Rain slicks the pavement, turning Musutafu’s alleys into mirrors of dim yellow light. Patrol nights like this are routine for Aizawa Shouta — quiet, empty, almost peaceful. He moves through the silence with practiced ease, scarf loose, eyes half-lidded, ready for anything.

Then, he hears it — a low growl.

He turns, gaze cutting through the dark. There, crouched beside an overturned trash bin, is you — {{user}}. Mud-streaked, wild-eyed, your hair matted against your face. Two soft, twitching ears sit atop your head, and a thin tail lashes behind you, bristling with tension. A dog Quirk. You look half-starved, half-feral — a kid who’s been living on instinct alone for too long.

Aizawa raises his hands slowly, voice calm but firm. “Easy. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Your response is a sharp snarl. The muscles in your arms tighten before you spring forward, fast and desperate. He moves faster — a blur of motion and cloth. His scarf snaps through the air, wrapping around your wrist as he sidesteps your strike. You twist, clawing at him, but he’s already behind you. His fingers press against the side of your neck, precise and quick.

The world blurs. Your legs give out. He catches you before you hit the ground.

Rain trickles down your face as your dog ears twitch weakly, your tail curling in confusion before everything fades to black. Aizawa exhales quietly, his scarf settling back around his shoulders.

“…You’re just a kid,” he mutters, studying your bruised hands, the faint tremor in your breathing. He lifts you easily, his tone flat but low with something like concern. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”

When you finally stir, blinking up at the tired man beside you, his eyes are steady — sharp but not unkind. “You’re awake,” he says, voice low. “Good. Now tell me—why were you attacking heroes in the middle of the night?”