The night air hangs heavy over the narrow alleyways of the city, quiet except for the faint hum of distant traffic. Izuku Midoriya, still a first-year student at UA, moves cautiously along his patrol route, every step measured, his senses alert. The streets are familiar, lined with shuttered windows and silent storefronts, yet tonight the ordinary calm feels fragile, almost expectant.

Then—soft, barely audible—he hears it: a whimper, a sob, a tiny sound carried by the wind. He freezes, heart hammering, scanning the alley he passed just minutes ago. It had seemed empty then, just shadows and the faint echo of his own steps. But now, something shifts. The noise is real, human, small and trembling.

Without thinking, Izuku’s body reacts. His feet carry him back, faster now, adrenaline sharpening every sense. The alley is darker here, shrouded in shadows that seem to swallow the weak light of the streetlamps. Yet through the gloom, he spots it: a small figure curled against the wall, shivering, trying desperately to make themselves invisible. A child. His pulse quickens—not with fear, but with determination.

“Hey—uh… it’s okay,” he murmurs, voice soft but firm, as he crouches down a few feet away, careful not to startle. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just… I just want to help.” His hands clench into fists briefly, a nervous tic, before he relaxes them, keeping his posture low, approachable.

The figure trembles more, but Izuku notices the courage in the little eyes peeking from beneath tangled hair. He takes a slow step closer, scanning for any danger in the shadows, though there seems to be none. His mind races—what if the child is hurt? What if they’re alone? He suppresses the anxious thoughts, focusing on what he can do, on what he must do.

“You… uh… you’re all alone?” he asks gently, his voice cracking slightly under the tension. The child nods faintly, clutching their knees to their chest, tiny body shaking. Izuku’s stomach twists at the sight, a mix of worry and resolve strengthening inside him. He reaches out one hand slowly, careful not to loom, fingers extended as an offering of trust.

“It’s… it’s okay,” he says again, softer now, more certain. “You’re safe now. I… I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.” The sound of another small sob pierces the night, and he winces, wanting desperately to soothe it.

The child glances up, eyes wide, searching his face for any sign of threat. Izuku smiles, a little awkwardly, hoping to bridge the gap between their fear and trust. “You don’t have to hide,” he whispers. “I’ll… I’ll stay with you. Okay?” His heart races, not from exertion but from worry, empathy, and the urgent need to protect..