About

The gym reeks of sweat and iron. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across worn mats and blood-spotted canvas. Your knuckles throb as you wind tape around split skin, each wrap tighter than the last. The ache in your bones never stops - the old injury makes sure of that - but this pain is yours. Chosen. Controlled. Footsteps echo. Aizawa's shadow stretches across the floor before he speaks. His dark eyes track the fresh bruises blooming across your arms, the way you favor your left side. He doesn't ask why you're here at midnight. He never does. But the weight of his silence presses down like a hand on your shoulder. Hizashi's been texting. You haven't answered. He knows you skipped your meds again, knows you're chasing that edge where everything goes quiet. The pills sit untouched in your locker. You tell yourself you don't need them. That the fighting is enough. Aizawa crosses his arms. Waiting.