against a wall.

Coffee in one hand.

Looking exhausted enough to legally qualify as undead.

"How are you alive," I ask immediately.

He takes a slow sip of coffee.

"Experience."

"Concerning answer."

"You're late."

I check my phone instantly.

"...It's 5:58."

"You should've been early."

"That's evil."

"Tch."

I stare at him.

Then at the gym.

Then back at him.

"...This looks illegal."

"It probably is."

Somehow that doesn't reassure me.

At all.

He pushes off the wall slowly and heads inside without another word.

I follow.

The inside looks old but functional.

Mats.

Training dummies.

Weights.

Obstacle equipment.

And in the corner—

A horrifying amount of capture weapon cloth.

"...Oh no."

Aizawa glances back at me.

"Oh yes."

"Can I quit already?"

"No."

"Tragic."

The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead as he tosses his scarf weapon onto a nearby bench.

"First rule," he says.

I blink.

"We have rules?"

"You talk too much."

"That's not a rule."

"It should be."

Rude.

He continues anyway.

"First rule: Dabi trained you to survive dirty fights."

I straighten slightly.

"...Yeah."

"That's useful."

Okay.

Not the response I expected.

"But," he continues immediately, "he also taught you like someone expecting you to lose eventually."

That makes me pause.

"...What?"

Aizawa crosses his arms.

"Your movements prioritize damage response over damage prevention."

I stare at him blankly for a second.

"...You figured that out from watching one fight?"

"You telegraph compensation patterns."

"...That sentence felt targeted."

"It was."

I sigh.

Of course it was.

Aizawa walks closer suddenly.

Not threatening exactly.

Just focused.

"Show me your stance."

I obey automatically.

Left foot back slightly.

Weight balanced.

Hands loose.

Dabi drilled it into me endlessly.

Aizawa watches for exactly two seconds before immediately reaching out and shoving my shoulder.

I stumble sideways.

"What the hell?!"

"Too high."

"My shoulder?"

"Your center of gravity."

"Oh."

He circles slightly.

"Again."

I reset.

This time he kicks lightly at my ankle.

I nearly eat the floor.

"...RUDE."

"Predictable."

"I'm sensing a pattern here."

"You should."

I glare at him while readjusting.

This time I focus harder.

Lower stance.

Better balance.

Aizawa watches silently.

Then suddenly attacks properly.

No warning.

No countdown.

One second he's standing there.

The next his capture weapon lashes toward me.

Fast.

Way faster than yesterday.

I barely dodge in time.

"MOVE," he snaps.

I move.

Instinct kicks in immediately now.

Duck.

Shift.

Pivot.

The cloth whips past my face close enough that I feel the air move.

My pulse spikes instantly.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

The weapon changes direction mid-air like it's alive.

I jump backward—

Wrong move.

The cloth wraps around my ankle instantly and yanks hard.

The world flips violently.

I hit the mat flat on my back hard enough to knock the air out of me.

"GAH—"

"Never retreat in a straight line."

I cough dramatically from the floor.

"...You people are all insane."

Aizawa stares down at me.

"Get up."

"You sound exactly like Dabi."

"That's deeply insulting."

I laugh weakly while forcing myself upright again.

Everything in his fighting style feels different from Dabi's.

Dabi overwhelms.

Pressures.

Breaks rhythm through aggression and unpredictability.

Aizawa?

Aizawa controls space itself.

Every step feels deliberate.

Every movement calculated.

He's constantly positioning.

Redirecting.

Cutting off options before I even realize they existed.

It's terrifying.

And fascinating.

He attacks again.

This time I react faster.

I twist sideways instead of backward.

The capture weapon misses my torso—

Then immediately loops back toward my wrist.

I catch it instinctively.

Bad idea.

A sharp tug nearly pulls my shoulder out.

"Don't fight the weapon directly," Aizawa says.

"I noticed!"

I release instantly and roll under the next strike barely in time.

Okay.

New conclusion.

Capture weapons are evil.

Aizawa is also evil.

Noted.

We keep going.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Every mistake gets punished immediately.

Too slow? Tripped.

Too stiff? Restrained.

Too aggressive? Countered.

At some point I stop talking entirely because breathing becomes more important.

Sweat drips down my neck.

My arms shake.

My lungs burn.

And Aizawa still barely looks winded.

Monster.

Actual monster.

Finally, after what feels like centuries, he calls stop.

I collapse onto the mat dramatically.

"I'm dead."

"You're breathing."

"Unfortunately."

Aizawa takes another sip of coffee like he didn't just physically dismantle my existence for an hour straight.

"...Your adaptability is annoying."

I blink up at him from the floor.

"...Excuse me?"

"You learn too quickly."

That sounds vaguely like praise.

Coming from him, that's probably the emotional equivalent of a standing ovation.

I grin tiredly.

"Wow. You almost sounded proud."

"Don't ruin it."

There it is.

Balance restored.

I sit up slowly, wincing slightly as every muscle protests.

"...You fight completely differently from Dabi."

"Good observation."

"He fights like a rabid attack dog."

"And?"

"You fight like sleep deprivation became sentient."

Aizawa stares at me silently for three full seconds.

"...That might be the most accurate description I've ever heard."

I beam proudly.

"Thank you."

"Tch."