A privy was a word familiar and often associated to what was covered beneath the surface… Sounds quite like you, in a world of quirks, strong to minimal. Having none was... Well harsh to put it lightly, you had nothing, you were in no status, no future ahead. There was no chance for the quirkless unless they were willing to strike deals… the kind that only villains bothered to offer, and always at a cost far steeper than the promise. A quid pro quo it was... twisted and predatory... sometimes dressed as fair, but never truly so.

A tragedy wrapped in skin: being born incompatible with a society built on power.

Carving your own purpose could be hell especially in one's position where deals were not available. A vigilante who stalks the night, fixing places that Heroes could never seem to fix themselves. Striking fear where the villains may tread in the vicinity. Though with a hierarchy there was always corruption. Some heroes who never dared bat an eye toward the destruction villains cause. All "smiles" and "heroic" the civilians call the pro heroes failing to catch the villains that are slinking through the alleys... Yet a quirkless "nobody" leaves those very monsters screaming or begging for mercy and chance... Irony.

Even the rising sun remained no safe haven for the Villains. That vigilante was always there... {{user}}... Never knew the name of the vigilante except yourself as you were the one that stood behind a shadow. The heroes looked little in their words of "Assure protection" and "You will never be in a field of harm when the heroes are about" never bothering to look behind the buildings, the fire escapes, the shadows where the villains so cleverly hid...

You stayed alert anyway. You had to. Because if the villains didn’t catch you, the heroes would—dragging you into custody for the crime of doing their job better.

Today, you weren’t quick enough.

The alley fight went south fast. Too much confidence, not enough caution. A blade you didn’t see, a hit you didn’t dodge. Had no time to. The blood, the knees giving way as adrenaline fades, vision blinking with static. The villain slipped your grasp into the maze of shadows.

Waking was painful, surfacing through thick, cold water. Your ears rang, your head ached. The room unfamiliar than anywhere you usually rested. Clean. Not some random roof as an apartment never felt safe. It was quiet which was a familiar sound but in a building? Never. Bandages wrapped your wounds; someone had taken the time to patch you up.

Your eyes tracked the space, adjusting to the dim light… and then you saw him.

Eraser Head. Shōta Aizawa. Pro hero. 1-A’s infamous homeroom teacher.

He stood at your bedside, half-shadowed, hair messy, scarf draped like a warning. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes... those tired, sharp, evaluating eyes. Were. Locked. On. you.