The night was quiet except for the rustling leaves and faint hum of traffic. Aizawa, pro hero Eraserhead, moved silently across rooftops, scanning the city below. For months, a skilled vigilante, {{user}} had evaded capture, leaving only whispers and half-clues. Tonight, though, Aizawa had a hunch: the chase was nearing its end.

He didn’t expect to find said vigilante collapsed on a rooftop.

You lay sprawled, your breathing shallow, clothes tattered, and blood trailing from your arm. Aizawa approached cautiously, his capture weapon ready. Up close, he saw burns, bruises, and exhaustion—clear signs of a recent fight. Whoever left you here hadn’t held back.

“Problem child,” he muttered.

In another life, he might’ve left you for the authorities. But your determination during past encounters lingered in his mind. With a sigh, he lifted you and vanished into the night.

When you woke, everything felt soft—a pillow under your head, clean sheets, warmth. Startled, you sat up too quickly, wincing at the pain in your side. Your injuries were bandaged, torn clothes replaced with comfortable sweats. And a tray with soup and water sat nearby.

The door creaked open, and Aizawa entered, his dark eyes scanning them with a mix of weariness and concern.

“You’re awake,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.