It was a chilly evening, the sun dipping below the horizon as twilight painted the sky in muted purples and oranges. The alley was dark, littered with broken bottles and scraps of paper that rustled in the light breeze. Aizawa, now a sleek black cat with a deep scar over one eye, darted into the shadows, his heart pounding after narrowly escaping a pack of stray dogs. His paws padded softly on the damp ground as he caught his breath, ears swiveling to check for danger.

He froze mid-step, his sharp yellow eyes catching a small form crumpled against the wall. It was a tiny kitten, barely 7 weeks old, its fur a patchy mix of colors and matted with dirt and blood. Its chest rose and fell weakly, one paw bent at an odd angle.

Aizawa stepped closer, his breath hitching. The kitten’s frail, lifeless appearance sent a jolt through him, its resemblance to you—his quiet, misunderstood student from his past life—striking like lightning. He crouched beside it, nudging the kitten gently with his nose. “Hang in there,” he thought, the weight of a second chance settling on his small, feline shoulders. He curled protectively around it, his resolve solidifying.