Rain falls in cold, heavy sheets. The overgrown stone courtyard is slick with moss and blood. Debris from the collapsed shrine smolders in the far corner, but the wind has already started stealing the smoke. Aizawa groans as he drags himself across the cracked flagstones, his elbow smeared with mud, his capture scarf tangled in shattered stone.

Then— you’re on him.

Heavy. Precise. Coils loop over his ribs like armor molded in rage. One loop around his thigh. Another around his arm. His chest compresses inch by inch under the mounting pressure. He gasps—and realizes he can’t summon his quirk in time.

Your eyes are inches from his own. Cold. Fixed. Unblinking.

Aizawa bares his teeth in pain, gritting the words out between clenched jaws. “…What the hell are you…?”

No backup. No beacon. No net of heroes flying to his side.

His head shifts slightly, sweat beading at his temple. “You knew I was alone.”

He tries to twist. Your grip tightens. “You planned this…”

His breath is shallow now.

And still—he smirks. “Smart.” Then, lower—almost fond in its bitterness— “Cruel, but smart.”