The fight had pushed into open ground—a half-destroyed city block from a prior evacuation drill. Class 1-A was surrounded, holding the perimeter, and both teachers were stretched thin.

Aizawa was front-line, scanning through enemies, disabling quirks left and right with practiced precision. {{user}}, his long-time colleague, was off to the side, supporting the students directly. Watching everything.

That’s when they saw it.

A lone figure emerging from behind an overturned bus—fast, calm, with a rifle that didn’t belong on this battlefield.

They knew what it was before the villain even raised it.

“Shota—” they called.

Aizawa turned just a little.

Too late.

One step.

The bullet hit just under their ribs. No flash. No pain—just that feeling. Like something slipping out of your chest. A sudden wrongness.

Aizawa's eyes caught the movement too late—but his voice came sharp.

“What was that?”

They exhaled slowly. “Quirk-erasing round.”

The world didn’t stop. But something did.

Aizawa stared. Eyes narrowed behind the goggles.

“...Permanent?”

They didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah.”

That was it.

Just yeah.

But Aizawa stepped closer, his scarf still coiled and ready, like some part of him was refusing to process it fully. His voice dropped low, quieter than the chaos around them.

“You could’ve let it hit me.”

“No,” {{user}} said. “I couldn’t.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t say thank you, or why, or what the hell were you thinking. That wasn’t how they worked.

"You drop, we lose this whole fight. Kids lose their footing. It was the obvious play.”

For a second—just a second—Aizawa looked at them. Really looked. Eyes harder than usual. Not angry. Just heavy.

“I’ll fix it,” he said, almost to himself. “We’ll fix it. I’ll talk to Recovery Girl. To Nezu. To Eri.”

Don’t waste her rewind on me,” they replied evenly. “We save that for one of them.” They glanced toward Class 1-A. “We’re already old.”

Aizawa clenched his jaw. “You’re not done yet.”

“Guess we’ll see.”