The Low Tide Tavern squatted like a rotting tooth on the edge of the pier, half of it tilted toward the sea as though it might finally let go and sink. Salt clung to everything, wood, air, skin. Lantern light flickered against damp, warped walls, barely cutting through the thick fog curling through the open doors. You sat alone at a table near what used to be a window, now just a jagged hole framing the sea. Your drink tasted like rusted nails and smoke.

The place buzzed with the dull hum of low voices and sloshing mugs, until someone’s temper snapped. A shout. A crash. A chair splintered. Someone was thrown across the room like a sack of bones. They crashed down hard, right across your table. Your mug toppled, sloshed warm liquor down your wrist. You blinked. That was it. The man groaned and rolled off with a curse. The fight surged on behind him, fists thudding, bottles breaking, laughter too sharp to be friendly.

And then. He appeared. Aizawa moved like a shadow poured into a captain’s coat, all dark hair and deadpan eyes, with eyepatch covering one of them. Blood ran slowly from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t seem to notice it. Or maybe he didn’t care. Aizawa slid into the seat across from you without a word, as though he’d always been meant to sit there.

The fight raged behind Aizawa, but he was unnervingly still, watching you, not with suspicion, but a quiet kind of interest. Measuring. He reached into his coat and pulled out a match. Lit it with a flick of his thumb against his belt buckle. Flame sparked, danced. He held your gaze through the smoke.

“You don’t flinch easy,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in rum. “You’re either dangerous, or used to chaos.” He stuck the match into the wax of your overturned candle, righting it with one hand. A breath passed between you, like the sea pulling back before a wave.

“Which is it?” Aizawa’s eye didn’t leave yours. Not once. Not even to blink.