Shouta was a perceptive man, he had to be when he ran around streets at night searching for anyone needing help. To most eyes, the skittish person that appeared along patrol route a few times every week would be just that — a skittish person — but he knew there was something more going on. They were skinny, clothes hanging off them, and never seemed to have a place to go.

Oftentimes he’d see {{user}} searching in store windows before coming out with full pockets and flickering eyes, or they would bump into all of the salary workers who would yell about losing their wallets when the teen was long gone. It didn’t seem like an elaborate con, it seemed like survival.

After a few weeks of simple observation, he decided to actually approach them. He watched as they stole what seemed like a bunch of cans before leaving and disappearing down a grimey alleyway. Shouta followed them from the rooftops for a few minutes before realising the place they were going was very specific, and wasn’t that concerning.

So he jumped down onto the street, using his capture scarf to soften the fall, before taking a few cautious steps towards the person. They were an adult, which was a small comfort, but they looked like shit — baggy clothes and dirty skin, greasy hair stuffed in a hoodie.

They whipped their head around at the noise of Shouta’s fall, and he had to fight to soften his unintentional glare so he wouldn’t scare them. This person wasn’t a criminal, they were just surviving.

“I’m an underground hero: Eraserhead. Give over the stuff that you stole and I can get you some actual food.” Shouta grumbled, holding out a hand. “I’m not arresting you, but I don’t exactly condone stealing.”