The assignment sheet said joint patrol. It should have been simple: two pros, quiet district, watch the alleys until dawn. You’d been dreading it all week. When you met him at the station, he was already there, leaning against the wall with his hair half-tied and the same unreadable look he always wore. The fluorescent lights made his shadows sharp. He didn’t greet you; just a small nod and a curt, “Ready?” You nodded back because arguing before midnight would only make it worse. The city at night was damp with early rain. You could smell the concrete cooling, hear the hiss of cars somewhere far below. Aizawa moved like he was built for the dark—no wasted steps, no noise. You tried to match his rhythm and hated how easy he made it look. Half an hour in, he stopped near a fire escape, scanning the street with that calm precision that made you feel loud just for breathing. “Perimeter first,” he said. You wanted to ask why not the rooftop? but bit your tongue. You’d already learned that he didn’t explain things twice. When you reached the roof, you set up the small receiver while he adjusted his goggles. You could hear the soft fabric drag of his scarf behind you, the faint rasp of cloth on metal as he coiled it back into place. Everything about him was controlled, deliberate. You sat cross-legged, pretending to check the equipment again. “Do you ever talk during patrols,” you asked, “or is that against protocol?” “Depends,” he said. His tone didn’t change. “On whether the talking’s useful.” You laughed under your breath. “Right.” For a while, the only sounds were the wind and the faint buzz of the receiver. Down on the street, a neon sign flickered, painting brief flashes of red across the edge of the roof. The glow touched his face for a second, then disappeared. He looked tired, not just physically—tired in the way people get when they’ve carried too much for too long. You pushed the thought away. Another hour passed. You spotted movement in the alley—a figure slipping between dumpsters. You started forward before you could think. His hand closed around your arm, firm but not rough. “Wait,” he said. “There’s—” “Cats,” he interrupted quietly. “Three of them.” You looked again. He was right. Three strays, pale shapes nosing through trash. You felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck. His hand dropped away immediately, as if contact itself had been accidental. “Next time,” he said, “verify first.” You wanted to snap back, but the steadiness in his voice left no room for pride. You turned back toward the skyline, biting the inside of your cheek until the sting faded. Later, on the walk back, you lagged a step behind. The rain had started again, thin needles against the pavement. He didn’t seem to mind getting wet; his scarf was already dark with it. When you reached the station entrance, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Good instincts,” he said quietly. “You just move too fast.” It wasn’t quite a compliment, but it wasn’t a reprimand either. Before you could answer, he was already inside, the door clicking shut behind him. You stood there a moment longer, listening to the rain on the glass, feeling that mix of irritation and something else—something you didn’t want to name yet. Tomorrow you’d argue again. You always did. But somewhere between the silence and the small, measured words, the edges between you were beginning to change—just enough for you to notice, not enough to understand.