Momo pushed the Shiketsu transfer paperwork away from her with the knuckles of her left hand, the pen in her right tapping rapidly in a clipped, anxious staccato, uncertain if she could go through with this.

The situation wasn't right, and it wasn't fair, but she had no good way of telling her parents the truth. She had played dozens of scenarios in her head, ways of revealing the truth, but none of them could've even convinced herself — and she knew the truth. It was beyond comprehension and was the reason she was in this situation to begin with: there was no good way to try to tell someone that her teacher, a Pro Hero, was a Yakuza villain. She still hadn't gotten actual proof either that she could present to the authorities — or even her parents — to support her argument.

At the same time, if she wanted to get away from Mr. Aizawa, this was her opportunity. Her parents were concerned about honor, and this would be done quietly and without fanfare. Shiketsu High was almost as highly regarded as UA and, if she'd gotten into UA, then she could get into Shiketsu — even though transfer slots were highly limited and fiercely fought for.

The footage played in her mind again, and she closed her eyes and turned her head as if that would dismiss the images. The one trait that translated between his role as Pro Hero/teacher and Yakuza oyabun was that air of being rugged and unkempt. A scattering of facial hair across his jaw, the scar underneath his eye, his shirt unbuttoned leisurely — the essence of a man enjoying his night out. Then there was her, pinned between his arms wit his knee between her legs, the expression on her face conveying all of the awe and none of the fear she had felt in that moment. Momo blew out the breath she was holding and felt her cheeks flush. If that video got out then both she and him would be seen for what the situation hadn't been. She struggled to dismiss the possibility that he had been responsible, using this as a way to get her out of his hair, but he was too careful for that. It would've been too big of a risk.

At last she dropped her pen on her desk and pushed herself up to begin pacing around her room instead, considering her options. It didn't take her long to reach her decision then. Momo stuffed some things under her blankets to form the lump of a sleeping silhouette, and dressed in the darkness of her closet before heading to her window. It took only a few minutes for her to create a rope ladder — she rolled her eyes at herself, how cliche — and attach it to her balcony, then shimmy down it past the close curtains of the downstairs.

The staff had left for the night, and she let herself into the garage with the security code. She climbed into the driver's seat of her mother's Bentley, holding her breath for long moments as she inflated herself for the task she'd decided was all but unavoidable. Momo found a scarf and a hat of her mother's in the backseat and pulled them on, along with a pair of reading glasses. She took her hair down and shook it out, then braided it into the demure plaits her mother usually wore. It was Kobayashi, one of their regular guards, waiting as she pulled up to the gatehouse. If he took more than a cursory glance, he would see through her ruse. Momo didn't look directly at him as she pulled up to the gatehouse, and he let her through with a nod and "Evening, ma'am."

Without daytime traffic, the drive took far too little time. Not enough for her to change her mind.

The hesitation didn't hit until she had parked in front of his apartment and was walking up the steps to his door. Momo turned around and started down them, but after a few stairs forced herself to head back up. The resolution required her to go through, not back. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears as she reached his door. Her hand rose to knock, then she hesitated some more and let it fall back to her side. What would she tell him? How could she even look him in the face and say that her parents believed she was sleeping with him? She swallowed hard, closing her eyes, and lifted her hand again.

The door swung open before she touched it, and Momo sucked in a startled breath as she came face to face with another woman. The woman was older than she was, closer to Mr. Aizawa's age, and her clothes were creased with wrinkles. Her eyeliner was smudged, and she looked just as surprised to see Momo as Momo was to see her. Before Momo could react, the woman looked her up and down then turned and said over her shoulder, "Do I have to leave?" in a tone that was almost pouting.

It was only then that Momo saw Aizawa — Danchou — behind her, and Momo hastily averted her eyes to the ground — but not fast enough. She'd already seen him. He was shirtless, and tattoos covered his body except a narrow strip of bare skin down the center of his chest. There was a fierce oni tattooed on his left pec, horns protruding and fangs bared. Even his nipple had been tattooed over. A black dragon was curled over his right pec, and its tail curled down his abs, into a mural of waves and flowers. He had a Samurai warrior on his ribs, with blossoms surrounding it, too. Scars across his chest and stomach marred the perfection of the careful, thoughtful ink. More tattoos — she saw a koi, a lotus, and a shisa — covered his shoulders and arms. The tattoos disappeared under the waistband of his black shorts. The glow of the lights outside his apartment snagged in the cuts of the muscles of his torso. His hair fell over his shoulders in tousled waves, and it didn't look like he'd shaved in days. The circles under his eyes said he hadn't slept in days either. Momo pointedly kept her eyes on the ground, swallowing hard.

"Leave, Chiyo," he dismissed in answer to the other woman's question. Momo could feel his eyes on her as the woman left, her heels descending the stairs noisily. Once she was off the steps, Aizawa stepped aside in a wordless invitation.

Her better judgment told her not to, but she couldn't have this conversation with him out in the open either and she knew it. Reluctantly, Momo stepped inside his apartment and he closed the door behind her.

It was a man's apartment, without question. The furniture was simple and scant — a couch, a chair, a coffee table across from a television that was mounted on the wall. A line of baskets was on the floor underneath it. A stack of magazines — hero magazines, of all things — was beneath the coffee table. There were no pictures or posters, no personal staples of any kind around the room. The apartment could've belonged to anyone. Aizawa retreated to his bedroom and returned a minute later in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He pointed to the couch, but Momo didn't sit, so neither did he.

"You miss two days of school then come to my home in the middle of the night," he said without fanfare as he leaned against the wall. "This had better be good."

There was something mocking in his tone, and it incensed her anger. Momo grinded her teeth together as the heat of rage diluted her unease.

"I've had no choice," she countered. There was no benefit in dancing around this. "My parents are pulling me out of UA — they were sent a clip of the security video from the club along with a demand for money to not release the video publicly."

"A video of what?" Aizawa asked, and he sounded genuinely confused.

Her tongue thickened as she tried to decide how to put it in words, and she cleared her throat to buy herself time. Her eyes avoided him for a long minute before, finally, she stood and crossed over to where he stood. Momo did as he'd done, planting her palms on either side of his head then putting her knee between his legs. This close to him, she caught the lingering scent of his cologne and musk. The affect wasn't as impactful toward him as it had been to her in the club, but his face showed his immediately discomfort at her closeness. Then, as she looked up at him, his eyes widened with abrupt, clear understanding.

"And that's all the clip showed?" he asked, shrugging her off as he stepped away from her. Momo crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself as she nodded.

"My parents won't go to the authorities," she said at last when the silence dragged on between then. "They don't want the damage to their reputations, but they are making me transfer to Shiketsu instead. I am not allowed to return to UA."

"How much money was the demand for?" Mr. Aizawa asked. "Do you know?"

"One hundred million yen."

He gave a low whistle.

"I see." Momo watched as he went to a basked under the television and fished through it, then came back with a phone. She said nothing as he turned it on and programmed a number into it, then held it out to her.

"What's this?"

"It's a burner," he said shortly. "Do you know what that is?" Momo nodded. "Keep it on your person, call me if there's an emergency. Listen to your parents in the meantime. I will handle this for you."

"What are you going to do?" Momo demanded, but he had wrapped a hand around her upper arm and was steering her toward the door now. She looked back over her shoulder at him, feet stalling on the floorboards, until he relented.

"I'm going to handle it," he said briefly.

"How?" In the dim light, she saw him roll his eyes. At this moment, she watched as the lines of his personalities of Aizawa and Danchou met in the middle, right before her. She saw where the two met and overlapped, and suddenly she questioned how she had ever doubted that the two men were one in the same. "You can't—"

"If you didn't want me to handle this, Ms. Yaoyorozu, then why did you come here," Aizawa demanded. "Do you want a letter of recommendation for Shiketsu High instead?"

Momo yanked her arm free of his grasp and he let her go, crossing his arms over his chest in a picture of boredom. Her temper raged, spiked with fear now. If he did something illegal, would she be considered an accomplice? And he was right — she hated that he was right, but it was true. What else should she have expected from coming here?

"Are you protecting me or yourself?" she demanded.

He rolled his eyes again.

"Ms. Yaoyorozu," Aizawa said with a sigh, "does it really fucking matter?"

The expletive shocked her into stillness, and she stood frozen by the door, biting the inside of her cheek as she looked at him. He seemed to self-assured, so unworried, so dismissive. What was he going to do? Her gut told her she didn't want to know. And, if she did, would she even dare go to the police about it? She wasn't so certain. At last the stupefaction loosened its hold and Momo turned, letting herself out of his apartment.

She heard him lock the door behind her.