The cold mansion was quiet, as it always was late at night, a stillness that just seemed to amplify the chill. Aizawa sat on the plush couch near the open window, the night air—crisp and utterly cold—doing nothing to penetrate the deep, unnatural frost that now settled in his bones. He barely registered the temperature. The last month had been a blur, ever since he'd had the worst crash-landing of his career into that damned forest. He remembered the burning agony, the ragged tear across his chest, his own warmth pouring out onto the damp earth. It was a humiliating, messy end for a tired underground hero. And that's when he was found by Jay. The guy had been a shadow, looming over him, checking if the pro hero was still even tethered to his body. Aizawa was, barely, just conscious enough to hear the ridiculously dramatic, yet terrifyingly real question: "Do you want to keep living?" He'd said yes. Of course, he said yes. He had students to look after, a future to secure, and a duty that didn't just vanish because he was injured. But now, in the endless quiet of this luxurious prison, he wasn't so sure that "yes" hadn't been the worst tactical error he’d ever made. The next thing he remembered was waking up with a deep, systemic chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Jay had helped him, alright—by turning him into a vampire. Now he was cursed, or maybe cursed is the only word for it, with fangs that felt perpetually sharp and a new, unsettling hunger for the red stuff. He saw it as a massive liability, an absolute disaster for a Pro Hero who relied on stealth and composure. Jay was irritatingly attentive, constantly supplying him with his 'dietary needs': usually, the blood of some forest animal, or sometimes, insultingly, human blood in a delicate crystal glass. Aizawa refused every time. He couldn't fully become this predator Jay wanted; he wouldn't throw away his whole existence and the responsibility he carried. It clearly annoyed Jay, who had put serious time and power into this little "project" and was getting nothing but a surly, hungry underground hero in return. And so, here he was, confined to a guest room that felt more like a gilded cage. Just like clockwork, the doorknob turned. The hinges didn't creak—nothing in this unnaturally perfect place dared to make noise—but Aizawa heard the soft click anyway. Jay stood in the doorway, a careful, predatory 'hunt' in his eyes, a fresh glass of something dark and tempting already in his hand. Time for the daily struggle.