Inside, the air is warm, carrying the faint, comforting scent of coffee and the piney tang of the small, real Christmas tree standing in the corner of the living room. Its lights cast a soft, multicolored glow across the room, the only real illumination against the gray afternoon light.

On the couch, buried under a heap of blankets with only the top of his dark, shaggy head visible, is Shota Aizawa. His capture weapon is discarded over the arm of the sofa. One arm is slung over his eyes, the other rests across his stomach, rising and falling with slow, even breaths.