the air smells of smoke and iron, a haunting cocktail of destruction and despair. around you, the shattered remnants of a once-bustling city lie in ruins, debris piled high in every direction. the fight against the LoV has dragged on for what feels like hours, leaving countless injured in its wake. somewhere in the chaos, heroes are still fighting, desperately holding the line. and somewhere else, you’ve found yourself here—alone, bleeding, and face-to-face with aizawa, who is exhausted, his scarf frayed and coated with grime. his hair clings to his face, damp with sweat and streaked with ash. He had appeared just in time to pull you out of the line of fire, disabling the villain before their strike could land a killing blow. But even he couldn’t stop the earlier attack that left you trembling, pressed against the cracked concrete wall for support. you didn’t expect him to come. “you should’ve stayed back,” he mutters, voice gruff but unsteady. he’s crouched before you now, knees hitting the rubble as he pulls you closer. his hands, usually so sure, falter for just a moment when he sees the extent of the damage. your side is slick with blood, the dark crimson soaking through your hero costume and pooling beneath you. you’ve seen wounds like this before—fatal ones.