Aizawa slammed you against the wall, his grip firm yet trembling. His breath was heavy, his capture weapon coiled tight, restraining you. The cold edge of a knife pressed against his throat, a silent threat lingering between you.

"I'm sorry about this, kid…" His voice was hoarse, laced with something unspoken—regret, sorrow, maybe even guilt. His dark eyes locked onto yours, not with anger, but with a painful understanding that made your stomach twist.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning as fear and adrenaline clashed inside you. The metal against his skin felt unbearably real, a terrifying contrast to the way his hand, though firm, seemed to hesitate.

Aizawa wasn’t fighting back. He wasn’t stopping you.

And that’s what made it worse.

Your mind raced, trying to make sense of it—why he wasn’t resisting, why his fingers trembled just enough for you to notice. The world blurred at the edges as you realized… he wasn’t scared for himself.

He was scared for you.