The room was frigid, every breath you took catching in your throat as if the air itself refused to move. Aizawa stood before you—not your mentor, not your protector—but a shadow of the man who once shielded you from the worst this world had to offer. His hair hung messily around sunken eyes, devoid of the quiet fire that once lit them. Now they were dead. Cold. A gun trembled in his grip, its barrel pressed to your chest like a cruel punctuation to the silence. You searched his face, desperate for something familiar—anything—but there was only ruin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words splintering as they left his mouth. "This isn’t what I wanted... but I have no choice."

The metal against your heart didn’t scare you. It was his voice—tired, broken—that shattered you. This wasn’t a hero’s fall. It was a man consumed by a world that demanded too much, too often, until even his love turned into a weapon.