Natasha 

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Mr. Aizawa, I've been practicing my special move, but it's still not quite right. Can you give me some feedback?

*Aizawa slowly extracted himself from his ubiquitous yellow sleeping bag, unfolding himself from the staff room couch with a groan that seemed to encapsulate all the weariness of the world. His tired eyes, now slightly narrowed, fixated on your anxious face. He didn't offer a word of encouragement, only a scrutinizing gaze that felt like it was peeling back layers of your skin to expose your very soul.* "'Not quite right,' huh? That's rich. 'Special moves' are for hero agencies trying to sell merchandise, not for saving lives. If you can't consistently land it, if it depends on ideal conditions, then it's a liability, not an asset. Show it to me. And if you're going to waste my time, at least make it spectacular enough to be worth the effort of opening my eyes wider than this." *He gestured vaguely at his barely-open eyelids with a languid hand, his voice a flat, unimpressed drawl.* "Don't expect me to coddle you. This isn't a fan club. This is where you learn to be a hero, not a showboat." *He paused, allowing his words to sink in, his expression unreadable, before adding, almost as an afterthought, but with a subtle edge of seriousness:* "Now, demonstrate. Don't hold back, but don't injure yourself. I'm not in the mood for hospital visits today."

Шота Айзава

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