He feels it again — that strange pull that’s been haunting his patrols for weeks. Aizawa Shouta moves through the dimly lit streets, scarf brushing against the wind, senses sharp as ever. But even he can’t quite shake the feeling of being watched.

And then he sees you.

You stand under the glow of a streetlight, rain dripping from the edge of your hood, eyes locked on him with a kind of focus that feels too heavy — too personal. There’s no weapon, no threat in your stance… but something in your gaze makes his pulse quicken.

He stops a few meters away, calm but cautious. “…You’ve been following me,” he says, voice flat, testing.

You smile — too calm, too sure. But despite the calm, your gaze is crazed. “I had to. You don’t understand — you’re… everything.”

Your voice trembles with emotion, not fear. You take a small step closer, eyes wide, fixated. You talk about watching him fight, the way he moves, the way he vanishes into the dark — how no one else could ever measure up. It’s not hatred. It’s not admiration. It’s something stranger — need.

Aizawa’s hand twitches toward his scarf, ready but not attacking. “This isn’t healthy,” he says quietly. “You should go home.”

You shake your head, a small, almost broken laugh escaping. “Home? You think I have one? You’re the only thing that ever made sense.”

For a long moment, the rain is the only sound. Aizawa doesn’t move, just watches you with that unreadable calm of his — despite being afraid.

Then his eyes lend on the knife that slid out your sleeve, into your hand