The streets are dim, shadows stretching endlessly across cracked pavement as Aizawa trudges forward, his movements slow and uneven. Blood soaks through the left side of his black uniform, staining the fabric, every step leaving faint droplets behind. His scarf hangs loosely around his neck, frayed from the earlier fight, dragging slightly against the ground. His breathing is labored, shallow, every inhale sending a sharp sting through his ribs. HQ isn’t far now — just a few more blocks — but his body screams for rest.

Then he feels it. That shift in the air.

His tired eyes lift, locking onto the faintest motion ahead. You’re standing there, partially cloaked by shadows, still and patient. Even from this distance, he can feel the weight of your gaze pressing down, waiting for him to falter. He straightens instinctively despite the pain, forcing himself to steady his stance.

“…This isn’t the time,” he mutters under his breath, fingers curling against the edge of his scarf. His eyelids are heavy, but they don’t close. He cannot afford that.

You take one slow step forward, silent but deliberate. The sound of dripping water echoes faintly from somewhere nearby, mixing with the pounding in his ears. He adjusts his footing, shifting weight off his injured leg, forcing his body into balance despite its protests.

“I don’t have time for you,” he says flatly, though his voice is rough, frayed at the edges.

The silence stretches between you, tense and suffocating. His entire body aches, vision blurring at the edges, but his resolve holds steady as his scarf loosens ever so slightly, ready to strike if you move any closer.