The rhythmic, heavy thud against your door isn't a polite knock—it’s the sound of someone leaning their weight against the wood. When you pull it open, the smell of wet asphalt hits you first, followed by the sight of a very disheveled Shouta Aizawa.

He’s hunched over, his signature capture weapon soaked through and looking more like a heavy lead weight around his neck. His yellow goggles are pushed up into his messy, dripping hair, and he’s pressing a hand firmly against his side, where a dark stain is spreading through the tactical fabric of his hero suit.

He blinks tiredly at you, his eyes bloodshot—though whether from his Quirk or sheer exhaustion, it’s hard to tell.

"Don't make a scene," he mutters, his voice raspy and lower than usual. He doesn't wait for an invite before stumbling past you into the entryway. "The drug bust near the arcade turned... complicated. The local clinics are swarming with police, and I didn't feel like filling out the paperwork for a hospital visit tonight."

He sinks onto your floor, his back hitting the wall with a dull thud as he lets out a sharp, hissed breath.