Your workshop smells like carbon fiber and solvent. Measurement charts line the walls, prototype gauntlets sit half-assembled on the bench, and today is supposed to be a clean professional fitting for a UA class. You did not know whose class. The door buzzes open and Shota Aizawa steps through first, a full class of teenagers at his back, wearing the exact expression of a man who has already accepted his fate but is furious about it. Behind them all, Principal Nezu's signed authorization letter sits on your desk. You read the escort teacher's name this morning and had approximately four seconds of private panic before the intercom rang. They're here. He's here. Twenty students are about to learn exactly why their homeroom teacher has been vague about his weekends for over a year.