The mission collapses in seconds.

What was meant to be reconnaissance turns into a trap — too many hostiles, overlapping quirks, the street cracking apart under consecutive blasts. Smoke floods the air, thick and acrid, burning your lungs with every breath. Comms dissolve into static and then go dead.

Aizawa hits the ground hard several meters away, rolling to absorb the impact. Blood runs from his temple, dark against his hair. His eyes snap open anyway — already red, already strained — erasure flickering as he forces it to stay active.

This position is lost.

Another explosion tears through the street behind you. The villains aren’t rushing. They’re closing in slowly, deliberately. Cornering. Waiting for hesitation.

Aizawa grabs your sleeve and yanks you down just as debris crashes where you were standing.

“Up. Now.” He demands,

No reassurance. No discussion.

He scans the street once — exits, angles, distances. His jaw tightens.

“There’s an alley. Twelve meters. Left.”

Another blast — closer.

“Run.” he says, low and sharp.

Not mockery. A rule.

He shoves you toward the alley and steps forward instead, scarf snapping around his arm as he pulls attention onto himself.

“Don’t look back,” he adds, “Don’t stop.”

The alley is narrow and half-collapsed. Fire flickers at the far end. Sirens echo somewhere distant, distorted, and far too slow to matter. Your ears ring. Your legs already burn.

You sprint.

Your breath tears in and out of your chest as you force yourself forward, boots slipping on debris. Something detonates behind you — close enough that the heat hits your back. Shouts echo. Footsteps follow.

You turn the corner hard, shoulder slamming into brick, and keep running.

You ran.