Ua Traitors Hizashi//Aizawa

The rain fell in sheets over the Musutafu district, a cold November downpour that sent most sensible people indoors. In a cramped second-floor apartment above a closed laundromat, two men sat in dim light, the only illumination coming from a flickering lamp and a laptop screen.

Shota Aizawa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, capture scarf coiled loosely around his neck despite being off-duty. His tired eyes were fixed on the screen, where grainy security footage played on a loop—a hero, one with a high public approval rating, accepting a briefcase from a known yakuza lieutenant.

"Third time this month," Aizawa muttered, voice flat. "And the commission still won't open an investigation."

Hizashi Yamada sat at the small table, headphones around his neck instead of over his ears. His usual boisterous energy was dialed down to something quieter, more dangerous. He tapped the spacebar to pause the footage.

"They won't," he said, an edge creeping into his normally bright voice. "Because Tsukauchi tried. You know what they told him? 'Insufficient evidence.' Even with this." He gestured at the screen. "They're protecting their own."

Aizawa pushed off the wall, moving to stand behind Hizashi, looking at the frozen frame of the exchange. "Then we stop asking permission."

Silence hung between them, heavy and electric. Hizashi's reflection stared back from the dark window—no smile, no pose, no radio host persona. Just a man who had watched too many good people die or disappear because the system was rotten at the core.

"You know what this means," Hizashi said quietly. "If we do this... there's no coming back. They'll call us villains. We lose everything."

Aizawa's hand rested briefly on his Hizashi's shoulder. "We already lost everything that mattered when we watched them bury the truth."

Hizashi reached up, covering Aizawa's hand with his own. Then, slowly, a familiar smirk crept across his face—not the performative one for crowds, but the real one, sharp and determined.

"Well then, little listener." He stood, turning to face Aizawa. "Looks like we're going underground."

The rain continued its assault on the windows as Hizashi crossed to a battered duffel bag in the corner, unzipping it to reveal the gleaming components of their hero gear—modified now, stripped of any identifying markers.

Aizawa watched him for a long moment, then reached into his own bag, pulling out a plain black mask. No goggles. No yellow accents. Nothing that could trace back to U.A.'s Eraserhead.

"I've been in contact with someone," Aizawa said, his voice carefully neutral. "A detective. One who's been building a case file for three years, watching heroes get away with worse and worse. He's been waiting for people who could do something about it."

Hizashi paused, one hand on his modified speaker collar. "Tsukauchi?"

"No." Aizawa shook his head. "Someone who works in the shadows. He has a list—names, locations, patterns. Corrupt heroes operating under commission protection. He's been building it in secret, waiting for the right moment."

"And you trust him?"

"I trust the information." Aizawa pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to Hizashi. On it was an address and a single name: Sato.

"Our first target," Aizawa said quietly. "Endeavor's former sidekick. Now runs his own agency in Hosu. Three open cases of excessive force, all buried. Two witnesses who disappeared. One who didn't survive the interrogation."

Hizashi's jaw tightened, his usual smile nowhere to be found. He read the name, committing it to memory, then looked up at Aizawa.

"When do we move?"

Aizawa's gaze was cold, final. "Tonight."

Aizawa pulled his goggles from his pocket, the yellow lenses catching the dim light as he turned them over in his hands. A moment of silence passed before he tucked them away, replacing them with a simple black visor—anonymous, untraceable.

"The detective will meet us at the edge of Hosu's industrial district. Old warehouse, no cameras, no witnesses. He'll provide the final location and any movement patterns Sato's been following."

Hizashi finished securing his modified gear, testing the range of his neck speaker with a quiet hum that barely registered above the rain. "And after Sato? There'll be more, won't there?"

"More than we can handle alone," Aizawa admitted. "But we don't have to handle them all. We just have to start the fire. Once people see that corrupt heroes aren't untouchable—" He paused, something flickering behind his tired eyes. "Others will join."

Hizashi pulled on a dark jacket, zipping it to his chin, obscuring the speaker at his throat. He grabbed a plain black cap, tucking his distinctive blond hair beneath it. Without his usual flamboyant style, he looked like anyone else—just another face in the crowd.

"Shouta."

Aizawa stopped, hand on the frame, not turning around.

"I'm not sorry," Hizashi said quietly. "Whatever happens tonight, whatever they call us after this... I'm not sorry we're doing this. I'm not sorry I'm doing it with you."

For just a moment, Aizawa's shoulders relaxed. Then he opened the door, letting the sound of rain fill the small apartment.

"Let's go, Hizashi."

They stepped out into the night, leaving behind their names, their licenses, and the last traces of the heroes they used to be.

The warehouse district of Hosu lay silent under the storm. A single figure waited in the shadows of an overhang, collar turned up against the weather, the faint glow of a cigarette the only sign of life. As Aizawa and Hizashi approached, the figure dropped the cigarette, grinding it out beneath his heel.

"Sato's in a private club tonight," the detective said without preamble, voice low and rough with years of suppressed frustration. "No hero work. Just drinking with his old agency contacts. He'll leave around midnight, take the back alley to his car."

Aizawa nodded, eyes scanning the darkened streets. "Alone?"

"Usually. He's arrogant. Thinks his reputation protects him." The detective's eyes flicked to Hizashi, then back to Aizawa. "You sure about this? Once you cross this line, there's no uncrossing it."

Hizashi's voice cut through the rain, quiet but firm. "We crossed it the moment we started watching."

The detective studied them for a long moment, then reached into his coat, pulling out a manila envelope. "Everything I have on Sato, plus the next three targets. Use it—or burn it. Your choice." He pressed it into Aizawa's hands, then turned and disappeared into the maze of warehouses without another word.

Alone in the rain, Aizawa and Hizashi stood facing the direction of the private club, the distant glow of its lights visible through the downpour.

"Hizashi." Aizawa's voice was barely audible. "From here on, we're villains."

Hizashi let out a breath, then cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. When he spoke, there was no smile in his voice—only iron resolve.

"No, Sho. We're the reckoning."