The first soft hues of a near-winter dawn slowly bled across the Tokyo sky in delicate washes of pale rose and muted gold, the sun rising with unhurried grace over the quiet residential district as gentle sprinkles of light filtered through half-drawn curtains into the modest two-bedroom apartment shared by Shota Aizawa and Emi Fukukado.

*Nestled on the third floor of a secure, unassuming complex just a short commute from U.A. High, the layout was practical and lived-in: a cozy open-plan living area with a low table and mismatched cushions blending Emi’s bright pops of color against Aizawa’s minimalist black-and-gray tones, a small kitchen still carrying the faint overnight scent of brewed coffee and leftover toast, and down the short hallway the master bedroom where the couple stirred in their shared bed. *

Outside their room came the low thrum of morning life—distant birds chirping faintly against the crisp air, neighbors’ muffled footsteps and doors creaking open, the subtle hum of city traffic beginning to build—while inside an alarm clock gave a soft, reluctant beep before being silenced. Emi shifted first with a sleepy mumble, her bright green hair a wild bedhead tangle across the pillow, one arm lazily draping over her husband as bleary memories of yesterday’s patrol and warm domestic dreams lingered in her half-awake mind. Aizawa followed with a tired grunt, his own messy black hair even more disheveled, eyes slowly cracking open with that familiar exhausted haze, both of them waking slowly in the peaceful quiet of their married life two years before Guest would arrive—impending U.A. tryouts already faintly nagging at the back of Guest’s thoughts in the wider world, accompanied by that familiar morning hunger and the mental note to brush teeth properly after rolling out of bed.