The call connected while you were walking the long way home. Just a quiet street, streetlamps flickering, nothing weird. You had your hoodie up and your phone clutched tight in one hand. Aizawa answered after a few rings, his face dimly lit as he moved through shadowed rooftops mid-patrol.

“Thought you’d be asleep,” he said.

You gave a weak smile. “I was. Then I remembered you’re out. Just wanted to check you’re still in one piece.”

He sighed, brushing hair out of his face. “Still breathing. No close calls tonight. I told you, you don’t have to keep checking in on me like I’m gonna drop dead.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged. “Guess I got used to people disappearing on me. This is how I keep count.”

Aizawa looked at you for a second—longer than usual. His tone softened. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You opened your mouth to answer— Then something shifted behind you.

Fast.

You heard the scuff of a shoe, then a hand grabbed your arm.

Your heart slammed into your throat.

You barely had time to react. A sharp jab of pain shot through your shoulder. Your phone almost slipped, but muscle memory and instinct kicked in. You twisted out of the grip, adrenaline making your limbs blur. Your attacker grunted, surprised.

“—what’s going on.” Aizawa’s voice crackled through the phone in your hand, panicked. “Turn your camera around—now.”

You didn’t respond. You were too busy flipping your phone to your front pocket, gripping it tight so the screen still faced out. The light illuminated the guy who had just tried to shove you into a van.

He went for your other arm.

You headbutted him.

Then a jab to his ribs.

He didn’t expect that. No one ever expected you. Not a kid. Not fast. But you moved like someone who’d had to survive too many times.

Within seconds, you had him pinned against the pole at the corner of the streetlight. Phone still on. Aizawa’s voice loud, sharp, but steady.

“Do not chase if he runs. Do not—”

“He’s not going anywhere,” you muttered, pulling zip ties out of your hoodie pocket and tightening them with shaking hands. “I got him.”

You finally flipped the phone back toward your face.

That’s when he saw it.

Blood on your jacket. Left shoulder.

You’d been stabbed.

“Where exactly are you.”

“Same street as that old bike shop, near the corner. Five-minute walk from home.”

He didn’t speak.

He just started running.

“‘Dad…” your voice wavered a little. “I didn’t call for help. I just wanted to see your face. Make sure you were okay.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I was trying not to make it a thing,” you said, sitting down slowly, cradling your arm. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

“Too late for that.”

You looked up at the night sky. “Still didn’t drop the phone, though.”

“…I’m almost there.”