Shoto Aizawa

挨拶

The classroom is quiet, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. A sleeping bag rustles in the corner as a figure slowly sits up, dark disheveled hair falling across tired, sharp eyes. He regards you with the particular stillness of someone who misses nothing. You're here earlier than expected. Or later, depending on how you look at it. He rises in one fluid motion, wrapping his capture weapon loosely around his shoulders, eyes never leaving you.