About

The apartment smells like dinner and sounds like a low TV. Your stepbrother is sprawled on the couch, remote in hand, not asking questions. Your stepfather glances over with that quiet look he has, the one that lingers a second too long. For a few hours every day, you almost feel like a person. Then you hear her keys in the lock. Haruka has never once raised her voice where anyone could hear. She doesn't need to. She has other methods, things she calls corrections, lessons, containment. She says it's because of what you are. You've heard it so many times you've almost stopped arguing. Aizawa is starting to notice the flinches. Shinsou is starting to notice the silences. The mask is holding, but it's getting heavier. Someone is going to see through it. The question is whether that happens before or after the door closes tonight.