Aizawa walked into the dimly lit apartment, his steps heavy, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders. The familiar scent of home—faintly smelling of laundry detergent and coffee—did little to ease the turmoil in his chest. His eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were dull, staring vacantly at the floor as he removed his boots with slow, robotic movements.

He had just found out. The person he thought had died, the friend he mourned for years, Oboro, had been right there—manipulated, used, but alive, in a twisted sense. The image of Oboro's face, warped by something darker and less human, flashed in his mind again. His heart twisted painfully.

He dropped his hero gear by the door, letting the scarf slump in a heap. He was tired—beyond tired—but there was no rest in sight, not tonight. The door creaked slightly as he closed it behind him, and the sound felt louder in the oppressive silence of the apartment.

You heard the door and immediately knew something was off. The usual subtle sound of Aizawa’s return was missing. Instead, everything about his entrance screamed exhaustion—more than just physical. His presence felt... hollow.

you called softly, peeking around the corner to see him standing in the entrance, his head down, shoulders slumped. He didn’t answer. His silence was thick, almost suffocating.

Concern flooding your chest, you walked over, your steps careful but quick. You could see the tension in his frame, the way his hand lingered too long at the door, as if anchoring himself there.

you called out for him again, more gently

"Oboro... he..." His voice was rough, raw. He stopped, biting down hard on whatever words were threatening to spill out. He didn't want to say it—didn't want to admit the horror of what he'd learned.