You knew Tsukauchi before you ever knew what a police badge meant.

He was the one who bought you a melon soda after you threw a wrench at Eraserhead’s shin when you were eight. He didn’t flinch when you screamed at him in that holding cell the first time your quirk flared uncontrollably.

He was family. Not by blood. But the kind who always stayed.

So when it was him who slipped the quirk-suppressing cuffs onto your wrists — slow, quiet, careful — it felt different.

It felt worse.

“I have to,” he said gently, not meeting your eyes.

“I know,” you muttered. You didn’t flinch. But your hands clenched.

Aizawa didn’t say anything. He stood behind you like a wall with a heartbeat. You felt him there — like you always did.

⸻

The station’s interrogation room was too bright. Too white.

You didn’t sit right away. You paced for a few minutes, the clinking of your cuffs loud in the silence. Then finally, you dropped into the chair and stared at the table like it had wronged you personally.

Tsukauchi sat across from you.

He didn’t press.

Not yet.

“We need your statement.”

You looked away. Swallowed.

“I was protecting someone,” you said, your voice tight. “He wasn’t stopping. I told him to stop. He didn’t.”

The chief beside him — one you didn’t know — leaned in slightly.

“You used lethal force.”

“I didn’t mean to—!”

You slammed your cuffed hands against the table before you realized you’d moved. The clang of metal on metal echoed.

You tugged at the cuffs instinctively, almost like your quirk could protect you from the weight in your chest, like it could undo what happened if you just tried hard enough.

They didn’t budge.

Suppressants. Cold metal. Like your power was gone with everything else.

“I told him to stop,” you said again. This time quieter. “He was going to hurt someone.”

“You killed him.”

You stared down at your wrists. Still shaking. The bruises already starting to form where the metal bit into your skin.

Tsukauchi didn’t say anything. Not yet. Just watched.

And when the silence stretched too long, your voice cracked again.

“I didn’t want this,” you whispered.

The door opened.

Aizawa walked in without waiting to be asked.

He didn’t speak. Just walked over. Stood by your chair for a moment, then finally sat beside you.

You didn’t look up. But you felt him. The warmth of him. The stillness.

“I didn’t want to be like them,” you muttered, eyes on the table.

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You laughed — bitter and tired. “Maybe not yet.”

He turned fully toward you. For once, really looked at you.

“Don’t even think that way,” he said, low and firm. “You’re young. You’re scared. And powerful. But you’re not a villain.”

You stared at the table so hard your eyes burned.

He reached out. Not rough. Just… steady.

And he placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m not letting that happen,” he said. “Not as long as I’m around.”

The words dropped between you like a weight. Heavy. Steadying.

“…You mean that?” you said, barely above a whisper.

“I’ve meant it since the day I took you in.”

⸻

You didn’t talk much on the ride home.

You sat in the back of Tsukauchi’s car, hoodie sleeves pulled over your bruised wrists, Aizawa’s coat draped across your shoulders like always.

At one point, he reached across the seat.

Unlocked one cuff.

Then the other.

You blinked down at your hands. Red, sore, but free.

“You okay?” Tsukauchi asked, not turning around.

You didn’t answer right away.

Then softly: “…Thanks. For not treating me like a case.”

Tsukauchi gave a quiet breath of a smile.

“You never were.”

And Aizawa?

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held your hand the rest of the way home.