The TV hadn’t even shown the worst of it.

But you had seen enough.

The way he fell. The blood. The moment he realized.

It was a Quirk-Destroying Bullet. One of those rare, unforgiving ones that heroes only whispered about during war meetings and emergency drills.

And when it hit him—

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t scream.

He took out his own knife and cut through the skin, the muscle, the bone, before the serum could reach his bloodstream.

You had to pause the news stream.

You had to breathe.

But now?

Now you were here.

In a sterile hospital room lit by humming fluorescent lights, curled up in a chair beside the man who raised you. Or tried to.

Your hand hovered beside his. Bandaged. Bruised.

Not shaking—yet.

He looked too pale. Too still. Like he hadn’t been stitched back together right.

Hizashi sat a few feet away, coat folded in his lap, watching you without watching too hard.

“I don’t get it,” you said, voice brittle. “Why did he do it that fast?”

Hizashi sighed. Not like he didn’t want to explain, but like the words weighed too much.

“Because he knew what that bullet did,” he said. “And he knew if he lost his Quirk, he couldn’t protect anyone. Couldn’t protect you.”

Your eyes didn’t leave the bed.

“…I haven’t talked to him in five years.”

“He knew where you were.”

You swallowed.

“He could’ve sent a letter. Anything.”

“He did.” Hizashi reached into the paper bag by the chair. “He just never sent them.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Dozens of them. Dumb little scraps. Full pages. One of them literally says: ‘I bought too much soba and thought of you.’”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So you did neither.

“…When did he write them?”

“After he stepped back,” Hizashi said gently. “Especially after missions. When he missed you most. He kept them all.”

You stared at the bag. At the folded scarf, still tucked between the letters. And you thought about how he’d looked on screen—drenched in blood, teeth gritted, knife in hand. And you thought about how they said it was instant.

The bullet hit.

He cut.

Not for himself. Not just for the mission.

He did it so he could keep fighting.

So he could stay useful. Stay standing. Stay able.

And even unconscious, here in this bed, he still looked like he was bracing for something.

You sat back, clutching the scarf.

And whispered:

“He thought about me first.”

Hizashi didn’t move. But his voice came softer.

“Yeah.”

“Even after fifteen years.”

“Especially after fifteen years.”

You stared down at your own fingers—gripping the threads like they were lifelines.

“…I hated him,” you admitted. “I hated that he left when I was ten.”

“I know.”

“But I never stopped hoping he’d come back.”

Hizashi stood slowly. “He did, kid.”

You looked up.

And then back at Aizawa—pale, worn, unmoving.