I was hoping it wouldn't come to this.

Aizawa, concealed by a characteristically dark outfit, marches through the busy nightlife of Japan, his face obscured from the passing crowds by his inky black hair. Matched with a dark sweatshirt and leather combat boots, his silhouette practically vanishes into the shadows. That was the plan anyways.

The flashing neon lights of convenience stores, nightclubs, and late-night restaurants send a rainbow of hues across his face. The aromas of alcohol, cooking meat, and piss on the sidewalk mix into a caustic combination of scents. Although Aizawa preferred to operate at night, he could never get over just how much it stank.

Holding his hands tightly in his pockets, his nose throbbed with irritation. The split in his nose, a nasty wound sustained in his fight earlier that week, already stung enough - the lovely potpourri of late-night Japan only made it worse.

Under his sweatshirt, his golden goggles bounce against the restraining bond tightly wound around his abdomen. With his regular support equipment hidden behind such a casual outfit, it's clear that not only was he prepared to dive into the shadows but also to throw a few punches if necessary.

Matching his dark outfit with an antsy demeanor, Aizawa comes off as less of a former hero and more of the shifty individual mothers warn their kids about. He didn't care – he knew he had to be prepared.

Running the options through his head, his tired eyes scour the streets.

Snapping between points of focus at a breakneck pace, his eyes dart around the street, studying every nook and cranny. His focused but edgy mannerisms isolate him from the crowd of blissful drunkards and late-night partyers surrounding him. A lone crusader in a sea of hapless citizens.

As a mob of twentysomething men pass by, mindlessly showcasing their vast array of quirks, Aizawa is reminded of his past – and more than a few memories he had tried to forget.

Their senseless ramblings fill the air. They're much too loud to ignrore, breaking Aizawa's focus. With blue-red fireworks sizzling by overhead, shot from the fingertips of an inebriated young man, even more colors are added to the already overwhelmingly vibrant display of bar signs, convenience stores, and night-owl clerks.

How could anyone sleep out here?

Only a few months ago, Aizawa would have given those men a citation, fining them for unlawful quirk usage. Now? Aizawa passes by them harmlessly, keeping his bloodshot eyes focused on the path before him.

It wouldn't be rational to intervene.

Turning his gaze past the parade of drinker, past the raucous laughter and shouting of blistering drunks, his attention is caught onto an alleyway between two buildings. Inside, obscured by the shadows of the surrounding buildings, a man wheezes, clawing at his chest as the other clutches to the side of a building.

Is he hurt?

Aizawa stops on the fringe of the street, approaching the man cautiously.

Slowly and carefully, he approaches, keeping his feet light in preparation for an ambush.

His last encounter in an alley left him with a pretty nasty split in his nose after all.

Wheezing with every breath, the man continuously chokes.

Only feet away, Aizawa prepares to act, ready to intervene before…

HYURK.

The man vomits, spewing out an ungodly mess of alcohol and chunks of food across the asphalt.

Immediately halting his approach, briefly stunned, Aizawa watches the man hurl up a second batch of stomach contents. Shaking his head, he turns his back on the man, resuming his march.

You're that damn rusty, huh? Can't even recognize a drunk… Everything has to be a life or death emergency nowadays. Perhaps being a teacher limited me in more ways than I thought…

He lets out a brief sigh, turning his gaze towards the ground before him.

His mind races to his deal with Izuku.

What have I done?

How can I be a good teacher if I keep making such rookie mistakes?

The kid had surprised Aizawa. In one night, he showed more heart than most students he taught at UA. Hell, maybe even more heart than some professionals.

Maybe even more heart than the current number one…

With each step, his steel-toed boots clack against the sidewalk, just another indication that Aizawa didn't come here in peace.

It'd been a long, long time since he'd walked these streets - the last time he was here was long before he was a hero, back during his adolescence.

Long before any official certifications.

Each step dredges back old memories, each clack of his boots digging up old visions of himself. Playing over and over in his head again, like a broken record, the stale images of a kid in over his head, a rookie staring into the criminal underbelly of a very different Japan.

It terrifies him now just as much as it did then. Especially after what happened to Oboro…

He was just a kid looking to do some good in this world, with or without a license, even after he saw the ugliness that lurked underneath day to day life.

Just like Izuku.

His palms tighten in on themselves. Taking a breath, he refocuses his attention on the setting around him.

It should be around here. It'd be a goddamn miracle if it's gone untouched…

Like spotlights, his bloodshot eyes bounce between the various concrete and brick faces of the many industrial buildings lining the street. He meticulously analyzes each and every neon sign to the fullest.

Internally, his stomach twirls in on itself from anxiety.

I shouldn't be here. It's been too long.

It'd been at least a decade, almost two even. He was so young then, so naïve.

He lets out a deep breath. His experience as a hero had steeled his resolve since then, he'd dealt with worse before. Nothing to fear…

Hopefully.

His guts twist in on itself from uncertainty. Even he couldn't predict how this would all go. He just had to take a leap of faith.

She has a way to get under your skin, you know that well enough. Go in, get the job done, get out. That's all you have to do.

You have to.

Aizawa clenches his fist, running the game plan by himself again. His teeth gnash, his face scrunching up as he runs through the plan a second time.

Then a third.

Then a fourth.

His nose stings. His eyes burn. His face is wrinkled and tired.

This is just another day in the life of Shouta Aizawa. Don't act like it's any different.

Just. Be. Rational.

Gulping down his anxieties, his eyes land on a sign so simple it stands out from the ugly mix of halogen lamps and flashing neon lights.

Completely wooden and minimalist in its design, the simple sign dangles limply off the side of the obscure corner shop. The worn, wooden kanji reads: "Toshi's Radio Shop".

Aizawa stops in his tracks, eyes locked on the humble shop.

A chill travels up his spine.

For all his experience, he never felt prepared for anything like this.

Gulping down his anxieties, he continues his approach, making his way through the scattered gatherings of late-night drinkers.

The corner shop is antiquated and old, packed deep into the corner of the busy street. Hidden from view, the building is a remnant from a different time, obscured behind the shadows of buildings much taller than it. Dangling from its roof, windchimes slowly sway back and forth, their gentle ringing drowned out by the raucous street life. To the trained eye, the shops humble appearance makes it stand out far more than any neon sign or vibrant color display.

It was all that remained of a bygone age.

With his heart practically in his throat, every one of Aizawa's senses had kicked into hyperdrive.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

The sound of his boots against the concrete sidewalk completely drown out the world around him, their only accompaniment being the sounds of his deep, labored breathing and the delicate twinkle of the windchimes ahead.

Aizawa had faced a multitude of villains over his lengthy career but few things could scare him as much as what that corner shop contained.

There was no monster, no supervillain hiding a trick up their sleeve, barely anything nefarious at all. All that lurked within its wooden walls was the past: the man Shouta Aizawa used to be.

A man who had lost everything, and in his desperation, turned to the wooden shop on the corner of a busy street.

And now here he was, returning to that same shop once again.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Passing by the murmured whistle of the windchimes, Aizawa reaches a hand out and grasps the worn wooden handle of the shop's front door. He didn't need any neon sign to indicate if the shop was open or closed - it's always been open.

Pushing inwards, he closes his eyes as he steps into the shop. Above him, a small bell rings.

A visitor.

Without a flinch, he steps inside.

The interior of the building is dark and musty with practically every surface made up of some form of wood. Its age is visible through the mismatched styles and cuts of wood - obvious indicators of rushed patchwork or attempts to fix broken boards with whatever was around. Rows of retrofit, vintage, and modern radios line the stands of the shop, most coated in a thick layer of dust. In the corner, an old TV is latched to the wall, angled down towards the entrance, its screen occupied by a thick layer of static.

Standing at the mouth of the doorway, Aizawa inspects the archaic interior of the building. Closing the door behind him, the wood creaks with every movement before it finally shuts.

One more creak and I swore this whole place was going to come crashing down.

As the door closes behind him, a thick layer of dust is sent careening through the air before slowly settling on its new home: Aizawa's head and shoulders.

Aggravated, Aizawa sighs, sending even more dust into the air. The shop was incredibly stuffy and the ever-growing atmosphere of dust was only making it worse.

You couldn't have dusted the place? Forget any villains, this place is already a deathtrap.

Beyond the soft crackle of the TV static, the shop is completely silent, offering Aizawa a chance to sit back and listen closely for anything out of the usual. Anything at all…

Studying the wooden walls surrounding the collection of vintage radios, he runs himself through the wide list of possible traps rigged within the shop.

There could be a tripwire there or maybe a hidden sensor. That'd be the perfect spot to lay out some caltrops… And watch out for that corner, who knows what kind of ambushes could be prepared from there.

Hell, if she's as bold as she used to be, there could even be a beartrap somewhere around here.

After meticulous analysis, Aizawa continues further into the building, keeping wary of the many possible traps he considered. However, despite his best efforts, each of his steps spring a symphony of creaks and groans from the wood below him.

Maybe these boots weren't the best for this situation… Or maybe this place really is that old.

Despite his lithe build, the groaning songs the wooden floor have prepared would trick anyone into thinking Aizawa was a beast of a man.

Sliding a clenched fist from his pocket, he pulls his hood down, revealing his bandaged face. He had no reason to worry, this place never had security cameras when he was younger, hardly a chance they'd have them now.

Aizawa gives a passing glance towards the wares behind the countertop: Busted gadgets and old tech from at least two generations ago. He was more focused on how quiet it was inside the shop anyways.

Perhaps it was too quiet…

Looking around, the restraining bond underneath his sleeves tighten, his body more prepared than ever for a possible ambush.

After a routine scan of his immediate surroundings prove useless, he turns his focus to the countertop before him. Wrapping the restraining bond around his fingers, Aizawa drags it down the dusty glass, revealing an empty interior. As his eyes shift focus from the interior of the counter to the glass of the countertop, the reflected image of his burning eyes lies front and center.

Leering at him through the small gaps he made on the dusty glass, the reflections crimson gaze matches his own.

For a moment, he could even be convinced that the gaze wasn't his own.

That the eyes staring back at him was a different Shouta Aizawa.

Resting his fingertips against the glass, the restraining bond relaxing into a slack, Aizawa turns his full focus towards the reflection. His soul-stripping glare seemed so strange.

It seemed so alien. So… heartless.

Is this what everyone else sees?

Momentarily distracted, his bare fingertips rest against the glass as the restraining bond continues to loosen around his arms.

Suddenly, from further within the building, a clicking sound. Then another. Repeating in a rhythmic fashion, the sound seems to be approaching.

Twisting his head in reaction to the sound, he steps back from the counter and crouches down next to one of the many wooden shelves.

Damn it, I got so wrapped up in my reflection I lost focus. God, you're so rusty…

With his back pushed against the wooden shelf, Aizawa cranes his neck in order to listen intently to whatever was approaching.

Keeping his body stiff, Aizawa clutches the shelf tightly, giving his full attention to his hearing.

The clicking comes to a stop.

Aizawa remains tense.

Following the momentary pause, the accompanying groan of a door being opened alerts Aizawa that he is no longer alone in the building. Perhaps he never was.

Footsteps.

Aizawa's body tightens in preparation for anything, his clutch on the shelf increasing, his fingernails practically digging into the worn wood. His restraining bond tightens around his hand, ready to be lashed out at a moment's notice.

More footsteps.

Approaching Aizawa's direction, the footsteps are muffled behind the continuous creaking of wood.

Damn this place for being so old! This creaking will only make things more difficult!

Aizawa pauses and closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath in order to clear his mind. Once again turning his attention towards listening, he considers his options.

They can't be that big, especially if the creaking of wood can muffle their approach so effectively. Perhaps a stealth quirk? Or a lighter build… I can still hear their steps however, so they must not know I'm here.

That, or it's a trap.

Sliding the bond further up his arm, he grips the edge tightly, ready to lash out…

They're getting closer…

The creaking grows louder as they approach. The wood beneath them groans in an aged pain.

Any moment now…

Coming to a sudden stop, the footsteps cease in their approach. Ready for anything, Aizawa clutches the bond, making sure to hold his breath. Taking this moment of reprieve, Aizawa dives out from behind the wooden shelve, snapping his arm forward and sending the restraining bond flying through the air.

CRACK!

The carbon fiber bond smashes through the glass countertop, much to Aizawa's surprise. Crouched and close to the ground, Aizawa turns his head, his gaze unceremoniously met by a pair of worn black stilettos.

Turning his gaze upwards, Aizawa's eyes lock onto the disappointed stare of a middle-aged woman. Crossing her arms into the rolled-up sleeves of her wrinkled white shirt, her matching pencil skirt and stilettos imply that, at one point, she was someone of esteem. Her wiry black hair falls delicately in front of one of her brown eyes, paving a frizzy path towards a face speckled with a mix of old freckles and wrinkles. Her tattered appearance, paired with her fragrant perfume of cigarette ash and sake, represent how such a mighty woman had fallen.

"Shouta", her flat voice rings out, cutting through the palpable silence of the wooden shop.

Aizawa pushes himself up from the ground, looking down at the woman.

She's much shorter than I remembered.

Barely reaching five-feet, the exasperated woman turns her contemptible gaze upwards to meet Aizawa's eyeline.

Taking a deep breath, Aizawa greets the woman.

"Hello, Toshi," He nods, "It's been some time."

Leaning against the glass counter, keeping her arms crossed, Toshi cranes her head back. Her casual demeanor, even while facing down someone like the esteemed Eraserhead, could send a chill down anyone's spine.

"You've grown since the last time I saw you," she comments, measuring Aizawa up.

"Well, it's been some time since the last time we've met," Aizawa replies, turning his head to instead look at the floor.

"And why is that?" Toshi replies, keeping her face as still as possible.

"I was certified. I had more 'official' sources of support," Aizawa mutters under his breath.

"Sure, you received your credentials. That didn't mean you had to stop coming by however," she responds. Aizawa's gut twists in on itself.

He knew she was right. He could have stopped by at any time.

"If I came by, you know what I'd have to do," he replies, still refusing to meet her eyeline.

"Oh Shouta… Always the hero," Toshi turns her head and steps away from the counter. Her stilettos click with each step as she walks away from Aizawa.

"You know I'd have to. You know it," he pleads.

She stops in her tracks.

Turning back towards him, her approach is fiery and spirited, with each clack of her stilettos carrying enough rage to burn a house down. Her face, however, remains as cool as ever.

"You never used to be such a shill-in! Such a watchdog! You used to hate them!" She exclaims, her words enunciated with biting precision. Saliva dribbles from her lip as her brows furrow, an expression of disgust.

Aizawa turns his gaze back towards the floor. For a second, an awkward silence bubbles up inside the shop.

"Shouta… You used to come by every day for years," she comments, the sentence hissing out of her lips as an exasperated whisper.

Aizawa can't bear to look at her. As his eyes slowly study the derelict shop, old images of himself as a teenager slowly fade in.

"Even when you had nothing, you still came here," she continues. Aizawa watches a much younger version of himself try out gadgets as a much younger Toshi watches from the countertop.

"We all did our best to help you, to support you," she passionately exclaims, all while Aizawa watches himself sit atop the countertop, alone, fiddling with his golden goggles.

"We all loved you!"

As the younger Aizawa wipes away tears from his eyes, goggles in hand, he looks up with surprise to find Toshi bringing him a hot cop of cocoa. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she nods, before leaving him to his thoughts.

Turning his focus back to Toshi, Aizawa nods slowly, his inky black hair bobbing with his movements.

"I know. And I betrayed that love, that trust, as soon as I could. And for that, I am eternally sorry," Aizawa softly apologizes, "I thought that, as soon as I got my certifications, I could leave everything I had done behind me. As if that past, that history, was nothing – just something to be expunged."

Aizawa keeps his eyes locked on hers as he apologizes. Tears bubble up in her eyes as he speaks.

"I know it's been far too long. I kept pushing it off, every time I'd try I'd scare myself thinking about how upset you'd all be at me. How upset you'd be at me. And so, I kept pushing it back again and again, until... well until this I guess," Aizawa explains, gesturing softly with his hands.

"Shouta, you were like a son to me," Toshi responds, her voice cracking from sadness.

"I know," Aizawa replies, standing defeated.

"I've waited so long for you to come back…" Toshi mutters.

"And now I'm not even sure if I want you back," she admits, hanging her head in sorrow.

Her reply sends knives into Aizawa. He looks away, hiding his reaction from her.

"I just… I never expected you of all people to do this to someone, Shouta," Toshi continues.

"You of all people, you who were thrown out time and time again. You who could never find a place to stay. The kid who was forsaken by their parents… You of all people should have been the first person to not run out on someone!" Toshi builds up, her voice exploding by the end of her emotional outburst.

Toshi sobs. Her tears fall in droves across the dusty wooden floor beneath her. With a wobbling turn, she adjusts herself to face away from Aizawa.

Hanging his head in sorrow, Aizawa's eyes similarily bubble with tears.

"Toshi," He calls out, obscured behind his hair.

"I know where I went wrong. I know I made mistakes. But I'm here to rectify them, even if it took far too long to get here. It was my mistake to think I'd never have to come back here, that I could go on without this. I always assumed that once I was certified, once I was a hero, I'd never have to return to the lifestyle I once had. Now look at me. Disheveled, broken, and alone. Alone because of my mistake – my greatest mistake. I forsook all of you, for what? A legacy of dirt?"

Toshi doesn't budge.

"Toshi, I've known my own faults for far too long. You know this better than anyone. You know how I can be – I can run headstrong into any fight, but the moment it's my own fault, that the threat before me isn't a villain but something of my own doing, or worse, myself, I break down. I'm terrified, Toshi," Aizawa admits, his voice cracking with each word.

Slumping against the counter, Aizawa holds himself against the glass countertop with a hand.

"Two kids died under my watch. Two good, honest kids," Aizawa continues, his back slowly sliding against the glass towards the floor below.

Looking up towards Toshi, who has now turned to face Aizawa, tears stream from his burning eyes.

"When they brought me into the morgue, all I could see in their faces was Oboru," Aizawa chokes out. Seeing this, Toshi rushes towards the crumpled man, throwing her arms around his neck.

Aizawa's golden goggles thump against his chest as his heart beats.

Pulling Toshi closer, he sobs into her neck.