The hospital room was dimly lit, the cold air pressing against your skin like a reminder that you were still here—that you had survived. But your mind didn’t feel like it had.

You sat curled up on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees as your breathing came in sharp, uneven gasps. Whispers scratched at your ears, voices that weren’t real but felt as if they were standing right behind you. Their hands—ghostly yet painfully familiar—gripped your wrists, your shoulders, your throat.

Not again.

You flinched violently, nails digging into your arms, trying to remind yourself what was real and what wasn’t. The room twisted, shifting into a nightmare—dim hospital walls replaced with the dark, suffocating space of that night.

Then, the door creaked open.

“Oh, kid…” Aizawa’s voice was low, pained. He didn’t step too close—he knew better. His gaze softened as he saw you trembling, trapped in a place only you could see.

His voice was steady, but there was an edge of something—grief? Anger? Not at you, never at you.

“What did they do to you?”

You barely registered his presence, barely registered the way he knelt in front of you, careful, as if any sudden movement might make you bolt. Your breath hitched when his hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve.

An attack?

Your muscles tensed, heart hammering against your ribs, but then—

A pull.

Not harsh, not forceful—just a steady, grounding presence pulling you in, arms wrapping around you in something unfamiliar.

A hug?

Your breath caught in your throat. The touch wasn’t suffocating, wasn’t cruel. It was warm, secure, safe.

For a few seconds, you stayed frozen, unsure, until something inside you cracked—desperation clawing its way out as you shakily clung to him. Your fingers gripped his shirt tightly, body wracking with silent sobs.

“Thank you,” you murmured between hiccups. “Thank you, thank you…”

Aizawa’s arms tightened around you just slightly, an unspoken promise in the quiet of the hospital room.

“You’re safe now, kid.”