Ordinarily, coming home after a long day was the highlight of Aizawa's evening, particularly if he'd been out stalking criminals or wrangling a bunch of rowdy teenagers.

Instead, his mood had cooled from his encounter with Tanaka to a kind of a grim annoyance, which made it more than a little difficult to relax.

She was a brat. Cocky. All frills and flounces and facetiousness - not, in fact, sorry for her crimes at all. Aizawa rubbed his jaw and felt stubble prickle his palm. It didn't surprise him that she'd flown under the radar for however long she had before she'd ended up in over her head. No doubt people took one look at her, with her short stature and those ridiculous eyes and dismissed her as nothing that need be taken seriously, nothing that could possibly be a threat. Tanaka may have played the dumb blonde when it suited her, but it was a trap.

And then there was him. The man behind it all.

Tanaka's former boss had never been caught and was presumably still at large, but the manhunt for him had died down since the League of Villains made a nuisance out of themselves. He was known amongst both Pros and police alike, yet he had somehow managed to elude them when his schemes fell through. Aizawa supposed that wasn't difficult, not when your alias was The Nightmare. A man who could get inside your head, pluck out your worst fears or heart's desire and show it to you...no doubt a man with a Quirk like that wielded considerable power in the underground, where little things like Quirk restriction laws were ignored. None of his former subordinates seemed to know where he went, and normally between five people, someone would give a gap in their testimony or crack under pressure, but in this case it seemed all of them were telling the truth. The man they knew was Motoya had vanished without a trace. None of them had been in contact with him since then; they'd certainly not received any prison visits, though only a fool would brazenly stroll into enemy base like that.

What remained a far more intriguing mystery was just how influential Motoya had been on his subordinates. All of them had pleaded guilty - they could hardly deny their involvement - but almost all of them had hinted or outright claimed that had been coerced or even blackmailed into it. Aizawa knew he'd have to keep a close eye on Tanaka, because from what he'd seen, she wouldn't need to be persuaded into wreaking havoc, but those snap judgments were exactly the sort of hasty, emotion-driven decisions that he tended to put very little stock in.

Not to mention...there was something about Tanaka that made him pause. She seemed to be oh-so unbothered and putting up the pretense of going along with things, but Aizawa had detected hints of resistance in the blonde. She was undeniably irritated when he started making guesses about what sort of person she was (accurate ones, based off her response, though he'd phrased them in an unflattering way), only for her insouciant demeanour to slip back into place when she managed to annoy him. Funny that she got so defensive - Tanaka obviously cared a great deal about her looks, yet a little needling from Aizawa had yielded interesting results. Clearly, there was a lot more going on with little miss Youmu Tanaka than she was willing to let on.

Aizawa scoffed to himself, and then glanced down as something furry brushed his ankle. Big green eyes met his own and, despite himself, a faint grin tugged at his face.

"Alright, alright," he mumbled, getting up, and the cat happily trotted to the kitchen ahead of him, tail in the air.

As Aizawa set about feeding the cat, he put his current predicament out of his mind. Right now, he had an annoying beast to attend to and sleep to catch up on. Everything else could wait until morning.

Perhaps she was a little overdressed to go see a therapist.

Youmu examined herself critically. Her hair was shiny and bouncy (she had spent so long in the shower she was wrinkled as a prune when she stepped out), her makeup was done flawlessly and, most importantly, every inch of potential remaining prison grime had been scrubbed off her. After reluctantly digging around in some boxes, she found some clothing that was decently clean and not so wrinkled she'd have to plug in the cheap iron. The tea-dress swished about her legs, black and printed with daisies, soft against her skin. She looked more like she was going to an outdoor festival than a tedious appointment, but she wasn't about to get changed now. Anyway, Youmu didn't see the point in owning ugly clothes.

Besides, she had more important concerns.

Namely...why did he call? Out of all the voices in the world, Motoya's was not the first that had popped into her head when she answered. She had assumed he had washed his hands of her and the others after they were arrested. He'd certainly made sure their wellbeing didn't interfere with his escape. And also...what did he want? Surely he didn't think he could snap his fingers and she'd come trotting to his side as though nothing had happened? He hadn't been on the phone long enough to say, only that he'd be in touch again and that he was calling from an untraceable number, so even if the cops did figure out who had called her, they'd never be able to trace it. Was he just letting her know that he was watching her so she'd keep her mouth shut?

Youmu huffed as she popped her sunglasses on top of her head. She had no idea how he knew where she'd been assigned a living arrangement, but she wasn't surprised - Motoya had connections everywhere in the underground, like veins, and their lifeblood as rumours and dirty deals. Her location must have been child's play. But Motoya underestimated her if he thought his ploy would work on her again; it had the first time when she was too young, angry and stupid to think about the long-term consequences, but she would not be forgiving him for leaving them to rot in jail any time soon, especially after everything she'd had to endure in there.

A sharp rapping on the door brought her back to the present.

"Tanaka, it's Aizawa. Hurry up." came the dulcet tones of her probation officer.

Rolling her eyes, Youmu swung her purse onto her shoulder and, after glancing into the kitchen (she had indeed ordered take-out last night, but she didn't want to give Aizawa the satisfaction of being right, so she'd taken care to hide all the packaging in a trash bag), then unlocked the door.

She wasn't surprised to see that Aizawa had reverted to his usual 'groggy mess' attire – shapeless black…jumpsuit? Shirt and pants? She honestly couldn't tell – along with his signature scarf and goggles. Youmu slipped on her platform wedges, ignoring the incredulous look Aizawa gave her. She would not be judged by a man who looked like he hadn't showered in three weeks.

Like the trip before, the pair were silent as they descended the stairs, though today held a considerably chillier atmosphere, mainly on Aizawa's end. Youmu, for her part, was far too preoccupied pondering Motoya's cryptic little phone calls to pay much mind to whatever mood Eraserhead was in. Aizawa watched the girl suspiciously from the corner of his eye for the entirety of the car journey. He didn't mind the quiet, but just what was going on behind those peculiar eyes of hers?

The psychiatrist's building was a squat, off-white place about fifteen minutes away from the safehouse. The almost offensive blandness of it made Youmu not want go inside – but the alternative was to stay in the car with a stone-faced Eraserhead and a driver who kept giving her these annoying little glances in the rearview mirror. Pervert.

"Don't bother coming back for me," Youmu informed Aizawa as she stepped out of the car, sliding her sunglasses over her face. "I'm going shopping later."

Aizawa frowned. The sunglasses, the dismissive attitude. She was talking to him like he was her personal assistant and the driver was her chauffeur. He leaned back in his seat, arms folded.

"Fine. Try to get some use out of this – and be aware that I'll get a phone call if you don't go in to your appointment, or if you try to leave early. Failure to attend your appointments contravenes your parole, so there will be consequences."

Youmu arched an eyebrow and responded by slamming the door, turning with a dramatic whip of hair.

Get some use of it this, my arse.

Without looking back, she click-clacked towards the psychiatrist's office, aware of Aizawa's eyes burning into her back. Well, let him glare all he wanted - he couldn't follow her into her shrink session, and so she could continue reeling Miyawaki in until she was no longer legally obligated to keep in contact with the insipid woman.

"She's not exactly making this easy for you, is she?" the driver said, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as they pulled away from the curb. "Just toeing the line enough not to get in trouble."

"Ever heard of white mutiny?" Shouta muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "That woman is a walking picture of passive-aggressiveness."

A snorted laugh from the driver followed that statement, and he turned in his seat to look back at Aizawa with a sympathetic expression on his face.

"Want me to drive you straight home?"

Aizawa nodded, exhausted.

"Thanks."

Though Aizawa should have enjoyed it more, since the ride was now Tanaka-less, he found himself replaying the trip in his mind like a detective repeatedly rewinding camera footage. She'd seemed…distant. Lost in thought. As if something heavy was playing on her mind, enough to keep her quiet and wholly uninterested in pestering him with those faux-sugary remarks. What had happened between yesterday afternoon and this morning?

Aizawa decided to do a little poking around.

On his arrival home, he made a beeline straight for his laptop. A few strokes of the keyboard and the official Hero network popped up onscreen. Aizawa rubbed his neck, smirked.

"Let's see what your old friends are up to, Tanaka…"

A clock ticked loudly.

Youmu tried hard not to fidget, to betray her impatience, though her knee would give a telltale twitch as she tapped the heel of her shoe on the carpeted floor. Just a little bit longer and she was free to get out of this room, with its noisy clock, clunky air conditioner and the scratch-scratch-scratch of Dr. Miyawaki's pen.

Youmu detested places like this. Everything about Miyawaki annoyed her, from her neutral, earthy-toned clothing, as if bright colours might alarm Youmu and she'd react violently, to her stupid whisper-breathing manner of speaking, no loud noises. She especially hated the placid smile, the round glasses, everything designed to make her seem trustworthy. Youmu didn't trust her – she thought the woman was about as smart as one of the fake plants she kept on her desk. Youmu found it hard to believe this woman was a trained professional – she'd been feeding her a pack of lies for months now, telling her whatever she wanted to hear if it meant she'd get out of that hellhole of a prison any sooner. Even thinking about it made her stomach twist. She wouldn't give Miyawaki anything that could be used to prove she was anything less than a perfect, reformed little citizen. Fortunately for Youmu, much of her life had been rather sparsely documented. In a calculated moment of honest, she had allowed to Miyawaki that she'd had a 'difficult childhood', since her records from the orphanage would make that difficult to hide. The fact no family to speak of ever showed up either be there at her trial or visit her in prison was also a dead giveaway. Still, Youmu remained vague about Shinbuya orphanage, claiming not to remember it well. She didn't like to talk about back then on a good day, let alone to a simpering idiot with hideous shoes.

They'd spent most of the hour talking about what it meant for Youmu now that she was out of prison, about her 'goals'. Youmu recited platitudes about 'turning a new leaf' and 'the start of a new chapter' like a good girl, and Miyawaki beamed at her like she was a dog who had successfully jumped through a hoop.

Let Aizawa be suspicious all he wanted – nothing in her records would trip her up. Hopefully her performance would be so convincing she'd soon never have to set foot in this office again. Youmu thought of her little bundle of letters at the safehouse and allowed herself a small smile.

"Our hour is almost up, Youmu-san," Miyawaki said, glancing at her wristwatch. "Do you have anything else to add?"

"Do you know anything about Eraserhead?" Youmu asked abruptly, figuring it wouldn't hurt to prod her for information. "He's my probation officer, but I hardly know a thing about him."

"Ah, Eraserhead-san?" Miyawaki said, looking thoughtful, tapping her pen against her chin. "He's very respected in his field. He does quite a lot of underground work, though, so I'm afraid I don't know any exact details, plus he hates the press."

"Hmm, that's unusual for a Pro," Youmu remarked, making a deliberately puzzled face. "Normally they do all kinds of interviews and stuff, right?"

She wasn't an idiot – it made sense that someone who regularly stalked through the city's dark underbelly as a career would recoil from the spotlight, both for pragmatic reasons about not being recognised and just a personality thing. She definitely couldn't picture Aizawa sitting in a squashy chair and fake laughing as an interviewer asked him stupid questions, though the mental image was pretty hilarious. She was beginning to see that Aizawa had been a very clever choice to watch her – not just because of his Quirk, but another older man may have been easy to flatter, or saw only what she wanted him to see, allowing her to play the ingénue or the heartless monster, depending on which newspaper he read.

Aizawa, though, was dry as a piece of toast. A man who wore duty like a weight around his neck, but one he had grown used to and carried without complaint. She'd get more reaction out of a brick wall if she flirted with it, he possessed no obvious weaknesses that she could see and he was cold and emotionless as an android.

The perfect antidote to a girl with a love Quirk. She thought, darkly.

"Well, Youmu-san, that's all for today. I'll see you later this week," Miyawaki said and Youmu rose, doing her best not to look as relieved as she felt.

"I'm sure you will," she practically simpered, before swishing out of the office.

She rolled her eyes the minute the door shut behind her, tugging her sunglasses back down over her face. Apparently she'd be doing 'volunteer work' as part of her probation too, which started tomorrow. Lovely. She hoped dearly she wouldn't be stuck in a factory somewhere, wearing a hairnet and stuffing frozen chickens. The thought made her want to gag.

Despite the kernel of anger simmering in the pit of her stomach, Youmu smiled as she walked out onto the street, the sun hot and pleasant on her face. She'd never appreciated what a freeing feeling it was, being able to walk out into the sun as much as she had today. But she had other things to look forward to as well - right now, she had some shopping to do.

It was fortunate that Youmu went shopping beforehand. It was a good thing she was somewhere private, where she could lock herself up and stay buried in her bed.

Youmu spent that night in pain. Agonising, bewildering pain. She feared that her stomach might burst from it, and she muffled her cries against the pillow, paranoid her neighbours below would hear her and be angry at the noise, or they'd hear a woman crying and come to investigate.

Nothing she did brought her any solace. She went through fits of being either stiflingly hot or intolerably cold; sweat beading her brow and her teeth chattering. She vomited several times, a sour, vile taste lingering in her mouth. She had no medication to take in the safehouse, but perhaps it was just as well – it was unlikely to stay down. Besides, she knew that all she could really do was ride it out.

Youmu drifted in and out of consciousness, waves of pain and nausea needling her whenever she was awake. It went on all night until a sudden rapping on the door jolted her back to reality, her eyes fluttering open. Shit. Aizawa was supposed to be taking her to her temporary job on the first day so she wouldn't try to find it herself and get lost. She couldn't answer the door like this – she could hardly see straight.

"Tanaka," Aizawa said, but there was no answer. What was she doing in there? Primping? "Open up."

No answer. Well, fortunately he wouldn't have to break the door down – he had his own key.

Aizawa stepped into the apartment, not quite sure what to expect, but everything looked relatively normal. It was only when a muffled whimper caught his attention and he and he made his way towards the girl's bedroom.

"Hello?" he pushed open the door.

Tanaka was huddled in a ball, barely visible beneath the tangled covers. Aizawa approached slowly, his hand automatically reaching for his scarf. He didn't exactly think that she was going to rear up and attack him, but alarm bells were jangling – a girl who put on lipgloss to go see a therapist would never allow Aizawa to see her like this. Not by choice.

"Tanaka?" Aizawa said with more urgency than before, peeling back the covers. "What's wrong?"

She took a moment to answer, licking her dry lips as another surge of pain wracked her body. Her complexion was waxy and despite her shivering, there was a faint sheen of sweat to her skin. Her eyes met Aizawa's briefly, a glassy sheen to them that made his stomach clench.

"My…my stomach…" she managed to say, voice raspy from the repeated retching last night.

Aizawa's eyes swept over the room, but he didn't see any drug paraphernalia or liquor bottles. She didn't seem like the type anyway, but appearances could be deceiving. The blonde woman let out a squeak of pain and turned her face away to hide her discomfort, as if ashamed Aizawa might see. His thumb and forefinger gently turned her face back towards him. Her lips were starting to turn blue. Shit.

"Did you take something?" he asked, making sure to appear as calm as possible. "I can't help you if I don't know what happened."

"I don't know…I haven't…" Tanaka murmured, before her eyes suddenly widened, a look of dawning realisation on her face. "Water…nngh…Yamamoto, she…she gave me water before I l-left…she must've put something in it…"

Aizawa frowned. The prison guard? But that was two days ago, what could be causing her this kind of pain after two days?

Nevermind that now. She needs to go to the emergency room.

He crossed the room to some boxes sitting in the corner and began tearing them open until he found what he was looking for. He approached Tanaka and bundled her up in a blanket, ignoring her little mewl of protest.

"Be quiet," he said, though his tone lacked bite. "This is the easiest way."

Easy being open to interpretation – the lift was broken so Aizawa had no recourse but to carry her down the stairs, since she was in no fit state to stand, let alone walk. She was light in his arms; no doubt thanks to the appalling food in prison, but despite himself Aizawa found that he was holding her a little closer.

The driver was idling by the car outside, waiting, but when he saw Aizawa, he jumped up and hurried to open the door. Aizawa bundled Tanaka inside, climbing in and slamming the door.

"Hospital."

Yamamoto. Aizawa glanced at Tanaka, who had cocooned herself in the blanket as best she could, hiding herself from view. Was that the reason she'd given Tanaka that parting shot?

"You're a monster. And people like you are never gonna be fixed."

Tanaka had realised who it was very quickly…was this a repeat performance? He recalled her hesitation when he offered her his eyedrops after they left the prison – was that a conditioned response whenever anybody in charge gave her something?

Aizawa's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he glared ahead at nothing in particular. Thankfully the driver went fast and took several shortcuts, so it didn't take long for Hosu General to loom into view. Aizawa had hoped that he wouldn't have to see this place for a couple of months until his students were back and getting themselves injured again, but things rarely worked out that way.

He gathered the blanket up in his arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Aizawa got quite a few odd looks, marching into A&E with a squirming woman wrapped up in a thin blanket, but Aizawa was too busy focusing on the girl to give much of a damn. Nurses soon snapped to attention and Tanaka was plucked from his arms and laid onto a stretcher, orders being shouted and people moving in a blur. His arms felt strangely empty without her. Aizawa himself was bombarded with questions – her name, age, height, weight, etc. He answered as best he could.

"I don't know what she's taken," he said for the third time. "She said she thinks her drink was spiked, but she ingested it almost two days ago."

A nurse nodded as she scribbled away on a clipboard, looking even more tired than Aizawa himself was.

"You got her here as fast as you could, which is what's important, Aizawa-san. Hopefully her bloodwork should prove conclusive, or she might get rid of the substance on her own. For now, leave her with us and we'll contact you immediately if there's any change to her condition. If you remember anything else, let us know."

Aizawa nodded and the nurse bustled away. Though his face was impassive as ever, anybody who knew Aizawa could have told you quite a different story. He strode out of the hospital entrance, whipping out his phone and dialling. On the third ring it picked up.

"I need to speak with Karin Yamamoto," Aizawa said, his voice tight with anger. "Immediately."

Ooooh, he pissed.

See you next chapter, everyone!