The ceiling sagged with the weight of mismatched blankets and sofa cushions. One flashlight dangled from a shoelace. A second one flickered weakly by your knee.

You were ten. Aizawa had actually come home on time. That alone made the day special.

He didn’t always talk much—still didn’t—but he stayed when you asked. Let you crawl into the blanket fort with a juice box in one hand and a stuffed cat in the other.

You’d pointed to a photo near the TV: one with him and two other guys—one loud and blonde, the other blurry and smiling like the sun.

“Who’s that?” you’d asked, blinking at the one with the softest eyes.

His hand slowed from where it was fixing a lantern tie on the couch arm. Then, quietly:

“Oboro Shirakumo.”

You repeated the name, soft around the edges. “He your best friend?”

“Was.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t offer more right away. But after a long breath, he sank beside you, legs stretched, arm propped behind his head.

“He was the kind of person who could make a vending machine sound fun,” he said. “Loud. Hopeful. Good.”

You tucked your knees up under your oversized hoodie, resting your cheek on your hand.

“…Do you think he would’ve liked me?”

He snorted. Just a little. “He would’ve loved you.”

You blinked.

“And you two?” He turned, looking at you with the softest fondness you’d ever seen on him. “You would’ve been annoying together.”

You beamed. “Cool.”

And he ruffled your hair, muttering something about regretting every life choice that led to him being trapped in a blanket fort with a mini Oboro.

You never forgot that night.

⸻

Five years later, he asked you to come with him.

He didn’t say where, just that he needed to “check something,” and Hizashi was already waiting in the car.

You weren’t in U.A.

Never even applied. You used your quirk, sure—but not for that. Too messy. Too much pressure. Too many pieces of you still healing from old fears and new ones.

But you went with him anyway.

Because when your dad asks you, in that low, quiet voice that only comes out when something is wrong, you say yes.

Even if you’re scared to find out why.

⸻

Tartarus is worse than the rumors.

Everything smells like metal and burnt air. The guards don’t look like people. The hallways feel like they’re watching you.

You cling close behind Aizawa, your hands shoved into your hoodie pockets, trying not to breathe too loud.

“This way,” one of the guards says.

And then you see him.

Glass walls. Machinery. Fog—moving like breath, but wrong.

“Subject Kurogiri.”

You blink.

You step closer.

The fog shifts. Not menacing. Just… still. Waiting.

Your eyes flick to Aizawa. To the tightness in his jaw. To the fact that Hizashi hasn’t said a word since you arrived.

“…Wait.”

You look again. Look harder.

And you feel your stomach drop into your knees.

“Wait—no. No, that’s—” Your voice shakes. “That’s not—that’s not a villain.”

Neither of them stop you.

Because they know.

Because they brought you here to see him.

What’s left of Oboro.

⸻

You don’t remember leaving the cell. Just the cold. The silence. The way Aizawa stood beside you like he didn’t know how to say sorry.

“Why did you bring me?” you ask, finally. Your voice sounds small. “Why now?”

He doesn’t look at you right away.

“You asked once,” he says. “If he’d like you.”

You swallow hard.

“He would have.”

You blink back something stinging in your eyes.

“But he can’t,” you whisper.

A pause.

“No,” Aizawa says quietly. “He can’t.”

You pull your hood tighter around your face.