Chapter Text
Time was somehow moving faster and slower at U.A. than it ever had on I-Island.
Rumi barely noticed the transition from analyzing third-years to second-years because the days had started blending together in the strange, exhausting way they only could when she was genuinely enjoying herself.
The Big Three had already been fully evaluated, advised, and handed off to their newly horrified support course students. She had been present for heroics training sessions with the support course and had made observations and adjustments with them right there and then too.
Tamaki had been given special attention from her. She had assigned the support course different hero students to take care of on their own, and she had taken on Tamaki herself, alone and a little separate from the others so he would be comfortable. Surprisingly, it had worked.
Just like Power Loader predicted, the process itself hadn’t taken long. The third-years already understood their quirks well enough to explain strain patterns, combat limitations, and support needs without needing diagrams, visual aids, or emotional support halfway through the conversation.
Mostly.
Rumi spent the gaps between assessments helping the support course refine existing equipment designs and adjust long-term support plans based on her findings. Some modifications were small. Others involved support students staring at her in mounting horror as she casually pointed out structural weaknesses they somehow hadn’t noticed for three years.
Apparently “that probably shouldn’t explode under impact” was considered valuable feedback.
After that came the second-years. Class 2-A, 2-B, and 2-H. And suddenly Rumi was busy enough that entire afternoons vanished without warning. Not that she minded. Oddly enough, despite how packed her schedule became, she somehow ended up more social than she’d ever been in her life.
The first-years still had classes and work studies monopolizing most of their time, but that never seemed to stop someone from finding her eventually. Sometimes Midoriya arrived with questions. Sometimes the Big Three came by to say hi and hand her a drink. Sometimes Hatsume appeared out of nowhere covered in grease and carrying something that violated several engineering ethics guidelines.
People just… kept seeking her out. Which was still strange to her. And yet somehow the most frequent visitor of all had become one of the last people she expected: Neito Monoma.
Honestly, he visited her as much as Hatsume did at this point, which was impressive considering Rumi was actively scheduling time into her week specifically to supervise Hatsume before she accidentally weaponized household appliances again.
Power Loader had spent the first several weeks of their partnership in a constant state of anticipatory despair. Which, in fairness, wasn’t entirely unreasonable. The first time Rumi and Hatsume met, they’d gotten along with the immediate destructive chemistry of a lit match discovering gasoline.
But surprisingly? Property damage had dropped significantly since Rumi arrived. There were still explosions, obviously. And smoke. And at least one incident involving an autonomous wrench launcher that Rumi maintained had been “educational.” But overall, the support department remained standing.
Mostly because Rumi understood something Power Loader hadn’t expected from a teenager with Hatsume-level enthusiasm: restraint. She never shut Hatsume down. Never mocked her ideas. Never dulled the spark that made her brilliant. She simply redirected it slightly away from “catastrophic.” Which, apparently, made all the difference.
Still, even Hatsume couldn’t compete with Monoma’s consistency.
At least three times a week he appeared during lunch carrying either a carefully packed bento or something absurdly fancy from Lunch Rush’s premium menu, then settled himself into Recovery Girl’s office like he’d always belonged there.
Rumi usually spent lunch multitasking—eating quickly while reviewing files, annotating quirk assessments, or replaying training footage and dictating notes to Scribe. Monoma simply talked through all of it until she had started to focus on her food and him. Strangely enough she liked listening.
Yes, she had absolutely told him during their first meeting that he’d been her favorite. No, she did not regret it. Because the more time she spent around him, the more solid that opinion became. Not that she’d ever tell him that to his face.
He was still loud. Still dramatic. Still one theatrical monologue away from requiring stage lighting at all times. But when it was just the two of them, something about him relaxed. The performative edge softened slightly.
He still rambled, obviously. That was unavoidable. But instead of trying to provoke reactions out of an audience, he asked her genuine questions about herself. About I-Island. About research culture. About what it had been like growing up surrounded by scientists. And when he found out she hadn’t really had many friends, he simply started showing up more often. And that solidified the three lunches a week with him.
Somehow, without Rumi fully noticing when it happened, Monoma had become… comfortable. Familiar to the point where they’d started using first names without thinking about it.
Rumi called him nicknames like “theater kid” or “pretty boy” whenever she wanted to roast him a little. Disturbingly, he seemed to enjoy that. Probably because she didn’t just tolerate his nonsense. She actively participated in it.
At the moment, Monoma was pacing back and forth across Recovery Girl’s office delivering an aggressively overcomplicated explanation about quirk adaptability theory like a professor being held hostage inside his own TED Talk.
“—which means Class B naturally develops more tactical versatility due to environmental compensatory factors—”
“Mm.”
“—something Class A tends to overlook because of their reliance on excessively flashy combat styles—”
“Reasonable.”
Monoma stopped mid-pace. Slowly turned toward her. “…You’re agreeing with me.”
Rumi looked up from finishing his bento with complete calm. “I haven’t seen you guys in action yet but you’re making valid points, Mr. Monologue.”
A long silence followed. Monoma narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “…That’s deeply unsettling.”
“What?”
“I was emotionally prepared to be dismissed.”
“Well,” Rumi said, taking another bite of food, “there’s your first mistake.”
And for reasons Monoma wouldn’t fully understand until much later, that moment stayed with him.
The office door slid open with a soft mechanical click.
Recovery Girl stepped inside first carrying a stack of patient files nearly half her height, followed closely by All Might in his gaunt form with one hand tucked awkwardly into his pocket. He already looked tired, which probably meant Recovery Girl had personally tracked him down for another mandatory examination.
Rumi glanced up immediately from where she sat cross-legged in Recovery Girl’s office chair, several files spread around her while Monoma pacing across from her mid-rant.
“…Why is there a Class B student giving a lecture in my office?” Recovery Girl asked dryly. She shuffled farther into the room, and Monoma immediately stood to help carry the files. That caught Rumi’s attention instantly.
Without missing a beat, Monoma placed one hand against his chest. “I’m educating your apprentice.”
“You’re scaring my apprentice.”
“I resent that implication.”
“Is lunch over already?” Rumi asked.
Recovery Girl nudged the door shut behind them with her foot. “You’ve still got fifteen minutes, dear.”
Rumi visibly brightened at that.
“Good, we have time,” she said, turning to Monoma with an easy smile. “That means you don’t have to leave yet.”
The effect was immediate. Monoma’s expression softened before he could hide it, something quieter and genuinely pleased slipping through the usual theatricality.
“…Well,” he said lightly a second later, “far be it from me to abandon an attentive audience.”
Neither Recovery Girl nor All Might missed the smile. Recovery Girl’s eyes flicked briefly between them with the knowing look of a woman who had worked around teenagers for decades. Beside her, All Might went very still.
Interesting.
Or perhaps concerning.
“Toshinori, sit down before you fall down.”
“I am perfectly capable of—”
“You coughed blood into a flower pot this morning.”
“…Right.”
Monoma blinked. “…Should I pretend I didn’t hear that?”
“Yes,” Recovery Girl and All Might answered simultaneously.
Rumi smiled softly into her drink.
All Might settled onto the examination bed with the long-suffering air of a man who knew resistance was futile. Meanwhile Recovery Girl began preparing equipment with efficient familiarity, muttering under her breath about “reckless idiots” and “symbolic stupidity.”
After a moment she glanced toward Rumi properly, sharp eyes narrowing slightly in immediate assessment mode.
“Did you eat today?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Something besides caffeine?”
Rumi pointed silently at Monoma’s now-empty bento container and a few little plates of whatever he’d brought from the cafeteria for her.
Recovery Girl looked toward him. “…You fed her?”
Monoma looked offended. “What kind of mannerless maniac do you think I am? She’ll work through lunch if nobody intervenes.”
Rumi opened her mouth to rebut. Both of them looked at her simultaneously. She closed it again and deflated with a defeated pout.
Recovery Girl hummed knowingly. “Mm.”
Monoma crossed his arms with visible satisfaction. “Exactly.”
There was something bizarrely domestic about the interaction. Domestic enough that Rumi suddenly understood why the office had started feeling comfortable lately.
Recovery Girl settled into her chair with another tired exhale before pulling a tablet closer.
“So,” she asked casually, “how many students have you frightened today?”
Rumi perked up slightly. “Only six.”
“That’s improvement.”
“I wasn’t trying to frighten them.”
Recovery Girl gave her a look over the rims of her glasses. “Child, you told one second-year his knee cartilage sounded ‘structurally nervous.’”
“In my defense,” Rumi replied seriously, “it did.”
Monoma made a strangled noise that was dangerously close to laughter.
“And another one?” Recovery Girl continued. “You apparently informed a support student their prototype looked ‘ethically unstable.’”
“It launched itself through a wall!”
“That sounds fair,” Monoma admitted immediately.
Rumi pointed at him. “See? He understands me.”
All Might watched the exchange carefully from the examination bed while pretending very hard not to.
It was… strange.
Rumi had always been social as a child. Bright, playful, naturally curious. But Toshinori had spent so many years away from her that somewhere along the line he’d stopped being able to picture what her life would actually look like as a teenager. What kinds of people she would choose to spend time with. Who she would become close to when nobody was watching.
And honestly, he would never have expected it would be Neito Monoma.
The Class B student was dramatic. Still spoke with his entire body like he’d escaped from a theater production halfway through rehearsals. But sitting here now across from Rumi with a spoon in one hand while absentmindedly arguing quirk theory between bites of cake, he seemed different from the version Toshinori usually saw during training exercises. Softer around the edges somehow. Less performative.
“Oh!” Rumi said suddenly, looking up from her notes. “That reminds me. I watched some footage from the cavalry battle yesterday.”
Monoma perked up instantly. “And?”
“You spent half of it posing like a revolutionary leader moments before overthrowing the government.”
Monoma looked scandalized. “It’s called presence.”
“It’s called dramatics.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“You lost.”
“That is deeply irrelevant to the point I’m making.”
Rumi laughed, leaning back slightly in her chair. “There was one moment where you pointed at Class A like you were sentencing them for crimes against humanity.”
“They knew what they did.”
“You are unbelievably extra.” Her laughter had started to slip into her voice.
“And yet,” Monoma replied smoothly, one hand against his chest again, “you keep looking so entertained by me.”
That got a real laugh out of her. Warm and genuinely amused.
Recovery Girl glanced up briefly from checking All Might’s blood pressure cuff, sharp old eyes catching the way Monoma looked at Rumi afterward when she laughed.
Ah.
Well now.
All Might noticed it too. And suddenly understood, with growing horror, that he had completely failed to prepare for this particular aspect of fatherhood. He had genuinely never even considered it until now.
Recovery Girl, meanwhile, simply smiled faintly to herself and continued working.
“You’ve gotten better at balancing your schedule,” she told Rumi casually while jotting down notes. “You’re not staying in laboratories overnight anymore.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened three times at least.”
“Allegedly. And how did you even know about that? It happened on the island.”
“Your principal gave us warnings when you accepted the work study.”
Monoma looked scandalized. “You used to sleep in laboratories?”
“She still would if we let her,” Recovery Girl informed him fondly.
Rumi pointed accusingly. “Traitor.”
“Doctor.”
“Debatable.”
Recovery Girl chuckled warmly and patted Rumi’s shoulder as she passed by the desk. “Eat properly and sleep more than four hours a night and maybe I’ll stop tattling on you.”
“No promises.”
Soon enough the warning bell rang through the hallways signaling the end of lunch.
Monoma glanced toward the clock with immediate offense.
Rumi pointed toward the door without looking up from her paperwork. “Go to class, drama club.”
Monoma rose from his chair with the solemn dignity of a man preparing for exile. He gathered the empty bento containers, placed one hand dramatically over his heart, and turned toward Rumi.
“Alas,” he declared, “duty calls me away from this sanctuary of appreciation and reasonable intelligence.”
“You say that like you’re marching into war.”
“I am. Class A is in the building.”
Rumi snorted. Monoma pointed toward her as though that proved something important. “There! Validation.”
Then, with entirely too much confidence: “Do try not to miss me too terribly, fair maiden. I shall return.”
Rumi stared at him for a long moment. Then she slowly stood from her chair, and walked toward him.
Monoma looked delighted immediately. “Ah, see? Overcome with emotion already—”
Before he could finish, Rumi planted both hands firmly on his shoulders and began steering him toward the door with surprising efficiency.
“Fair maiden?” she repeated, laughing despite herself. “What century are you from?”
“A far more romantic one!”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet beloved.”
“That remains under review.”
Monoma allowed himself to be pushed dramatically backward through the doorway like a disgraced nobleman being escorted from court. “You wound me, Lady Reyes!”
“You’ll survive.”
“You’ll regret this cruelty when I’m gone!”
“You’ll be back tomorrow!”
“…Indeed I shall!”
Rumi snorted another laugh and finally shoved him the rest of the way into the hallway before the doors slid shut between them. A muffled “FAREWELL!” still carried faintly through the metal.
Silence settled over the office. Recovery Girl smiled into her paperwork. All Might stared at the closed door with the expression of a man abruptly realizing teenage boys had somehow become his problem.
Rumi dissolved into another quiet laugh, shaking her head fondly. “What a doofus.”
All Might watched the expression on her face with growing concern for reasons he absolutely refused to unpack right now.
Recovery Girl, meanwhile, simply snorted and returned to organizing equipment. “Sweet boy. Bit exhausting. But sweet.”
Now that lunch was over, the atmosphere in the office shifted naturally back toward work. Rumi straightened slightly in her chair and gathered the files spread across the desk before looking toward Recovery Girl.
“Am I staying for All Might’s examination,” she asked, “or would you like me to leave?”
“Stay,” Recovery Girl answered immediately. “I’d like to discuss his post-injury lifestyle with you. Helps to understand how heroes continue functioning even when their bodies are falling apart.”
She fixed All Might with what could only be described as a pointed look. Or at least as pointed as Recovery Girl ever got beneath the warm grandmotherly exterior. All Might visibly wilted.
Rumi already knew about the injury, at least in broad terms. Dave had explained the basics, and the man himself had acknowledged enough that she understood it had been catastrophic. But nobody had given her details. Part of her suspected they simply hadn’t wanted to upset her further after everything else she’d learned.
But now she could see and ask questions too. And judging by the expression tightening across Toshinori’s face, he still very much did not want her to know.
Unfortunately for him, Recovery Girl clearly disagreed.
“In medicine,” she said while pulling a thick file from her cabinet, “you cannot treat heroes like ordinary patients. They continue working through injuries that should have ended careers years earlier. Sometimes because they have to. Sometimes because they’re idiots.”
“Toshinori,” she added sweetly, “is both.”
“…That’s harsh.”
“You survived worse.”
Rumi accepted the file carefully as Recovery Girl handed it over. The moment she opened it, her stomach dropped.
Scans.
Test results.
Surgical notes.
And photographs.
She’d taken anatomy classes. She’d worked around cadavers before. She knew this was the future she was preparing for. Medicine was not delicate work. Bodies broke. Organs failed. Blood happened.
But suddenly she understood all too clearly why doctors weren’t supposed to treat the people they loved.
Because looking at detached clinical images was one thing. Looking at him was another entirely. The injuries were horrific. Damage layered over damage over damage until entire systems had been permanently altered just to keep him alive. Tissue loss. Organ trauma. Structural collapse. Reconstruction attempts. Everything that explained why he was so frail now.
To see him reduced to scans and surgical summaries and percentages made something inside her chest ache sharply. And when she finally looked up from the file into his eyes, he must have seen it written all over her face. Because he sighed softly and looked away first. This was why he hadn’t wanted her to know.
Still, Rumi swallowed hard and forced herself to focus as Recovery Girl continued explaining the long-term complications, the chronic pain management, the limitations he consistently ignored. She listened carefully. Took notes. Asked questions where she could.
Doctor mode. Stay in doctor mode.
Then Recovery Girl stepped closer to the examination bed and lifted Toshinori’s shirt enough to expose the scar. Rumi stopped breathing for a second. It was terrible. And somehow heartbreakingly beautiful too. The scar twisted inward in a knotted circular pattern at the center, distorted skin pulling around old devastation in ways the photographs hadn’t fully captured.
Rumi had no idea what expression crossed her face then, but it was enough for Recovery Girl to pause mid-explanation.
“…Are you alright, dear?”
Immediately Toshinori’s eyes snapped back toward her with concern. He knew. He had expected this exact reaction from the beginning. All her training, all her composure, all her enthusiasm for medicine disappearing the second it became personal.
Because his Rumi’s heart had always been painfully soft. She wanted to help people so badly that their suffering became her own almost by instinct.
She nodded quickly despite the sting building behind her eyes.
“It just…” Her voice caught slightly before she steadied it again. “I—It looks like a sunflower.”
Silence.
“I’ve never seen a sad sunflower before.”
And that nearly broke Toshinori outright.
Rumi turned away before the tears could spill properly, one hand rising instinctively to cover her mouth as she forced herself to breathe slowly. One breath. Then another.
Pull yourself together.
Recovery Girl still didn’t know the truth. She couldn’t know. So Rumi had to get herself under control before her emotions became suspicious.
After several seconds she managed to steady her breathing enough to speak again, still facing away from them.
“…How much pulmonary function did he permanently lose after the surgeries?”
Back to medicine. Back to work.
Recovery Girl answered immediately, slipping naturally back into professional explanation while Toshinori watched Rumi carefully from the examination bed with an expression somewhere between heartbreak and helplessness.
Rumi listened. Asked another question. Then another. And little by little, piece by piece, she forced herself back into doctor mode even while her chest still hurt around the edges.
Once the examination was finally over, the office fell quiet in a way it hadn’t been all afternoon.
Recovery Girl finished jotting down the last of her notes before closing the file with a soft snap. Her expression gentled as she looked toward Rumi, who still stood near the desk with her arms loosely folded around herself.
“Take your time, dear,” she said softly. “No amount of training makes it easy to watch someone suffer. Medicine teaches you how to steady your hands, not your heart.”
Rumi swallowed hard but nodded.
Recovery Girl turned toward Toshinori next. “You. Out. Give the girl a moment to breathe before she heads back to work.”
“…Right.”
The old healer gathered her paperwork and shuffled toward the door, pausing only briefly beside Rumi long enough to squeeze her arm gently. For all her brilliance and composure and relentless enthusiasm for medicine, Recovery Girl understood something easy to forget around Rumi. She was still just a teenager.
The door slid shut behind her. Silence settled over the office. For a few seconds neither of them spoke. Then Toshinori turned toward her slowly and rested one large hand carefully against her shoulder.
A question.
An invitation.
Rumi moved immediately. She stepped forward and buried her face against his shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around him before she could think too hard about it. He was still seated on the edge of the examination bed, which made it easier. If he’d been standing at full height she would’ve barely reached his chest.
Toshinori’s arms came around her carefully, like he was afraid too much pressure might make her break apart completely. She didn’t cry. Just held onto him tightly while a few shaky breaths escaped against his shoulder. After a long moment she finally pulled back enough to look at him.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly before he could ask.
The expression on his face made it painfully obvious he didn’t believe that for even a second. Still, he only brushed his thumb carefully beneath her eyes, wiping away the tears she hadn’t managed to hide completely. Then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he murmured. “I would have preferred if you hadn’t.”
Rumi nodded once. She understood what he meant now. It wasn’t pride. He just hadn’t wanted her to carry the image of him broken open like that.
Toshinori stood slowly and reached for his coat, seemingly deciding she might need a little space now. So he gave it to her, gathering his things quietly before making his way toward the office door. His hand had just reached the handle when her voice stopped him.
“…Dad?”
Everything inside him softened instantly. For so many years he’d believed he would never hear her call him that again. And now every time he heard it, it warmed his heart.
He turned back toward her immediately. “Yes, my spark?”
Rumi’s eyes were still red around the edges, cheeks faintly flushed from trying not to cry. But then she smiled. A big, bright, determined Plus Ultra smile. And lifted one hand into a thumbs up.
The sight hit Toshinori straight in the chest. She was trying to comfort him. The exact same way he used to comfort her when she was little—flashing huge reassuring smiles no matter how bad things hurt because when he smiled brightly enough she would believe things would be okay.
Toshinori huffed out a soft laugh that nearly broke apart halfway through. Then he straightened slightly, lifted his own thumb, and answered her with a Plus Ultra smile of his own. Both of them faking it for the others’ sake.
And only after she smiled back again did he quietly slip out of the office.
I really should find time to work out.
The thought hit Rumi somewhere between leaving Recovery Girl’s office and arriving back at the support department.
Master Lee will be furious if I come back after four months completely out of shape.
Rumi physically shuddered. Her instructor was many things. Wise. Brilliant. Patient in a deeply terrifying way. Merciful was not one of them. If she returned weaker than when she left, the punishment drills alone would probably qualify as crimes against humanity in at least three countries.
U.A. had swallowed her schedule whole almost immediately. Between assessments, equipment evaluations, support consultations, and Recovery Girl’s work, entire days vanished before she even noticed.
Still. If she couldn’t maintain her full training routine, she could at least preserve her conditioning and strength. That and her emotions had been popping up very intensely. It was time to get back into the groove. If only so she wouldn’t burst out crying easily.
By the time she arrived at Power Loader’s workshop, she’d already started mentally reorganizing her schedule to make room for exercise. The familiar sounds of metal clanging and power tools buzzing greeted her the moment the doors slid open.
What she hadn’t expected was to find Aizawa waiting inside. He stood near one of the workbenches with his capture weapon draped loosely around his shoulders, looking exactly as exhausted as always.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Aizawa.”
“Hello, Rumi.”
His tone carried the same sleepy flatness it always did, but she was starting to recognize the difference between genuine disinterest and his normal personality. This was the latter.
“I was checking in,” he continued. “Power Loader says you’re making good time.”
Rumi nodded, setting her bag down beside the nearest workstation. “I’ll finish the second-years by next week. Then I’ll start on the first-years. After that I’ll mostly be monitoring how everyone adjusts to their updated training plans and support modifications.”
Aizawa gave a small nod at that. Efficient. Exactly what Nezu had promised him.
“Good.” He turned slightly like he intended to leave, but Rumi spoke again before he reached the door.
“Mr. Aizawa?”
He glanced back toward her.
“Is there somewhere on campus I could workout?”
That actually made him pause. His eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicious exactly, more like reassessing information he’d already filed away about her.
Rumi continued, “I don’t want to spend four months getting out of shape. My master will be extremely displeased if I come back weaker than when I left.”
Aizawa stared at her for a second longer. “…What exactly qualifies as a ‘workout’ for you?”
Rumi considered that honestly. “…Probably the version that makes normal people concerned. Endurance, mobility. The works.”
Aizawa sighed quietly through his nose. Somehow that answered several questions at once.
“There’s a gym facility the hero course uses,” he said after a moment. “But if you’re looking for serious training space, the combat gyms are better.”
Rumi brightened immediately. “Really?”
“Will you be done by four today?”
“I can be if I’m needed.”
Aizawa nodded once. “I’ll come get you then.”
And with that he left the workshop.
Rumi blinked after him.
…Well now she was curious.
A few seconds past four, Aizawa appeared outside Power Loader’s workshop exactly as promised.
Rumi was already waiting. Scoot stood parked loyally beside her with his storage basket attached while Scribe rested comfortably in her arms, lights glowing softly in idle mode.
Aizawa barely slowed down as he approached. “Come on.”
And simply kept walking, fully expecting her to follow. She did immediately, falling into step just behind him while Scoot rolled quietly at her side. For a little while the only sounds were their footsteps echoing through the hallways and Scoot’s soft mechanical whirring against the floor.
Then Aizawa glanced briefly toward the robots. “So these are your famous robots.”
Rumi smiled instantly. “Yes sir, they are. My most trusted friends.”
Scoot beeped proudly at the praise. Aizawa eyed the machine for a second longer before looking forward again. “…I’ve heard my students are emotionally attached to the taller one.”
“They should be,” Rumi replied seriously. “He works very hard.”
“Hm.”
A beat passed before he spoke again.
“How’s my class treating you?”
“Very well,” Rumi answered honestly. “They’re kind. Loud. Slightly concerning in groups, but very fun.”
Aizawa made a tired noise that might have been agreement.
“And Mr. Class Rep Iida won’t let me help with anything.”
That got another small glance from him. “Sounds like Iida.”
“He physically escorted me away from dishes yesterday.”
“Also sounds like Iida.”
Rumi laughed softly under her breath as they continued through U.A.’s labyrinthine hallways. U.A.’s campus somehow operated on dream logic. Every corridor looked vaguely familiar while simultaneously leading somewhere entirely different than expected.
Thankfully the gym wasn’t far. When Aizawa finally pushed open the heavy doors to one of the combat training gyms, Rumi immediately spotted someone already inside.
A teenage boy stood near the center of the room stretching one arm across his chest while warming up. He looked toward the entrance automatically when the doors opened.
“Sensei—” Then stopped short when he noticed Rumi following behind Aizawa. There was a brief moment where surprise flickered visibly across his face before he quickly straightened.
Aizawa continued walking until the three of them stood only a few feet apart. Then he stopped and shifted slightly, standing sideways between them as he spoke.
“This is Hitoshi Shinsou.”