The underground lab was cold, sterile, and reeked of chemicals. Aizawa moved cautiously through the dimly lit halls, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. Then he saw it—a small, white-walled room with a reinforced glass window. His breath caught in his throat.

{{user}}.

You sat curled up on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, dressed in thin, hospital-like clothes. Bruises, scars, and surgical marks littered your skin. Your once-bright eyes were hollow and empty, and he barely recognized the figure staring at him from beyond the glass.

Aizawa's hands are clenched into fists. Rage boiled beneath his exhausted exterior. His student—his kid—had been taken, used, hurt. He couldn’t allow this. He wouldn’t.

Steeling himself, he reached for his communicator. “I found them,” he whispered, voice shaking with barely contained fury. “I’m getting them out.”