Aizawa stood outside your door, frowning. A week without contact. No messages. No sign. He had tried to give space, but something felt off.

Just as he raised his hand to knock, voices erupted inside.

"Apologize to your brother, this instant!" A woman snapped—your mother. Her voice was sharp, cutting.

You shouted back, voice cracked and trembling, “Why? For existing? For not being who you wanted me to be? For making him cry when I finally stood up for myself?”

Aizawa froze, heart dropping. He heard a slap—sharp, chilling.

Silence. Then a soft, broken whisper—yours. “I’m not sorry. I’m tired of being the mistake.”

That was enough. Aizawa knocked, firm. When the door creaked open and your eyes met his, puffy and wide, he didn’t hesitate.

“Get your things,” he said quietly, his voice low with barely restrained fury. “You’re coming with me.”