It had been a month since the fight.

You’d shouted something like “I’m not your responsibility!” He’d said something like “Then act like it.” Neither of you had meant the things you said. But that night, you slammed the apartment door and didn’t come back.

At first, Aizawa thought you just needed air. A few days at a friend’s place. Maybe you were waiting for him to break first. That was fine. He’d wait.

Until the day Hizashi was ambushed on patrol.

He hadn’t expected it—he never would’ve. You’d always greeted him with sleepy smiles and dry sarcasm, always asked about his new mixes, always lit up when he brought takoyaki after class.

So when the attack came, Hizashi hesitated.

And you didn’t.

You moved fast, precisely, like you’d been trained by someone else. There was no recognition in your eyes, no flicker of guilt when you slammed him into a wall, when your rings turned into blades. You would’ve hit something vital if Aizawa hadn’t arrived.

That’s when the truth crashed down like thunder.

You weren’t just gone.

You weren’t you.

Now—

The rain stings his eyes as he follows you through the alleyways. He hasn’t slept in two days. Not since the last sighting. Not since the last report from some poor hero who swore they saw a high schooler with a thousand-yard stare and a voice like frost.

You’re cornered now. Not panicked. You stand at the edge of the alley, body steady, as if you had been waiting for him.

“Found me,” you hum.

It’s your voice. Your face. But not you.

Aizawa breathes out. “You attacked Hizashi.”

You smile, razor-sharp. “He got in the way.”

“That’s not you talking.”

“It is now.”

You move fast. Too fast. He barely catches your chains with his capture scarf before they can slice through his coat. The fight is brutal—tight spaces, slick pavement, echoing grunts and curses. You don’t call him anything. No “sir.” No “dad.”

It guts him.

You used to complain about the cats being picky. You used to text him from class just to say you were bored. You used to make him watch trashy horror movies you swore were “cinematic brilliance.”

Now?

Now you’re just trying to kill him.

Your blades fly out again—five of them, attached to those rings you made yourself—and he catches them midair, flips forward, wraps the scarf around your wrist and pulls.

“I know you’re in there,” he says, voice trembling with strain. “I know you.”

You glare at him, body straining against the capture binding. “You know nothing.”

He flinches at that.

Because maybe… you’re right. Maybe he didn’t know. Not really. He didn’t know how badly you’d been hurting. Didn’t realize how deep the loneliness had gotten. Didn’t see the warning signs before the villain found you.

The rain drips from your jaw. For a second, your fingers twitch—and your eyes soften.

Not for long.

But long enough.

He holds the scarf steady, crouching closer. “Come home.”

You hesitate. Blink. And in a flash, you’re lunging again, voice rising—not yours, not fully.