All Aizawa could think in that moment was fuck.

The shot had come out of nowhere, sharp and merciless, cracking through the air before he even had time to react. His eyes snapped to the source just in time to see the faint gleam of a rifle barrel disappearing into shadow, the figure of masked person already retreating into the distance. Dust curled in their wake, settling like ash on the ruined pavement.

But none of that mattered. Not compared to the sight in front of him.

His student—his responsibility—was on the ground, their body twitching where they had collapsed not ten feet away. He felt the blood drain from his face as he bolted toward them, scarf whipping violently at his side. The bullet hadn’t been metal. He’d seen it shatter on impact, the glass splintering like a vial against their skin.

A vial full of something vile.

Green liquid clung to their collar, streaking down the side of their neck in unnatural rivulets. Even from here, he recognized the color. His stomach dropped.

Trigger.

The quirk-enhancing drug that turned people into unstable weapons. He’d dealt with its fallout before—citizens whose powers had spiraled beyond their control, their bodies ravaged by surges they were never meant to sustain. But this vial wasn’t the same green he remembered. There had been something else in it. A flicker of blue, a shimmer like oil on water. A variant. Something new. Something worse.

And it was in his student.

He hit the ground beside them, knees scraping against the rough concrete, reaching out to steady them before the chemical could finish spreading through their system. “Stay with me,” he ordered, voice low and firm, every word pulled taut with urgency. His hand landed on their shoulder— —and he was thrown back.

Not pushed. Not shoved. Thrown.

The blast of force came off their body in a violent pulse, like a detonation of raw power. It hurled him across the pavement, the breath knocked from his lungs as he skidded to a halt several feet away. His scarf lashed instinctively, anchoring against a nearby lamp post so he didn’t slam into a wall.

Aizawa’s breath came ragged, his eyes narrowing as he forced himself back upright. His student hadn’t even stood yet, and already their power was bleeding out of them in volatile waves, the air crackling and distorting under its weight.

Something was wrong.

Trigger was supposed to amplify quirks, yes—but this was different. Their body jerked unnaturally, veins lit faintly beneath their skin as though carrying electric fire. The whites of their eyes had gone bloodshot, their pupils dilated to pinpricks. Foam gathered faintly at the corner of their lips as their chest heaved with rapid, animalistic breaths.

And worse—they weren’t looking at him like their teacher anymore.

They were looking at him like prey.

Aizawa’s throat tightened. His capture scarf shifted, ready, every muscle coiled. His quirk burned behind his eyes as he locked his gaze on them, erasure sparking to life. He couldn’t hesitate. Couldn’t let the drug finish its work and push them past the point of no return.

But the moment his power took hold, their body convulsed violently. The quirk suppression hit them like a seizure, ripping the strength from their limbs, forcing their body to rebel. They hit the ground harder, snarling, clawing against the pavement like an animal trying to break out of a trap.

“Damn it,” he hissed under his breath. If he kept his eyes on them, he might break them before the drug did. But if he blinked—if he faltered even for a moment—the backlash could level the entire block.

And as he stood there, straining to hold his gaze steady, Aizawa realized something bone-deep and cold: if this drug didn’t burn itself out soon, if it pushed them just one step further past the line—he wouldn’t be able to save them.