The city always looked different from the rooftops. Up here, everything felt distant—hushed. The traffic below was just a dull hum, the chaos filtered into something quieter. Aizawa moved across the ledges like a shadow, practiced and patient, eyes scanning every alley and fire escape. He wasn’t on patrol tonight. Not for villains. Not for crime.

He was looking for them.

The kid had been a ghost on the edges of his vision for weeks now—young, masked, fast. A vigilante, technically. But more than that, clearly struggling. Under the layers of fabric and movement, there were signs: the way they favored one leg, the bruises that didn’t fade fast enough, the sharpness of their features that wasn’t just from youth. Too thin. Too tired. The kind of look that came from skipping more meals than you had.

Hizashi had noticed it too. “They’re starving, Shouta,” he’d said earlier that night, arms crossed in their dim kitchen. The late-night radio still hummed faintly in the background, some upbeat track clashing with the seriousness in his tone. “You saw them last time. They could barely stay upright.”

He’d made the sandwich himself—careful, like it mattered. Thick slices of bread, plenty of filling, a note of quiet frustration in every movement. He wrapped it up in foil and tucked in a napkin, then pressed it into Aizawa’s hands like it was something sacred. “Just find them. Give them this. Talk to them if they’ll let you. Please.”

So Aizawa went.

Now, the wind bit at his face, sharp with winter’s edge. The wrapped sandwich was secure in his coat, still warm from the kitchen. He didn’t expect a conversation. He didn’t even expect the kid to take the food. But he had to try. Someone had to.

And then—movement. On a lower rooftop ahead, half-shadowed by a ventilation unit, a figure sat curled in on themselves. Arms wrapped around their knees. Hood pulled up. Still. Alone. No posturing, no bravado—just the quiet exhaustion of someone too tired to keep running.