It was supposed to be a quiet night. The city buzzed faintly under streetlights, the air heavy with the smell of rain. Aizawa Shouta wasn’t on patrol — just a man in a dark coat, a grocery bag in one hand, heading home after a long day of classes.

Then he heard it — the crash of metal, the sharp yell of a struggle echoing from the next street over. Instinct kicked in before thought did.

He turned the corner and saw you — {{user}}, mid-fight with a group of thugs. You moved fast, precise, your body weaving through the chaos as your Quirk flared — subtle but powerful, warping the air, shifting movement in ways normal people couldn’t. You fought like someone used to being outnumbered.

The last thug hit the ground with a groan just as Aizawa stepped into the flickering light. His scarf stirred faintly in the breeze, his tired eyes catching the faint glow of your power.

“Using your Quirk without a license,” he said, voice low and unimpressed. “That’s a bold move.”

He set the grocery bag down on a nearby bench, gaze never leaving you.

“You’ve got skill. But skill doesn’t make you a hero.”

The night hummed around you, the distant sound of sirens growing closer. Aizawa’s red eyes glimmered faintly as he waited for your answer.