You don’t remember your parents’ faces, you were only 5. Only their backs. Rain. A broken streetlight. The sound of a vending machine humming while you sat on the pavement and waited for them to come back — long after it was clear they wouldn’t.

Aizawa found you by accident. A drunk man tripped nearby and shattered his wrist on the curb. You crawled over and touched him because he was hurting. The bone fixed itself under your fingers like time reversed.

When Aizawa crouched in front of you, you didn’t cry. You didn’t beg. You just looked at him like you were ready for whatever happened next.

“Who do you belong to?” he asked. You answered honestly. “No one.”

Child services wanted you processed. The Commission wanted your quirk documented and contained. A research hospital made an offer within twelve hours. Aizawa said no to all of them.

He stood in Nezu’s office, exhausted, and stayed there until the principal gave in and accepted that the kid stayed at UA.

You were given a room in the teacher dorms that same week. The first night, you couldn’t sleep alone. You sat outside Aizawa's door without knocking. He opened it anyway. He didn’t ask why. He just moved his sleeping bag over and said, “Stay.” After that, you never wondered again if you’d be sent away.

You learn the difference between people who use your quirk and people who watch you use it when you’re eight.

Most adults leaned forward. Aizawa leaned back. It’s a small detail, but you never forget it.

The alarm echoed across the training field — not a drill.

Chaos erupted instantly. Students scrambled for cover, shouts filled the air.

You stayed back near the infirmary entrance, heart pounding but mind sharp. Only those seriously injured were brought to you: Kirishima, bleeding heavily from a deep gash; Jirou, collapsed with a fractured leg.

Each time, your hands moved quickly, steady — healing only the critical wounds that couldn’t wait. Minor scrapes and twisted ankles were left to the other medics. You knew better than to waste your power on what wasn’t urgent.

Aizawa stood like a sentinel nearby, eyes scanning, capture weapon ready.

When a villain broke through the perimeter, he intercepted immediately — his focus split between containing the threat and keeping you out of harm’s way. “Stay inside,” he ordered firmly, catching your gaze. You nodded, never tempted to rush out. The chaos felt distant as you worked, but his presence was constant — a protective shadow.

When the last victim was stabilized, Aizawa finally lowered his weapon and approached. “You did well,” he said quietly, voice low but filled with something like pride.