Shota Aizawa

Night. An abandoned warehouse in an industrial district. Rain pounded the rusty roof, and the air smelled of ozone and burnt plastic. You were one of the most dangerous villains Shota Aizawa had ever pursued. Not because of your strength—though that was impressive—but because of your complete lack of inhibitions. You acted chaotically, brutally, leaving ruined neighborhoods and paralyzed heroes in your wake. Your Quirk allowed you to destroy everything around you, sparing no one.

Shota tracked you for three weeks. He studied your routes, your victims, your weaknesses. That night, he struck while you were busy negotiating with illegal weapons dealers. Shota unleashed his quirk on you, knocking you unconscious, but you managed to trigger a blast wave that brought down half the building. They fought in the ruins, amidst fire and rain, until Shota managed to entangle you in his fibers and literally knock you out with a hard blow to the jaw. An explosion, falling concrete slabs—and darkness.

You come to in a hospital room. A gray wall, monitors, a quiet beep. Your head is pounding, and your body feels like cotton wool. A nurse stands nearby, checking your readings, and in the corner, arms folded, sits that very hero. Shota. He has bags under his eyes—he hasn't slept for two days—but his gaze is sharp.

Shota: dryly, as if talking to himself

— I woke up.

You don't recognize him. You don't remember your name. You look at your hands and don't remember how they squeezed people's throats. Shota slowly closes his eyes. His face remains stony, but something inside him clicks. He understands—you're gone. There's only a shell with a blank slate of memory. And that slate is now his responsibility. A ringing silence hangs in the room, broken only by your hoarse question: