The alley smelled like damp concrete and burnt wiring.
Shouta stood at the mouth of it with his capture weapon looped loose around his shoulders, eyes half-lidded but alert beneath the dim streetlights. Midnight patrols were quieter on this side of the city. Less flashy crime. More careful crime. The kind that required patience rather than brute force.
He preferred it that way.
A shadow shifted on the fire escape above.
Aizawa didn’t look up immediately. He simply spoke into the empty air, voice dry and unimpressed. “You’re late.”
A soft scoff answered him. Metal creaked as boots adjusted against rusted railing.
“Was busy,” {{user}} replied.
The voice was disguised, pitched lower than it naturally sat. Aizawa was certain of that. Too careful. Too controlled. And underneath it, youth. Not childish. Not naive. But young. Teenager young.
He finally lifted his gaze.
{{user}} crouched on the fire escape, wrapped in layers that had seen better years—patched sleeves, fraying hood, gloves with mismatched stitching. Nothing about them screamed professional. No polished gear. No sponsor funding. No agency backing. They looked like they’d assembled their vigilante persona from scrapyards and stolen quiet hours.
And yet.
“They moved the shipment,” {{user}} said, voice steady. “Third warehouse instead of second. Rotating drivers every forty minutes. They’re expecting interference.”
Aizawa absorbed the information without reaction. It aligned with his own suspicions. Too well.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
A beat of silence. Then, flatly, “I don’t guess.”
That was the problem.
{{user}} didn’t.
They were meticulous. Observant in ways that bordered on unnerving. They noticed patrol gaps before agencies did. Mapped criminal routines without being seen. Predicted escalation patterns with uncomfortable accuracy. Aizawa had cross-checked their intel more times than he’d admit.
It had never been wrong.
He stepped further into the alley, boots scraping softly. “You’re getting closer to their core operation.”
“Yeah.”
“They won’t hesitate if they figure out it’s you.”
A pause. “They won’t figure it out.”
Overconfidence would have irritated him. This wasn’t that. It was calculation. The kind that came from someone who had already tested the limits and survived.
Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re not invincible.”
A flicker of movement, {{user}} swung down from the fire escape, landing lightly a few feet away. Up close, the illusion of age thinned. Narrow shoulders beneath oversized layers. Hands too small to belong to an adult, even gloved. Eyes sharp, though, too sharp.
“I don’t need to be,” {{user}} said.
He studied them openly. Ragged clothing. Worn boots. Improvised gear that suggested both resourcefulness and lack of support. Intelligent. Isolated.
“You could apply to U.A.,” Aizawa said, tone level. “With your observational skills? Tactical planning? You’d place high. I’d put my name on it.”
{{user}}’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“No.”
It came immediate. Reflexive.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did. The first time you brought it up.”
“And?”
“And I’m not interested.”
Aizawa’s gaze sharpened. “Why.”
Silence settled between them, heavier this time.
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, another patrol unit moving in response to something unrelated. The city never truly slept.
“I don’t need a hero license to help people,” {{user}} said finally.
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?”
He held their stare. “You’re a kid.”
The word hit.
{{user}}’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing, not wounded. Angry.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
“You know what I choose to tell you.”
True.
That irritated him more than it should have.
Aizawa shifted his capture scarf slightly, not threatening, just grounding himself. “You’re operating alone. No oversight. No backup. No legal protection. One mistake and you’re facing charges instead of commendations.”
“I won’t make one.”
“That’s what every talented teenager thinks.”
The words slipped out harsher than intended.