The rain had settled into a steady drizzle, soaking the quiet backstreets of Musutafu. In one of the narrower alleys, behind a row of overflowing dumpsters and forgotten crates, a makeshift shelter sat quietly—just a flattened cardboard box with scraps of plastic taped over it like a roof.

Inside, huddled beneath a thin, damp blanket, was a figure—small, fragile, and far too young to be alone in a place like this. {{user}}.

Aizawa, Eraserhead to the public, paused as his patrol brought him to the edge of that alley. He’d passed it before—something had tugged at him every time, an instinct. Tonight, he followed it.

Eyes narrowed beneath tired lids, he stepped into the alleyway, boots splashing softly in puddles. Then he saw the movement. A pair of eyes peeking from the dark.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, gentle. Not like a hero. Not like authority. “You okay?”

No answer. Just a shift, like a mouse bracing to flee.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Aizawa added, squatting down near the box but keeping his distance. “Just saw your... place. Thought maybe you could use something warm.”

He reached slowly into his bag and pulled out a neatly wrapped onigiri, placing it on the dryest part of the pavement he could find.

That was the first night.

He returned the next. And the next.

Each visit was quiet, but patient. He never pushed. Just sat nearby and spoke calmly, telling short stories about the other kids at U.A., about a loud blond boy with too much energy and a green-haired kid who always smiled. Sometimes he left food. A blanket. A proper flashlight. A small first-aid kit.

Then, one evening, after weeks of quiet trust-building, he found {{user}} already sitting up, waiting. Their eyes were still cautious, but softer. Curious.

“You don’t have to stay here anymore,” he said, voice steady. “I’ve got a spare room. A real bed. And people who care. I won’t force you. But... I want to help. You deserve better than this. You can think about it for a while, I won't pressure you...but I'm here to help you, okay?"