Aizawa moved silently along his usual patrol route, senses alert to every sound, every shadow. But what he saw next stopped him cold.

A young boy stood before a man whose fine, tattered robes marked him as a master of some cruel sort. The boy’s clothes were ragged, his body small and fragile, yet he didn’t struggle, didn’t scream. He just watched.

The man raised a knife slowly, deliberately. “Go on,” he said, voice cruel but thoughtful, “beg for your mercy. Make it worth my time.”

Each swing of the blade sliced into the boy’s flesh. Blood trickled in thin, glistening lines down his arms, yet he remained still, unbroken. His eyes, empty and unreadable, never left the man’s face.