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As an underground hero, Shouta Aizawa isn’t front and center when it comes to flashy rescues. He’s where nobody wanted to be; in the shadows, dealing with the dirty part of heroism—the part that the public never wanted to see.
Quirk trafficking, drug rings that have experimented on civilians, kidnappings that didn’t end in a happy ending, and murders conducted by underground groups or murderous individuals.
He had seen it all—the good and the bad, though mostly the bad. There were victims he managed to save. They were alive, but the deep scars always lingered. More often, though, he saw the worst: the lifeless bodies of those who had screamed desperately for help—any hope of rescue reduced into nothing but ashes of forgotten pleas.
It’s because of this why nobody wants to do this job. It doesn’t bring fame or glory—just the occasional soft “thanks” from the traumatized individuals he manages to save. It can leave a mark on someone, too; it certainly has on him. Yet, through all of that, he has to remain hidden, in the shadows, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
But Shouta—oddly enough, prefers it that way.
He is not a big fan of the fame that comes with being a hero.
And he gets to work at night, which suits his schedule—and most of the action unfolds beneath the veil of absolute darkness, when shadows can dance under the obscurity of the nightly atmosphere, hidden beneath the twinkle of the stars.
He has run into criminals during his nightly excursions—those who have done despicable things. But not civilians (unless he’s saving them), and certainly not kids. Of course, he’s unfortunately seen children and teenagers caught in the middle when busting drug rings or quirk trafficking cases—but never just walking alone in the middle of the night.
Well, never except for now.
Shouta was doing his usual rounds—patrolling the empty streets, lightly illuminated by the warm streetlights.
Nothing much was happening. The air was cool and crisp. The nightly breeze brushed against his hair as he took slow steps, keeping his senses sharp. The crescent moon hung delicately in the sky, its pale illumination mixing with the artificial light and bathing the streets in a soft, yet vibrant, silvery sheen.
The quietness alluded him to somewhere—a place.
Home.
He could call it a night. Go home, snuggle into his warm bed, and get a few hours of sleep before the next day begins.
That’s what he hoped, wanted, but the universe had other plans.
Out of nowhere, earsplitting screams—no, cries—bellow from somewhere nearby, shattering the chill air. They sound high-pitched, unmistakably from a child. Shouta freezes, heart pounding. His eyes dart wildly as he scans the area, concern etched into his features.
A kid?
But how? How was a child here?
The streets are empty. Desolate. Not a place for a kid to be hanging out. Whoever is here, Shouta has to find them and get them somewhere safe before they unknowingly get hurt or poke their nose into something they shouldn’t.
Shouta walks, then breaks into a run, chasing the sound—those desperate cries. He turns every corner and searches every alleyway but finds nothing. What unsettles him the most is that the cries are fading, growing fainter with each passing second.
His heart races with every step, rushing to his ears. One hand was on his capture weapon, ready to act, while the other adjusted his yellow glasses in the event his quirk is needed. He is prepared, attentive, but his panic was building—more and more—the longer the silence lasted. He feared the worst, and he had seen the worst.
He does not want a child to see or experience the horrors of the worst, not while he is here.
So, he runs and listens, not giving up until he finds the kid. But every empty street, every turned corner leads to nothing, only to the whistles of the wind blowing through the barren alleyway.
As the minutes pass, his hope drops inch by inch.
“Kid…where are—”
Then, without notice, as soon as he pivots into another alleyway, something—or someone—slams into him, sending Shouta stumbling. He catches himself just in time, steadying his footing before he hits the ground.
"Ouch." The person who collided with him falls backward, landing hard on the asphalt. Their arms shoot out behind them, absorbing most of the impact.
“Oh, didn’t see you there, are you—”
But Shouta stops before he could finish his sentence, spellbound by the individual before him.
It’s a kid. A boy with lavender hair and eyes that match the tone of his locks. The boy, staring at him as if witnessing a ghost, just sits there as if defeated. The presence of this kid—who looks no younger than nine or ten—is alarming enough, but what really sets off bells blaring in Shouta’s head is the boy’s appearance
His clothes look worn—too worn. Threads hang loose from the seams, and dirt clings to the fabric like a second skin. They look like they have been worn for years on end, rarely washed, and held together by poorly done stitches.
And his skin—bruised and cut all over. One eye swollen, clearly a black eye. And his wrists…his wrists.
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the sudden silence.
He has only seen these types of injuries from kidnapped victims who had been shackled or restrained, marked by the efforts of their futile struggle. The way he was seeing these abrasions on this kid—on this boy who looked like he was on the verge of crying—meant one thing.
He’s in danger—running from something violent, something that left those marks. Shouta knows—he has to act and help this kid.
Shouta can see the fear etched into the boy’s face. He looks like even a single deep breath might set something off, bring more pain. He is on the defensive too, prepared to flee if the moment presented itself.
He knows he has to tread lightly, even though his bubbling anger urges him otherwise. If this is the boy he heard crying, he can’t risk letting him out of his sight. He doesn’t know the full extent of the boy’s condition, but one thing is certain—he’d rather keep him here and safe than risk him running off into whatever danger might be lurking nearby.
And talking about danger.
Who did this to him and why?
If he’s to help him, he needs to know.
Slowly, he kneels in front of the boy and removes his glasses—but that small movement seems to trigger something. The kid flinches, his body tensing as if ready to bolt. Shouta gently places a hand on his shoulder, keeping him rooted and offering a warm, reassuring smile
“Hey kid, sorry about that. Are you hurt?” Shouta begins, hoping to ease into a conversation and reduce some of his anxieties.
But the question seems to flip a switch in him. Instead of answering with a simple “yes” or “no,” his mouth tightens, lips pressing together like a sealed door—holding back whatever he wants to say. He averts his gaze and gives a small, reluctant nod
“No.”
Shouta knows that’s a lie—the kid’s injuries speak for themselves. But maybe he’s referring to their collision, not the damage already done to him. Still, something about the silence unsettles him. He didn’t say a word, not even a whisper. Maybe it’s just caution. The kid doesn’t know who he is. Shouta hasn’t identified himself yet…he should fix that
“I’m glad I didn’t hurt you. I’m Shouta Aizawa, by the way, also known as the hero, Eraserhead. Would you mind telling me what your name is?” Shouta asks, keeping his voice low and gentle.
His eyes seem to sparkle as soon as he hears the word “hero,” and Shouta can tell he wants to respond, say something. His limbs tremble with the urge to speak, eager to let the vowels flow. But soon something shifts—whether it was a sudden realization or a thought surfacing in his mind, the trembling stopped, and he lowers his gaze, lips pressed tightly shut.
He nods. Again.
His reply only deepens Shouta’s concern. Sure, it could’ve been chalked up to shyness or timidness—but this was something else. The unmistakable fear in his eyes when prompted to respond, the flicker of panic in his pupils, isn’t just hesitation or nerves.
It’s a survival instinct.
He’s actually scared to talk. Like the act of speaking can harm him.
Shouta’s blood boils. Rage—rarely this intense—surges through him like a runaway truck. His heart pounds, his muscles tense with undying fury. But he forces himself to stay calm; losing his temper would only make this already distressing situation worse.
He takes a few calming breaths and continues, a soft grin spreading across his lips.
“That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. Do you want to—write it? Well, text it. I only have a phone.” Shouta asks, pulling his phone out and showing the kid.
He stares at it, eyes twinkling, amazed by the device. But even with his marvel, he doesn’t smile, yet he nod.
“Yes.” He responds.
“Good.” He unlocks his phone and opens the notes app, then hands it to the kid. The boy takes it, his hands trembling. “You can tell me your name there.”
The boy looks at the device, then back at him—hesitant, as if unsure whether he truly has permission, as if fearing that this simple act might somehow get him hurt.
Shouta notices his hesitation, “It’s okay. I’m just here to help. I am a hero.”
Again, he reacts at the word “hero.” His fingers hover over the keys before pressing them, slowly tapping one after another. His focus stays sharp on the screen, not daring to look away. Shouta waits a few seconds before the kid reaches out to hand the phone back to him.
Shouta accepts it and reads the kanji.
Hitoshi Shinso
“Shinso…it’s good to meet you,” Shouta responds, glad to have a name to the face.
Hitoshi nods but says nothing else.
“Well, kid. It’s getting pretty late, and it isn’t safe for you to be walking out here. Don’t you have a home or somewhere to go?” Shouta asks.
Hitoshi squeaks in panic and immediately begins to back away, scooting himself away from the hero. The color seems to drain from his face, eyes blinded with raw, unfiltered terror.
A cold knot twists in Shouta’s gut—now, the pieces are starting to fall into place.
The bruises.
His injuries.
His clothes.
He ran away from some kind of home. And the muteness—said “home” must’ve been responsible for his current condition.
Shouta quickly acts; he is not going to let this kid run away.
“It’s okay, kid. I won’t take you there if you don’t want me to. But I don’t want you to be here, it’s not safe.” Shouta slowly steps forward and extends his hand, Hitoshi gazes at his palm, tears in his eyes, looking with hesitation. “I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
It takes a few seconds, but eventually, Hitoshi gives a small nod and reaches out, closing his tiny fingers around Shouta’s hand. Shouta carefully helps him to his feet. “Thanks, kid,” he says, gently ruffling the boy’s hair, noticing how oily it feels. “Let’s go.” He motions for Hitoshi to hold his hand—and the boy takes it without hesitation.
They begin their walk, venturing out of the gloomy alleyway.
He doesn’t know what’s wrong with the kid, but he will make sure that whoever did this to him pays for their actions.