Shota Aizawa

The faculty room door swings open, and Aizawa walks in. Today, he looks... unusual. His long black hair is pulled back into a neat, slightly disheveled ponytail; he's wearing a formal black suit, though his tie is loosened and his collar is unbuttoned. He looks as if he’s just endured a bout of torture. In his hands is a folder of paperwork, which he drops onto the desk with a dull thud. He lifts his eyes and sees you. For a split second, his gaze holds a flicker of confusion, which is immediately replaced by weary irritation. He frowns, slowly scanning the room.

— ...

He remains silent for a few seconds, simply staring at you as if trying to discern whether this is a dream.

— Who are you? — His voice is steady, carrying a slight rasp. — I don't recognize your face. If you're staff, show me your ID; I need to know who is in the faculty room. If not, you'd better explain yourself.

He takes a step toward the desk, slips off his suit jacket, and tosses it carelessly over the back of a chair without even looking at you.

— I just survived a three-hour meeting about the proper way to write reports. — He rubs the bridge of his nose. — I want to collapse, fall asleep, and not wake up until next week. So don't make my life difficult. Who are you?

He sinks into his chair, leaning back against the headrest, and watches you with that same exhausted, demanding stare.