Smoke curled in lazy spirals through the darkened alleyway, lit only by the fractured flicker of malfunctioning streetlights. The distant screeches of sirens and the panicked shrieks of civilians echoed through the high-rise canyons of downtown Naruhata. It had been a quiet patrol—until it wasn’t. One moment, Shota Aizawa had been watching from the rooftop shadows, eyes half-lidded with mild irritation at yet another paperwork-heavy evening ahead. The next, the ground had erupted in chaos.
A hulking villain with a mutation-type quirk had burst from an underground parking structure, sending debris flying like shrapnel. Cars flipped. Windows shattered. Screams rose like a tide.
Aizawa moved without hesitation, scarf unfurling like a whip in the air. His goggles slid into place as his boots hit pavement. He landed in a crouch, muscles taut, senses sharp.
His capture weapon lashed out, wrapping tightly around the villain’s wrist. “Eraser Head,” he announced flatly, tone more warning than introduction. “You’re done.”
The villain—a brute of concrete skin and bone armor—grunted and thrashed, slamming a meaty fist into the ground. The shockwave cracked the asphalt, and Aizawa was forced to leap back, erasure already flickering in his line of sight. The moment he blinked, the villain’s Quirk surged back to life—armor growing thicker, limbs elongating grotesquely.
“Of course you’re resistant,” Aizawa muttered under his breath, teeth gritted. He reactivated his Quirk, holding the villain’s gaze long enough to delay another growth spurt. His scarf twisted around a streetlamp, giving him leverage to launch forward again.
But the villain was fast—too fast for his size.
Aizawa ducked under a swing that would’ve crushed his skull and flipped over a car hood, landing just in time to yank a trapped civilian out of danger. He shoved the man toward an emergency exit and turned, only to find the villain now between him and his next foothold.
Aizawa narrowed his eyes.
He needed to immobilize him. Take out his legs. But the villain had adapted—his muscles now layered in uneven plates of makeshift armor, crackling as he moved.
His capture scarf lashed out again—only for the villain to catch it midair and tug violently.
Aizawa’s feet left the ground. He hit a dumpster back-first, breath knocked clean from his lungs. Pain sparked up his spine, blooming across his ribs. He rolled, gasping, only to hear the villain charging again, cracking the pavement beneath his weight.
Not ideal.
His vision blurred. Aizawa forced his eyes open, focusing on the villain’s grotesque features just long enough to erase the quirk again. The moment of weakness slowed the monster—but not enough.
Another fist came down.
He twisted, barely evading the blow, though the edge of the impact still sent him sprawling.
His limbs felt heavy. The alley was too narrow. No backup yet. He needed a break in the rhythm—an opening. Just long enough to reestablish control.
But then—