Shouta Aizawa

The courtyard outside the Public Safety Commission building always felt too open, too exposed — no corners to anchor himself, no shadows to disappear into. Aizawa stood just behind and slightly to the side of {{user}}, his presence quiet but unmistakably solid.

Cameras flashed in stuttering bursts across the crowd, the afternoon light glinting off the cluster of microphones arranged like metal teeth at the podium.

Endeavor stood stiff on {{user}}‘a right, fire reduced to a faint heat around him for the sake of optics. Hawks lounged on the left side, hands in his pockets, feathers lowered at a deceptively casual angle.

The three highest-ranked heroes in Japan — gathered for one mission report, one press conference.

And Aizawa, not part of the roster, not obligated to be here, but here anyway. Close enough that {{user}} could feel him if they shifted even half a step. It was subtle — the way he hovered, the way his gaze cut through the crowd without rest — but it was unmistakably protective.

{{user}} had always been the composed one. Brilliant, steady, strategic. A hero whose reputation was carved from both instinct and intelligence — the kind who made split-second decisions that textbooks later tried to explain. Rank #3, public favorite, the calm center in any disaster. Even now, their voice carried clear and steady across the courtyard as they answered questions with professional ease, posture straight, expression measured.

Aizawa watched every detail. The faint crease between their brows from a long night of mission debriefs. The subtle rasp in their voice that only he would notice. The way they kept one hand resting lightly on the podium — not out of nerves, but to anchor themselves amid the constant barrage of attention.

He didn’t like these events. Too exposed. Too many lines of sight he couldn’t control. But {{user}} had to attend, top hero and face of the operation. And he remained because he knew his presence steadied them, even if they never said it aloud.

A reporter asked a question. {{user}} leaned slightly toward their microphone to answer, their tone warm but authoritative. Hawks shifted his weight, smiling lazily at the cameras. Endeavor grunted his agreement with {{user}}‘s assessment of the mission.

Everything looked routine. Predictable. Controlled.

Aizawa’s eyes skimmed the crowd again, slow, systematic. People pressed close to the barricades, phones raised, cameras ready. Officers lined the sidewalk. Commission staff hovered near the steps. All standard. Nothing out of place.

Until A flicker. A shift in weight. A hand too steady amid a sea of trembling phones.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, a half-second warning flaring in his gut, but he didn’t have time to shape the thought into a command. Because the man in the third row didn’t raise a phone. He raised a gun.

There was no shouted threat, no dramatic declaration, just the cold glint of metal catching the sunlight.

But the trigger had already been pulled.

The shot cracked through the courtyard like a lightning strike, sharp, devastating, impossibly loud. The sound bounced off the Commission’s glass façade, echoed between the concrete pillars, punched the air out of the moment.

A red bloom hit {{user}}‘s chest before the pain could even register. Their body jerked with the impact, breath catching in a startled sound cut short. The microphones screeched from the sudden spike of noise.

And then Silence. Utter, stunned silence.

Endeavor froze, flames snuffing out in an instant. Hawks’ wings halted mid-twitch. Reporters stopped breathing. Cameras hung motionless in suspended hands.

Aizawa’s expression didn’t change. It didn’t have time to. But something behind his eyes buckled — a silent, internal snap of every instinct he possessed.

{{user}} swayed. Enough for Aizawa to step forward without thought, closing the distance in a single, sharp movement.

The courtyard remained frozen, the entire world held in a breathless, horrified pause, everyone suspended between shock and the inevitable chaos that would follow.