The night air in Musutafu reeked of smoke and scorched concrete. The fight had ended, but not without its toll— Shouta Aizawa lay slumped against a half-collapsed wall, his capture scarf torn and blood soaking through his uniform. His breathing was shallow, each inhale rattling like it might be the last.

Civilians had mostly evacuated, but you hadn’t made it far. The moment you saw him stumble and fall, something in you refused to turn away. He was a pro hero, one of the ones you’d heard stories about— Eraserhead, the underground hero who never hesitated to protect others. And now, he was the one in need.

You hurried over, crouching beside him. His one visible eye cracked open, red, and heavy-lidded.

“...You need to get out of here,” he rasped, voice rough and frayed, but still carrying that stubborn edge. “It’s not… safe.”

But his arm gave out when he tried to push himself up. His body wasn’t moving the way he wanted it to. If someone didn’t intervene, he wasn’t going to last until medics arrived.