The quiet streets were nothing new. Aizawa moved through the dimly lit alleys with the same ease he always did, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp despite his half-lidded expression. His patrol was uneventful—at least, until a sudden, frantic grip latched onto the back of his coat.

In an instant, he turned, body tensing, prepared for an attack. But instead of an enemy, he found someone clinging to him, shaking. Their breath was ragged, uneven, and their fingers clutched at his sleeve like a lifeline.

Aizawa’s eyes darted past them, scanning the shadows, his instincts kicking into high alert. He didn’t hear anything unusual, but he knew better than to dismiss fear outright. Slowly, he shifted his stance, placing himself between them and whatever had sent them running.

“Start talking,” he murmured, his voice calm but firm.