It came in as a priority dispatch.

The kind that cuts through every other frequency, shrill and merciless.

Aizawa had just wrapped patrol, fatigue running quiet and familiar in his bones. He’d been halfway through the paperwork he didn’t want to do when the alert came through his earpiece—a tone, then a voice he didn’t recognize. Too calm. Too professional. The kind that only sounded like that when something was very wrong.

“Eraserhead, this is Command. We need you to confirm—your the emergency contact for {{user}}, correct?”

The room seemed to narrow.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, hand frozen above the desk. His heartbeat didn’t spike—it just got heavier, slower, dragging through him like wet concrete.

“Repeat, Command,” he said finally, voice steady. Flat. His throat felt dry.

“Your partner’s team was ambushed during a pursuit in the East District. Medical units are on-site. They’re being transported now.” A pause, soft static. “We recommend you head to the scene immediately.”

That was all they said. That was all they ever said.

He didn’t remember leaving the room. Just the sound of his own footsteps echoing too loud in the corridor, the feel of the cold night air when he hit the street. His capture weapon was still looped around his neck, goggles shoved up in his hair, half his gear forgotten. It didn’t matter. He moved fast, faster than he should’ve, the world a smear of headlights and sirens in his periphery.

When he turned the final corner, the scene was chaos.

Emergency lights painted the pavement in blue and red. News vans already lined the block, cameras tilting like vultures. A crowd of reporters pressed against the barricades, their voices a mess of questions that blurred into static.

“Pro Hero Eraserhead, can you comment—?, Is it true your spouse was among the injured—?, Do you have a statement—?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at them. The patrol units on-site recognized him and stepped aside without a word.

The air smelled of smoke and metal and antiseptic. There’d been an explosion somewhere inside the building—a warehouse, judging from the collapsed siding and twisted scaffolding. Paramedics moved in patterns of practiced urgency. Someone shouted for plasma. Another called for stabilization.

He spotted them before his brain could process it—

{{user}}, or what was left of them between the flashing lights and medical staff. Uniform torn through one sleeve, blood drying along their collar, skin pale under the harsh light. They were conscious, barely. Their breathing uneven, forced. A paramedic was saying something about internal bleeding. Another mentioned concussion protocol.

For a moment, Aizawa just stood there. The noise around him seemed to drop out—no voices, no sirens, no movement. Just that one sound: the faint rasp of {{user}}’s breath through an oxygen mask.

Then he moved.

“Eraserhead, you can’t—” one of the responders started, but stopped when they saw his face. There was nothing dramatic in his expression. Just focus—sharp and quiet, the kind that left no room for argument.

He crouched beside the stretcher, eyes scanning over {{user}} with the precision of habit. He didn’t speak right away. His hand found theirs, steady and deliberate, thumb brushing over the cold skin of their knuckles. Their pulse fluttered weakly beneath his touch.

“Hey,” he said, low. It was almost a whisper, the kind of tone he only used when he forgot other people existed. “You with me?”

Their eyelids shifted, slow. A sound—not a word, but close enough.

He exhaled. It wasn’t relief. Not yet.

The paramedic gave him a rundown—fractured ribs, head trauma, possible internal damage—but Aizawa wasn’t really listening. His attention was fixed on {{user}}’s breathing, the small stutter every few seconds that made his chest feel heavier.

“Transport’s ready,” someone called.

Aizawa nodded once, still holding their hand as they were lifted into the ambulance. The doors stayed open just long enough for him to climb in after them.