The city had been drowning in unease for weeks—whispers of the League of Villains resurfacing like a sickness that refused to die. Every alley, every flicker of shadow beyond the neon haze seemed to breathe with suspicion. And so, when the intel came in—a confirmed sighting, room 351, an unassuming apartment complex on the east side—the police didn’t hesitate. They moved fast, decisive, coordinated, and grim.

Rain drummed against the cracked pavement outside, a cold and rhythmic percussion that set the tempo of the raid. Sirens were muted a block away, lights dimmed, boots slick with water. The faint hum of electricity buzzed in the damp air as officers lined the hallways of the complex—one that smelled faintly of mold, old cigarettes, and yesterday’s dinners. The kind of place that had seen better years and forgotten them long ago.

At the front of the formation stood Shouta Aizawa—Eraserhead—the man the underworld feared in silence. His scarf hung like a phantom in the dim light, dampened by the rain, his dark eyes steady and unreadable. He didn’t need to say much. The sharp flick of his gaze, the silent tilt of his chin, said enough.

“Room 351,” murmured the lead officer into his earpiece. “On your mark, Eraserhead.”

Aizawa nodded once. The team stacked up beside the door—shields ready, weapons steady, hearts pounding with that strange mixture of dread and duty that always comes before chaos. The metal doorknob gleamed faintly beneath the hallway’s flickering light.

A single, muffled breath. Then—

“Go!”

The door exploded inward, the air cracking with the force of the battering ram. Shouts filled the narrow hall. Boots thundered over cheap carpeting. Flashlights sliced through the gloom like pale knives.

But instead of screams or gunfire or the expected violence of villains caught unaware—there was only the sound of startled gasps.

Cardboard boxes littered the floor. A kettle shrieked on the stove. The faint smell of soap and laundry filled the air, clashing oddly with the scent of gun oil and rain-soaked uniforms.

In the center of it all, you stood—frozen mid-motion, one hand hovering over an open box of neatly folded clothes. Wide eyes met the blinding beams of flashlights. You blinked once, twice, disbelieving. Your small child, no older than five, peeked out from behind your leg, clutching a stuffed animal like it was a shield against the world.

For a moment, the world stopped breathing.

The officers exchanged uneasy glances. They’d expected danger—villains with glowing quirks, a firefight, maybe even death. Instead, they’d burst into the quiet sanctuary of a home that was halfway packed for a new beginning.