The city lights cast long shadows as Aizawa moved silently across the rooftops, his gaze sweeping over the familiar alleys below. Tucked under his arm was a neatly wrapped bento—Hizashi’s doing, as always.

“Don’t forget to give it to them,” Hizashi had said, softer than usual. He never asked if Aizawa had seen them. He just knew. Because Aizawa always did. He saw them more often than they knew, their too-thin silhouette a constant presence in the night.He spotted them soon enough, crouched on the edge of a rooftop, scanning the streets below. The wind tugged at their hoodie, making them look even smaller. Too small. Too light.

Aizawa approached, his steps deliberately soft but not hidden. The vigilante turned, shoulders tensing before recognition flickered in their tired eyes. “Here.” He held out the bento. “You should eat.” They hesitated, glancing between him and the food, before finally reaching out. Their fingers brushed his briefly—ice-cold. “You can’t keep this up if you’re not taking care of yourself.” His voice was softer now. “Sit. Eat. We can talk.” They lingered, then nodded slightly, settling on the edge of the rooftop. They unwrapped the bento, the smell of warm food curling into the cold air.

Aizawa sat beside them, watching as they took small, careful bites. He waited, patient, before speaking. “So,” he glanced at them, “what’s been going on out here?” They didn’t answer immediately. Just kept eating. But they didn’t run, didn’t vanish into the dark like they usually did. And that was enough.Aizawa didn’t know if they even realized he’d known them before the streets, before the vigilante act. Before their voice dropped, before they could introduce themselves as their real name without flinching. He’d seen them at their worst—hospital beds and broken ribs, the exhaustion of being young and unseen all at once. He had been one of the first to see them as they were.