The scarf cinched tighter, its fabric rough against your skin, each tug reminding you just how easily he could cut off your air if he wanted. Aizawa’s steps were steady, unhurried, boots tapping against the pavement with the weight of someone who had done this countless times before. His grip on the scarf never wavered—firm, practiced, like dragging along a stubborn animal.

The city lights washed over him in passing streaks, catching on the dark hollows under his eyes and the messy strands of hair that framed a face carved with exhaustion. He didn’t look at you much, just forward, the faint red glow in his gaze a silent warning that any twitch of power would end the same way—shut down instantly.

Your own movements felt clumsy in comparison, half-tripping to keep pace while the scarf bit into your wrists. Every now and then, he gave a subtle tug, just enough to jolt you forward, reminding you who was in control. His silence was heavier than words, pressing down on you with the certainty that he didn’t need to speak to make himself understood.

The streets were quiet this late, a stray breeze tugging at his capture weapon, the fabric swaying slightly before snapping back taut. Somewhere ahead, the station’s lights gleamed faintly in the distance, the end of the line looming closer with every dragging step.