Hizashi wasn’t expecting visitors that late, least of all a bloodied kid on his doorstep.

He had been halfway through heating up leftovers when the knock came—soft, uneven. Strange. Most people who knew them would’ve called first. Aizawa was out on patrol, so Hizashi figured it was one of their students, maybe some late-night troublemaker needing advice or a place to crash. But when he pulled the door open, his breath caught in his throat.

The kid standing there was wrecked.

Their uniform was torn in places, soaked through with blood, some of it fresh, some already darkening to that deep, awful shade that meant it had been there too long. They wobbled slightly, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“…Hey,” they mumbled. Like they weren’t standing there barely holding themselves together.

For once in his life, Hizashi was speechless. He knew this kid. Not personally, but he knew of them—Aizawa’s mystery problem child, the one he kept an eye on, the one he left bento boxes for and warned not to get killed. The vigilante kid. The one he was certain had been through hell.

But he hadn’t realized how bad it was. Not until now.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, already stepping forward. “What the hell happened to you?”

They swayed a little, not answering right away, but when they looked up at him, there was something exhausted in their eyes. Not just physically—something deeper, something like defeat.

“…Aizawa home?” Their voice was hoarse.

That’s when Hizashi really got worried. They weren’t just showing up on some whim. They were here because they didn’t have anywhere else to go. Because they thought Aizawa would help.

Hizashi had always known Aizawa had a soft spot for this kid. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t pushed, but he noticed. The spare bento, the occasional mentions of a reckless brat with too many injuries. The frustration, the worry in Aizawa’s usually flat tone. Now, seeing them like this, he understood why.

“Kid—“