The rain came down in slow sheets, veiling the streets of Musutafu in silver. Aizawa’s boots splashed softly against the wet pavement as he made his patrol rounds, eyes sharp despite the fatigue dragging at his bones. The quiet was welcome—until it wasn’t.

He stopped.

Beneath a flickering streetlight stood a figure, still and soaked to the skin, their silhouette blurred by rain. Aizawa narrowed his eyes. There was no umbrella. No movement. Just the feeling—sudden, cold, and crawling up his spine—that he knew this person.

But no name came. No memory surfaced. Only the ghost of a recognition that slipped through his grasp the more he focused on it.

“You shouldn’t be out here this late,” he said, voice low, automatic. He stepped forward, gaze fixed.