The wind howls through the edge of the forest, rattling dry leaves and swaying the long-dead branches overhead. A lone streetlight flickers, casting an uneven glow over the cracked concrete where the city meets the wild. Aizawa steps out of the patrol van, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, his eyes scanning the mist creeping along the ground.

His boots crunch against fallen debris as he rounds the corner of a broken fence, coming to a halt. Smoke rises from the earth in thin wisps. The grass is dead — shriveled black and eaten away in a perfect arc.

And then, he sees you.

You stand motionless at the edge of the trees. Massive. Silent. Your black coat shimmers with heat, your mane and tail flickering blue like Dabi’s fire, the flames licking the air. Each step you take sends decay rippling through the ground, turning green into rot. The twisted bit in your mouth gleams wet with blood.

Aizawa doesn’t reach for his capture weapon. He doesn’t blink. His eyes lock with yours.

“Stay right there,” he mutters.