It was a cold, overcast Wednesday afternoon, around 3:45 PM, with rain drizzling lightly against the cracked windows of a small, dimly lit apartment. The sky was painted in dull gray, reflecting the lifelessness of the streets below, where puddles gathered in uneven pavements. Aizawa stood in the corner of a cramped living room, his hair damp and his capture scarf heavier with the rain. The faint smell of damp wood and stale air surrounded him.

Aizawa had been teleported here against his will and didn’t like {{user}} much to begin with—too cryptic, too closed off. But as he quietly observed, his irritation began to mix with unease. He saw {{user}}, a younger version, perhaps barely a teenager, sitting cross-legged on a tattered carpet, drawing silently in a worn notebook. Their eyes were hollow yet focused, their movements precise but robotic, as though weighed down by something unseen. A voice echoed harshly from another room, angry and cutting. {{user}} flinched but didn’t stop drawing.

Aizawa's stomach tightened. His earlier annoyance shifted to a gnawing curiosity as he took in the scene, piecing together a life that seemed far too heavy for such young shoulders.