The narrow alley was eerily quiet, save for the sound of distant sirens. Shouta Aizawa’s phone buzzed repeatedly in his pocket, but each notification made his chest tighten.

“Still no response,” he muttered under his breath. His texts to you—short, simple: “Are you home yet?” “Training run late?” “Call me.”

But the only reply was silence.

He hated how the anxiety crawled under his skin, a feeling so foreign yet so painfully vivid now. He hadn’t wanted to take you in at first—who could blame him? His work was dangerous, his life solitary. Yet, over time, you had become a part of the rhythm of his days. Your quiet determination reminded him of himself as a student, and your respect for his boundaries, even while living under the same roof, chipped away at his reluctance. Now, he couldn’t imagine coming home without hearing your soft “Welcome back, Sensei.”

But tonight, something was wrong.

The last thing you’d said to him was, “Don’t wait up, Sensei. I’ll be late after training.” Except training wasn’t supposed to take this long. And you always responded.

Aizawa’s fingers tightened around his phone as he dialed for the fifth time. The unanswered ringtone sent a chill through him. He hated overthinking, but every instinct screamed at him that something had happened.

When his phone buzzed with a notification, his heart jumped—only to sink when it wasn’t you. It was from the Pro-Hero network. “Villain activity reported near Musutafu streets. Civilians injured.”

The location matched the path you usually took.

Dropping all pretense of calm, Aizawa bolted out of the office. His scarf whipped behind him as he made his way to the scene. He tried rationalizing—villain attacks were common, maybe you’d taken a different route, maybe you were still at the gym. But the moment he turned into the darkened alley, he saw it: the faint glow of a shattered phone screen lying on the pavement.