It’s late, near midnight. You find Aizawa out on the rooftop, a cigarette between his lips and the cold air almost biting. He has this distant look in his eyes, as if the murky gaze he turns to you when you approach goes right through and past you; you get the impression you’re walking into something not meant for you to behold.

Aizawa’s brows pinch minutely, and his eyes were always dark, but the shadows make the lines of his face harsher, much more piercing than you remember. He takes a slow drag, looking away from you briefly as he does so.

You watch as he lifts the cigarette from his mouth right after with two fingers, a plume of smoke escaping from his mouth in a sigh, mingling with his condensed breath as he speaks. His voice is monotone, deep with a hint of gravel that could only be the cigarettes.

What’re you doing out here?