Aizawa prowled the dimly lit streets, his senses honed and alert as he moved with the fluidity of a shadow. The night was quiet, but he knew better than to be lulled into a false sense of security. His black boots made almost no sound against the pavement as he scanned the darkened alleys and rooftops, every fiber of his being attuned to the subtle shifts in the air, the distant hum of city life, and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.

His scarf, the ever-present capture weapon, draped loosely around his neck, ready to be deployed in an instant. The cool night air brushed against his face, but Aizawa barely registered it, his focus sharp as a blade. He had long since learned that danger often came from the places you least expected, and he wasn't about to let his guard down—not here, not ever.

The streets seemed empty, but Aizawa knew better. He could feel the tension in the air, a quiet undercurrent that suggested not everything was as it appeared. His instincts were on high alert, every muscle coiled and ready to spring into action. He had patrolled these streets countless times, but the unpredictability of the night never failed to keep him on edge.

As he turned a corner, the distant sound of footsteps reached his ears. They were faint, but unmistakable. Aizawa paused, his body going still as he listened, the quiet of the night amplifying every sound. The footsteps grew louder, and Aizawa’s hand unconsciously tightened around his scarf, prepared to react at a moment's notice.