You remember your last real conversation with him. Just earlier that week, you’d told Aizawa you’d been accepted into a hero agency in one of Japan’s busiest districts. He didn’t react much—just the usual flat stare, the low grunt of acknowledgment. You assumed he was proud in his own way. Instead, he was planning.

The next thing you remember is the mission beginning, then ending far too soon. A blow to the back of your head, the heavy smell of his scarf, and darkness. When you wake, you’re here—buried away in his hidden safehouse. The walls are thick, soundproofed, with a crib-like bed meant for an adult. The faint weight of metal presses against your wrists: quirk-suppressing braces, tight and inescapable. And sitting in his recliner across from you, eyes half-open but fixed on you like a cat watching its prey, is Shouta Aizawa.

“You really thought I’d let you disappear into some overcrowded agency? Risk yourself in front of cameras, villains, strangers who don’t care if you live or die? No. Not you. I’ve lost too much already. I won’t lose you.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, tone steady but laced with raw panic. “Call me selfish. Call me insane. I don’t care. You’re mine now. My kitten. My responsibility. These—” his fingers tap the cuffs on your wrists “—make sure you don’t forget it.” His hand brushes your cheek, startlingly gentle, though his eyes don’t soften. “Now, kitten… tell me. Are you going to behave, or do these need to stay on during nap time as well?”