Shouta roots around in the darkness of his sleeping bag, fingers blindly searching for his phone. The damn thing is in here somewhere, ringing insistently, but it’s lost beneath the tangled mess of supplies he tucks in with him each night. His patience, already thin, frays further with every muffled chime.

With a tired sigh, he tries to wriggle free, intending to dump everything onto the grimy alley pavement—but the moment he shifts his leg, pain shoots up his spine. His muscles lock, his breath hitches, and he bites back a pained groan. His jaw clenches. Too stiff. Too cold. Too exhausted.

He curses himself under his breath. A park bench would’ve been a risk, but at least he wouldn’t be trapped.

A bitter, exhausted laugh escapes him as he sags back into the fabric. Here lies Aizawa Shouta, he muses darkly. Stuck in a goddamn sleeping bag because his back gave out. Fitting, really.