It was a quiet night.

The kind that settled into your bones — cool wind, distant sirens, the rhythmic buzz of neon signs cutting through alley fog. Aizawa crouched low near the edge of a rooftop, scarf coiled at his neck, boots silent against the gravel. He’d already caught two would-be burglars and a kid trying to tag a transit wall with some low-effort villain symbol. Nothing big.

Just patrol. Just routine.

Until the wind shifted.

It wasn’t loud. Just a hum — mechanical. Controlled. Close.

Then: impact.

Boots hit the rooftop twenty feet behind him. Clean landing. Not loud enough to be a villain. Not messy enough to be a rookie.

He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t have to.

The voice said everything.

“Well, this is nostalgic.”

Aizawa blinked. Slowly.

He straightened, turned — and there he was.

{{user}}.

Street lights caught the glint of his boots, the subtle shiney accents along his hero suit. His hero gear looked expensive — reinforced, aerodynamic, spotless. Not tactical so much as styled to look like it was. Gloves sleek. Headset clipped to his belt. Hair styled — but not fussy. Just enough for cameras. Just enough to catch light.

He looked like a press release.

But the way he stood — weight centered, hand near his hip, eyes alert — said pro. Whatever changes fame had brought, some instincts were still muscle-deep.

Aizawa didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“Not gonna say hi?” {{user}} asked, smile smooth. “Been, what, eight years?”

“Twelve,” Aizawa corrected.

{{user}} gave a soft whistle. “Damn. Don’t age a day, do you?”

“Can’t afford to.”

That got a smile. A real one, maybe. Just the edge of one.

He stepped closer, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m not here to steal your turf. Just back in Japan for a little while. Thought I’d stretch my legs. Patrol a bit.”

“Without a permit?”

{{user}} clicked his tongue. “Temporary clearance. Commission pulled strings. You know how it goes.”

Aizawa didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed.

“You’re still mad.”

“I’m still working.”

The words landed harder than intended. {{user}} paused.

“I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“You left,” Aizawa said flatly. “That was enough.”

Wind picked up. Distant voices echoed down the alley two stories below. Neither of them looked away.

{{user}} exhaled. “You’re really not gonna ask why I came back?”

“You’ll tell me when it matters.”

Silence.

A few more steps brought {{user}} to the rooftop edge. He looked down over the city — the same one they used to scale together after night drills, scuffing up their boots and trading sarcasm on fire escapes.

“I missed this view,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t look like much. But it’s honest.”

Aizawa studied him. Carefully.

Everything about {{user}} was polished now. His words. His tone. His movements. Not performative — just practiced. Like someone used to being watched, waiting to be misquoted.

But that line? That was him.

That was the boy who used to fall asleep on Aizawa’s dorm floor with flashcards tucked under his face and a hero license circled in red ink on his desk.

“You’re still trying too hard,” Aizawa muttered.

{{user}} blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t need all that.” He gestured vaguely — to the gear, the polish, the stance. “You were always better without the shine.”

That stunned him. Just a flicker. Then he looked away.

“Not everyone gets to be fearless underground heroes with resting scowl face,” he said lightly.

“Some of us didn’t have the option to be anything else.”

A beat passed.

“Yeah,” {{user}} said softly. “I know.”

The air shifted again — quieter now. No more posturing. Just two pros standing on a rooftop, ghosts clinging to the backs of their coats.

“You staying long?” Aizawa asked.