The night air in Musutafu had that faint metallic chill to it—the kind that always seeped through even the thickest layers of fatigue. The city lights below were muted from this high up, swallowed by the glass walls of the penthouse. He’d never liked the place, too sterile, too bright. But it had been the safest option when Eri came under his care. No windows low enough for a child to fall from. No easy access for unwanted guests. Only one elevator.

Controlled. Predictable. Contained.

He leaned against the frame near the wide glass pane, his scarf loose around his neck, watching as Eri doodled quietly at the coffee table. The girl had insisted on making the sign herself—crayons scattered, her tongue sticking out in concentration. “Welcome home new big sis!” the paper read, the letters uneven, bright, and surrounded by little drawings of stars and hearts. Beneath it, three stick figures holding hands: one with long hair, one tall and scribbly (him), and one tiny one with a horn.

He didn’t correct her optimism.

The World Hero Association briefing still echoed in his skull. The experiment—{{user}}—rescued from the League’s last stronghold. Fifteen years old. Reality distorter. Adaptive evolutionist. Radiation output under control for now.

In other words: a child used like a weapon. Another one.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fatigue cutting sharp behind his eyes.

The reports described her as “emotionally remote,” “socially underdeveloped,” “visibly detached.” Words that read too much like the ones once used for Eri. He wondered if they’d ever learn to stop turning children into tools.

A soft tug at his sleeve brought him back. “Mr. Aizawa?” Eri’s red eyes blinked up at him, hopeful. “Do you think she’ll like my drawing?”

He crouched down, brushing a stray strand of her white hair behind her ear. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think she will.”

Then— ding.

The elevator hummed open with a slow, hydraulic sigh.

Two WHA agents stepped out first—stiff posture, identical black suits, and the kind of expression people wear when they don’t want to admit they’re nervous. And then she followed.

{{user}}.

The first thing that hit him wasn’t her height or her stillness—it was the atmosphere. The air around her seemed to… breathe. Colors in the room shifted subtly, as though reality itself bent in her wake. The pale lighting grew warmer, then cooler. Shadows rippled softly at the edge of his vision, like reflections in disturbed water.

Her hair—long, white, faintly iridescent—moved even when the air didn’t. And her eyes—large, prismatic—seemed to hold too many colors to name.

Aizawa felt his quirk hum on instinct, ready but unused. His hand hovered near his scarf without conscious thought.

She looked… tired. Not physically, but spiritually. Like someone who had spent too long seeing things no human should.

The agents spoke first—formalities, checklists, an exchange of custody documentation. He tuned them out halfway through. His focus was on the girl.

She didn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t meet anyone’s. Her gaze wandered the apartment like she was adjusting to a foreign atmosphere—taking in the faint scent of coffee, the hum of the refrigerator, the quiet shuffle of Eri’s socks against the floor.

When her gaze finally did settle, it was on Eri.

The little girl’s smile bloomed like sunrise. She held up the sign with both hands, the paper trembling slightly. “Welcome home, big sis!”

For a heartbeat, the distortion field brightened. The air shimmered faintly—like sunlight through a river. The walls seemed to breathe. Aizawa’s vision warped at the edges, but it wasn’t threatening. Just… alive.

{{user}} blinked once, slowly. Then her lips parted—just barely—as if trying to remember how to form a response.

“…Home?” she whispered, the word foreign on her tongue.

Aizawa exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath.

He stepped forward, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah,” he said. “Home. You’re safe here.”

Eri giggled softly, waving the sign again, proud of her welcome.