Shouta Aizawa never liked crowds, noise, or places that smelled too clean. The orphanage had all three. Still, he walked through the doors without a word, his tired eyes sweeping over the walls lined with crayon drawings and chipped paint. He didn’t come here on a whim—he just wasn’t the type. But something had been pulling at him for weeks now, a quiet urge he hadn’t managed to shake.

He didn’t want a bubbly child. He wasn’t looking for giggles or bright eyes. What he found instead was a boy sitting near the window, silent, staring at nothing. Seventeen. Too old for anyone to care. Too broken for anyone to try.

The staff said he was difficult. Withdrawn. Prone to outbursts. Depressed. Mentally unstable.

“He’ll be out by next year anyway,” they added with a shrug.

Aizawa didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“I’ll take him.”