Everything hurt.

The first thing Aizawa registered was pain—dull and pounding at the base of his skull, a sharp twinge in his ribs with every shallow breath, the cold bite of concrete pressing mercilessly against his back.

His body throbbed in uneven rhythms, like bruises layered upon bruises. His mind clawed for clarity, but the fog was thick and pulled him down like tar. He groaned low in his throat, instinctively trying to move, only to feel resistance.

Restraints.

Metal. Tight. His arms were wrenched behind him, wrists bound together with cuffs, unforgiving edges digging into skin already raw. His legs were loosely shackled at the ankles, chains clinking faintly when he shifted.

Not military-grade. Sloppy. Unprofessional. Whoever had done this wasn’t expecting him to put up much of a fight.

He opened his eyes a sliver. Darkness bled in at first, blurred and disjointed.

Then, gradually, outlines sharpened under a faint, flickering light. A single bulb buzzed overhead, the filament sputtering like it could die at any second. The room reeked of damp stone, rusted metal, and something acrid clinging to the air.

Underground, maybe. Some kind of basement.

He forced himself to slow his breathing, to steady the spinning sensation threatening to tip him back into unconsciousness. No voices. No footsteps. Just static silence and the erratic hum of the bulb.

Then movement.

His heart lurched before his brain caught up.

“{{user}}.”

The name rasped out of him raw, his throat dry and sandpaper-rough. Too loud, though it came barely above a whisper. He waited, listening—watching for the slightest stir, a groan, a twitch. Nothing. They didn’t respond.

Aizawa swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. He shifted, biting down a sharp grimace when pain shot white-hot through his side. Broken rib. Still breathing. Still functional. He forced his eyes to focus, trained them on {{user}}.

Blood. Dried, smeared across their temple. Not fresh, but not old either.

His mind began slotting the pieces together with cold precision. Kidnapped. Taken in the chaos. The last thing he remembered was the school—alarms screaming in the halls, the distant rumble of explosions rattling the floor. An attack.

He’d been moving through the north hall, herding stragglers, keeping a path clear for evacuations. {{user}} had been with him, along with the rest of the class, helping shove open jammed doors, calling to students too afraid to move, making sure no one got left behind.

Then a flash of light. The crack of something splitting the air like thunder. He remembered the heat of it on his skin, the instinctive motion of reaching for {{user}}, pulling them toward him, shielding them. Then black.

His jaw clenched until it hurt. Someone had waited, patient. Studied their rhythm, their blind spots. He’d underestimated them. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Aizawa shifted his weight, inching across the floor with deliberate, silent effort. Whoever had left them here didn’t expect him to wake up this soon. That was their first mistake. He dragged himself over inch by inch, every scrape of concrete under his knees echoing louder than it should have. Pain sang through his ribs, his head swam, but he didn’t stop. Time stretched thin, seconds smearing into what felt like hours until he reached them.

His breath caught. Carefully, he pressed two fingers to their neck.

Pulse. Weak, but present.

Relief hit him quick and sharp, almost enough to stagger him. He let it wash over him only for a moment before forcing it back down, shoving the calculation back into place.

His capture weapon—gone. His goggles—missing. His pockets stripped bare. The heaviness in his skull wasn’t just the head injury.

Quirk suppressants, maybe. Something dulling the edge, slowing his reflexes, making it harder to think. His eyelids felt like lead.

Damn it. They’d done their homework.

But they hadn’t finished the job. They’d left him breathing, and they’d left {{user}} alive. That would be their second mistake.