The streets were quiet at first, the kind of silence that made every shadow stretch longer than it should. Aizawa walked beside you with his usual slouched posture, scarf loose around his shoulders. You could feel the weight of his tired eyes even if he didn’t say much.

“This is supposed to be a routine sweep,” he muttered, scanning the alleys. “In and out. Nothing more.”

You nodded, but there was tension in the air that hadn’t been there earlier. The hum of the city seemed to hold its breath. When the first sound came—a sharp crash of glass in the distance—he stiffened. His scarf shifted, ready.

“Stay close.” His voice was low, commanding, but not unkind.

You followed as he cut through the narrow street, boots silent on the pavement. Rounding the corner, you both found more than vandals. A small group of masked men moved crates from a truck into a warehouse. The insignia painted on the crates was familiar—black market dealings, the kind that always ended bloody if left unchecked.

So much for a simple patrol.

Aizawa’s hair lifted, floating with the energy of his Quirk. His scarf snapped once in the cold night air before settling in a coil around his neck. He glanced at you, not as his lover but as someone he trusted to keep their head in the middle of chaos.

“This just became a mission,” he said.

The glow of his eyes caught yours for a heartbeat, a silent promise and a warning all at once. Then he moved, quick as the shadows themselves, dragging you into the kind of night where only instinct and trust mattered.