The train station pulses with life—people moving in tight waves, brushing shoulders, talking too loud, not talking at all. Neon lights flicker overhead, vending machines sing their cheap songs, and Aizawa moves through it like a shadow pulled from the edge of a bad dream.

Hood up. Scarf tucked. Eyes half-lidded with that same exhausted sharpness.

Then—

A shift.

Just the faintest pressure. A tug at his coat.

Fingers brush the inside of his pocket.

Before you even register the movement, his hand snaps back with coiled precision. His fingers lock tight around your wrist. Bone to bone. Pressure like steel disguised in cloth.

He doesn’t look.

Not right away.

Then, slowly, his head turns. His gaze falls to your arm, then climbs—measured and ice-flat.

“No,” he says, voice dry as sand. “Wrong target.”

The crowd flows around you both, oblivious. Someone laughs nearby.

His grip doesn’t loosen.

“I don’t carry a wallet. Just traps.”

His eyes finally meet yours.