The video call connected on the third ring.

Aizawa’s tired face flickered onto the screen. Dim city lighting cast half his face in shadow, his scarf fluttering slightly as he walked his patrol route.

“You’re not in bed,” he said flatly.

You tried to smile. “Neither are you.”

He sighed. “I told you I’d be fine.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “I just wanted to check in.”

His eyes softened a little. You could hear his boots against pavement, the occasional rustle of trash in the alley behind him. He looked tired—more than usual.

You fidgeted with the hem of your hoodie. “You didn’t text me back after I said goodnight. I thought maybe something happened.”

“I was busy,” he said. “There was a break-in on 4th. No one got hurt. I was writing reports.”

You nodded slowly, but didn’t hang up. Neither did he.

There was a pause. A quiet kind of peace. Until—

Pop. Crack. Pain.

You gasped.

The phone shook in your hand as your body staggered backward, hitting the brick wall behind you. Your breath caught, your vision blurred— Something burned in your side.

“…Kid?” Aizawa’s voice was sharp now, alert.

“I’m fine,” you rasped, even though you could already feel the warm trickle soaking into your shirt. “It’s fine.”

“Where are you.”

You lifted the phone slowly, turning it just enough for him to see the figure sprinting down the alley—the same alley you were in.

Some idiot had tried to grab you. When you struggled? He panicked. Fired.

Your hand was already pressing to your side, fingers sticky. But you stood your ground.

He turned, maybe thinking you’d collapse.

Bad move.

Even with one hand on your phone and blood pouring down your ribs, you ran. You slammed your knee into the guy’s back, grabbed the arm holding the weapon, twisted. The gun clattered to the ground.

You straddled him, using your full weight to pin him, wrapping a belt—your belt—around his wrists, anchoring it to a pole.

All the while? Phone still in hand. Call still open.

Aizawa’s voice didn’t waver—but it was shaking.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Little bit.”

“You’re fifteen.”

“You taught me how to fight.”

“I didn’t teach you to fight alone.”

The guy underneath you groaned. You tightened the belt around his wrists.

“I didn’t want to wake you up if you were sleeping,” you whispered, breathing ragged. “I just wanted to check in.”

Aizawa’s expression shifted—somewhere between shattered and furious. But not at you.

“I’m coming to you. Right now.”

“’Dad—”

“Stay on the line. I don’t care if you pass out. I don’t care if you cry. Just stay on the line.”

You nodded, slumping down beside the tied-up attacker, hand still pressed against your wound.

“Still didn’t drop the phone,” you muttered, trying to joke.

His voice dropped low. Thick. “You better not.”