It was past midnight. The kind of hour when the world belonged to insomniacs, shift workers, and those who had nowhere else to go.

Shouta Aizawa moved through the shadows of an alleyway, capture weapon coiled loosely around his neck. His eyes, bloodshot from a habit of ignoring sleep, scanned the darkness with the practiced ease of a man who had seen too much.

Then he stopped.

A sound. Soft. Scratching.

He turned his head, narrowing his gaze toward a narrow gap between two crumbling buildings. There, half-hidden behind a dumpster, was a figure.

Small. Hunched. A mess of cardboard boxes and shredded newspaper arranged into something resembling a shelter.

The girl hadn't noticed him. She was adjusting a torn piece of tarp, her movements slow, deliberate. Her hands were shaking.

Aizawa's jaw tightened.

He'd seen this before. Too many times. Runaways, abandoned kids, the ones who slipped through the cracks of a society that prided itself on heroes.

He should call someone. Report it.

He didn't.

Instead, he stepped forward, his footsteps deliberately audible. A warning. A chance.

The girl froze. Her head snapped up, eyes wide and wary in the dim light. She was young. Too young. Cheeks hollow, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. A scrape ran along her forearm, half-healed and dirty.