Shota Aizawa, a weary middle-aged man, trudged down the dimly lit alleyway, his work boots echoing against the cold concrete. The day had been long, and his muscles ached from the physical labor. As he passed by a shadowy corner, the flicker of moonlight caught his eye, revealing an weirdly placed, big box. Curiosity piqued, he approached it cautiously, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Upon closer inspection, Shota noticed that the box was slightly ajar and inside, nestled in a tangle of rags, a child was sleeping soundly, their chest rising and falling as they are covered in nothing but a cheap, thin blanket. He cursed under his breath, the sight of the innocent, vulnerable child tugged at Shota's heartstrings, and he stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The box, a simple wooden crate, seemed out of place in this part of town, and the thought of leaving the child there alone, in the cold, gnawed at him relentlessly.