Chapter Text
“Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to come out here with a blizzard warning?” Hitoshi mutters to himself as he steps out of the convenience store. It’s late — just a couple hours before midnight — and his eyes feel heavy, barely staying open as the wind surges, blasting snow into his face at a near-violent speed.
On top of that, his place is at least a twenty-minute walk away. With this storm? Probably closer to thirty. There’s only one car left in the lot; the rest are gone. Only shallow squares in the snow outline where the other vehicles once parked.
Hitoshi pulls his jacket tight around his throat, lowering his head and pushing forward. The cold cuts through him, like the breath of a giant, freezing and furious. He turns his back to the wind, pausing just long enough to catch his breath. The hair on his neck whips wildly in the gale. Taking a quick gasp of air, he steels himself and turns back around to face the storm.
Before he can fully pivot, a shape flickers in his peripheral vision. He blinks, squinting through the haze of wind and snow, trying to make it out. His hand lifts to shield his eyes, and the shape stops right at his feet.
It’s a cat. A black one. And it’s staring up at him with unnervingly knowing yellow eyes.
What the hell is a cat doing out here in this mess? Hitoshi thinks, frowning. Must be a stray. The cat’s demeanor shifts suddenly. Its posture tenses, and without warning, it begins to wail — a loud, desperate cry that cuts through the howling wind.
Hitoshi freezes, his instincts kicking in. Something’s wrong. He crouches down quickly, eyes scanning for any visible injuries. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his voice barely audible over the wind.
The cat, in response, headbutts his outstretched hand, its fur cold under his fingers. In a flash, it darts into the darkness, still crying out.
Hitoshi stands up swiftly, a sense of unease creeping up his spine. He watches the cat vanish into the storm, something about the way it acted… it was almost like it was trying to tell him something.
Dropping his bags without a second thought, Hitoshi sprints after the cat, his boots crunching through the deepening snow. The wind wails around him, and the cat — with its sleek black fur — seems to melt into the night, disappearing into the blizzard as though it knows exactly where it’s going.
The cat slips through a hole in the chain-link fence. Hitoshi follows, his collar catching painfully on the rusted metal. With a grunt, he ducks underneath, his palms scraping against the cold, wet gravel and slush. He winces as he pulls himself back to his feet, snow and rocks clinging to his hands, but there’s no time to pause.
Keep up, he tells himself, teeth gritted.
But the cat is faster — way faster than he expected. He barely catches a glimpse of it turning the corner ahead of him before it disappears around the bend. His lungs burn with the cold, the exertion pulling at his chest with each frantic breath. Forget the groceries , he thinks. What the hell is this cat leading me to?
He pushes forward, not slowing down, not even bothering to look back. The alley stretches on, narrowing with each turn, the snow and wind nearly swallowing him whole. His legs ache, but the chase is relentless.
Finally, the cat slows, just enough for Hitoshi to catch up. It’s not running anymore — just trotting along, as if it knows Hitoshi is on its tail, but it’s no longer in a hurry. It turns the final corner, and for a split second, Hitoshi’s pulse skips.
He hesitates.
He’s almost there, but something about the alley ahead makes his stomach twist with anticipation. What’s waiting for me on the other side? His mind screams at him to stop, to turn back, but the nagging sense that he has to know what’s coming keeps him moving.
Each step brings him closer to the end of the alley. The cat is nearly out of sight now, its tail flicking around the corner.
“I don’t know if I want to find out,” he mutters under his breath, his voice lost in the wind.
Swallowing his nerves, Hitoshi stalks around the corner. At first, he doesn’t see anything — the alley is a blur of snow drafts and flurries. He almost turns to leave when he notices something at his feet. There’s something — no, someone — lying in a pile of icy slush.
"Holy shit. Holy shit. What the fuck?" The words stumble out of him, racing heart thundering in his ears as he quickens his pace toward the person on the ground.
It’s freezing out here. No one could survive long, soaked to the bone in this kind of cold. And wait — is that blood?
Hitoshi kneels down beside the figure, his pants instantly soaked with freezing water as he tries to steady himself. His breath comes in short bursts, the cold air stinging his lungs. The figure is laying flat on their back, motionless. For a moment, he just stares, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.
An older man. Long dark hair. His skin is ghostly pale, and his body — it’s unnervingly still. He’s wearing all black, but it looks like worn-out sweatpants and a thick sweatshirt. At least the material looks heavy enough to provide some insulation from the cold.
Hitoshi glances down the alley, his eyes catching a grayish shape a few feet away. It looks like... a scarf? No, maybe a rope? Whatever it is, it’s lying in the snow, just out of reach.
He carefully steps over the unconscious man, kneeling to pick it up. The fabric is long, stiff, and feels oddly rigid, not at all like cotton. More like some kind of carbon-fiber material, strange and unfamiliar.
He should wrap it around the guy, at least try to keep some heat close. The man’s neck is completely bare, his skin exposed to the icy gale. Without hesitation, Hitoshi sits beside his head, lifting it gently into his lap. His fingers tremble slightly as he tries to wrap the fabric around the man’s neck, desperate to offer any kind of warmth.
The scarf is bulky and difficult to maneuver, but he manages to loop it around, the fabric settling awkwardly over the man's shoulders and neck. Hitoshi sits back for a moment, looking at his work, trying to catch his breath.
And that’s when it hits him.
The realization strikes harder than the cold. His stomach churns.
This isn’t just any random stranger. This is Eraserhead!
He didn’t realize it at first, too caught up in the confusion and the sheer shock of the situation. But now, as he stares down at the man, the resemblance is undeniable. One of the greatest Underground Heroes, lying in the snow, unconscious, and possibly freezing to death.
And there’s a damn good chance that I’m his only hope.
Hitoshi reaches out, hesitant, before gently placing a hand on Aizawa’s wrist. The chill of his skin sends a shock through Hitoshi’s veins but he uses his two fingers to check for a pulse. Shit. He’s ice cold, but there seems to be a relatively steady pump of blood beneath his fingertips.
Hitoshi’s mind races. He debates his options for a moment, weighing the severity of the situation. He could try dragging him back to the store — it’s closer than anywhere else — but the guy’s in no condition to be moved in this storm. Not in the state he’s in. Hell, he might freeze over before they even get back to the store. And Hitoshi isn't sure he even has the strength to lift him.
He stands up anyway, taking a deep breath, and tries to pull the pro hero from beneath his arms. His muscles strain as he attempts to move the almost lifeless body, but it barely budges an inch.
Goddamn it, I’m too weak for this.
A wave of panic rises in his chest. The alley is no place for someone to be left alone in these conditions, especially not someone like Eraserhead.
With a curse, Hitoshi pulls himself together, digging deep to muster every bit of power he has left. He can’t just leave him here. He has to do something.
Hitoshi braces himself again, his hands slipping slightly on the damp, snow-covered fabric of the man’s sweater. He reaches under Aizawa’s arms a second time, the muscles in his legs quivering with the effort. Slowly, painfully, he manages to lift the hero off the filthy ground, moving him inch by inch. Every part of his body screams in protest, but he refuses to stop.
Finally, with one last effort, Hitoshi drags Eraser away from the slush and dumps him onto a pile of fresh snow in the corner of the alley. The snow is powdery and soft, a stark contrast to the grimy mess of the alley floor, and Hitoshi knows it’s better than the cold, polluted ground he’d been lying on.
He pauses for a moment to catch his breath, the exhaustion hitting him like a brick. His hands shake, his heart pounds in his chest.
Now what?
Tears prick at the corner of Hitoshi’s eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. He can’t. He’s cold, scared, and feels utterly useless. His chest tightens with anxiety as he stares down at Aizawa, still knocked out and unmoving.
There has to be something else he can do. He needs to call for help — paramedics, anyone. But how? What if it’s too late?
His hands shake as he reaches for one of Aizawa’s pockets, his mind running in circles. It’s only now that he realizes how stupid he’s been. Search his pockets, he thinks, berating himself for not doing this sooner.
With a deep breath, Hitoshi pulls out what feels like a small, squishy pouch. He almost doesn’t recognize it until it’s in his hands, and the strange, sweet smell hits him. Lychee jelly? What the hell?
He sets it aside, more focused on the small card that’s tucked underneath. Hitoshi flips it over, reading the text on the back, his heart skipping a beat when he sees what’s written there in bold.
ERASERHEAD.
It’s confirmed now. This man really is Eraserhead.
He’s seen him before — in the flicker of news reports, in the grainy footage of training videos. The Underground Hero who worked in the shadows while the others lit up billboards. The one who never hesitated when it mattered. The one who looked like he didn’t give a damn but fought like he did.
And now he’s freezing to death.
Hitoshi grunts in frustration, feeling like an idiot for not recognizing the hero immediately. He quickly checks the other side of the unconscious man’s body, searching for another pocket. It’s harder than he expected, and when he finally finds one, it’s empty. Damn it.
That’s when he notices it: a utility belt wrapped tightly around the man’s waist.
There better be something useful in here.
Hitoshi fumbles with the belt, pulling at the pouches one by one. His fingers are stiff from the cold, but he doesn’t stop. First, he finds a flashlight. Then a pair of handcuffs. A second pouch contains more lychee jelly, which he can’t help but roll his eyes at. Another pouch holds gauze tape and cotton bandages, and for a moment, Hitoshi almost feels a flicker of relief. But the real prize comes when he reaches the last pouch.
A radio.
Yes. Finally.
Hitoshi’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold onto it, but he knows this is the key. He quickly fiddles with it, trying to find the top, praying the radio works.
“Thank god…” Hitoshi whispers to himself, his breath puffing out in the cold air.
With slow hands, he pulls up the antenna on the radio, trying to catch some sort of signal. The static crackles loudly, and for a split second, Hitoshi worries the device won’t work. But then, through the noise, a voice breaks through.
“H’ll—o, Er’sr—d r’ you th—re? — repeat, Erase’r— are y’u ——? Copy.”
The voice is distorted by static, but it's enough to make Hitoshi’s heart leap. This is it. This is his chance. He inhales deeply, composing himself, and clicks the small button on the side.
“Hello?” His voice is hoarse from the cold, but he presses on, holding the radio up with both hands.
The response is immediate. The static clears a little, though it’s still hard to make out.
“Eras’r, s’ th—t you? Where r’ y—? Copy.”
Hitoshi’s breath catches in his throat. They’re looking for the hero. The severity of the situation hits him full force. He swallows his nerves, trying to sound as steady as possible.
“Eraserhead is unconscious. We need help.”
A moment of silence follows, and Hitoshi can almost hear the tension on the other end of the line.
“Wher— are you? C—py.”
Hitoshi curses under his breath, a heavy weight settling in his chest. Where am I? The question echoes in his head, but there's no answer, just the blinding white of the storm. He had followed the cat recklessly through this maze of alleys, trusting its every movement, but now the world has become an endless blur of snow and silence. The street signs are buried, the landmarks lost beneath a suffocating blanket of ice.
His fingers are stiff around the radio and the urgency in his chest grows, desperate and relentless, as he stumbles into the street. He’s lost—no, not lost, just... disoriented, but it feels the same. He needs something to anchor him, some sign to pull him out of this numb fog.
His face is burning with frostbite, his nose aching with each shallow breath, but it’s the persistent chill in his bones that’s harder to ignore. He feels it creeping into his body, sinking through his clothes, yet he grits his teeth and pushes forward. He has to find something, anything—some sign of where he is. He can’t afford to freeze out here. Not when Aizawa’s life might be slipping away.
Each step feels heavier than the last. The snow pulls at his legs, dragging him deeper into its icy grip. His muscles are screaming, but he keeps moving, dragging himself forward, even as the world blurs and his head grows heavy. The radio crackles weakly in his hand, the only tether he has to hope. It’s slick with frost, a fragile link to the help he desperately needs.
His vision is dimming, and the snow is endless—until, through the haze, something shifts. A dark shape against the white chaos. His heart stutters. A street sign. Just the faintest hint of it through the storm’s wrath.
He stops. His breath hitches, his pulse surging with frantic hope. Please…
He stumbles toward it, almost falling as the snow shifts beneath him. But his hand finally grasps the metal pole, his fingers stiff and numb, barely able to feel the texture as he reads the sign.
新宿 4丁目 (Shinjuku 4-chome).
Relief floods Hitoshi, but it’s fleeting — a brief surge before the cold sinks its teeth deeper. There’s no time to savor it. His legs feel like lead, heavy and unresponsive, and his head swims in a fog of exhaustion and freezing air. He presses the radio to his lips, teeth chattering so violently that it feels like they might shatter, but he forces himself to speak.
“This is… Hitoshi Shinso. I… I’m at Shinjuku 4-chome. Please hurry. Eraserhead is unconscious… We need help.”
The radio crackles sharply, the static grating in his ear, but then, through the noise, a voice cuts through, clear but distant.
“Shinso, copy that. Help is on the way. Stay where you are. Do not move him further.”
Hitoshi’s legs wobble, threatening to collapse, but he shakes the thought away. His body is on the verge of giving out, but he forces his arms to stay locked around the radio. His grip is shaky, fingers stiff as ice, but he holds on.
“Copy that,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Just… hurry.”
He staggers back into the alley, each step an overwhelming struggle. But Hitoshi grits his teeth, ignoring the pain that shoots up his legs, focusing only on the one thing that matters — Eraserhead. His survival.
When he finally reaches the spot where he left the hero, he kneels beside him, his breath coming in shaky, shallow gasps. The close walls of the alley provide protection from the raging blizzard, just barely escaping the wind that threatens to bite exposed skin. He forces his hands to move, fingers too stiff to feel much of anything, but he needs to check — needs to make sure.
Aizawa lies motionless, his body a stark contrast against the white snow, his nose and fingertips already turning a deep, angry red. The frostbite has set in. Hitoshi pulls the top of the scarf higher, trying to shield the man’s nose from the gusts of wind, but his movements are slow, clumsy, as if his body is betraying him with each action. He grasps Aizawa’s wrist, his fingers trembling violently against the skin.
A weak pulse. Still there, but faint. Barely there.
Come on... don’t die on me now.
Quickly, he lifts the man's hands and tucks them against his chest, nestling them between the thick folds of his capture weapon for whatever insulation it could provide. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Scattered supplies still littered the snow beside them. Hitoshi grabbed the flashlight and flicked it on, the yellow beam cutting through the shadows. He angled it toward Eraser’s face—
—and flinched when he saw the cat sitting silently beside the man’s head, yellow eyes glowing back at him.
Still here? he thought, startled. What are you? A stray? A guardian? A hallucination?
The cat blinked slowly.
Hitoshi swept the flashlight around the alley, the beam painting the brick walls and icy ground in shifting gold. That’s when he noticed it again—blood.
A dark smear stains the snow. Hitoshi’s breath catches. He follows the trail with his eyes — it leads straight back to where Aizawa lay motionless.
His stomach twists. Where’s it coming from? He hadn’t seen any wounds before—maybe he missed something. Maybe Eraser was bleeding out under his clothes. He needed to find out.
And more importantly—
He turned back toward the hero.
I need to wake him up.
Shinso carefully moves the hero’s hair out of his face and when his fingers come back sticky with blood he comes to the palling realization that the man has a head wound. Shining the flashlight onto his face reveals a gash on his temple. Blood is slowly trickling down the side of his face, mixing with the snow, and Hitoshi’s stomach turns at the sight.
The wound looks deep.
Hitoshi blinks rapidly, pushing against the wave of panic that threatens to break him. His body trembles, but his mind sharpens. Focus. He can’t afford to lose control.
He quickly rummages through the rest of the supplies on Eraserhead’s utility belt, pulling out a roll of gauze and a small packet of antiseptic wipes. His hands are shaking as he tears open the wipes, trying to clear away the snow and blood from Aizawa’s forehead.
His fingers are too numb to feel properly, but he presses on, each movement slow, almost mechanical. The cold gnaws at his concentration, a constant, sharp distraction. Still, he works deliberately to keep the hero’s head steady as he tends to the wound.
With the gauze, he presses gently against the gash, trying to stop the bleeding. The blood is viscous, and nausea rises as he wraps the gauze tightly but carefully around Eraserhead’s head. The blood doesn’t seem to be flowing as heavily now, but it’s still there — a constant reminder of how fragile the situation is.
Once he’s done with the bandages, Hitoshi takes off his jacket, despite the cold, and tucks it around Aizawa’s body, trying to shield him from the worst of the chill. He pulls his knees close to his chest, his arms wrapped around his own body as he tries to preserve what little warmth he has left. He’s shivering uncontrollably, but he stays close to the man, unwilling to let him lie there alone in the storm.
“I’m not leaving you,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s not sure if the words are meant for himself or for Eraserhead.
But as the storm rages on, Hitoshi feels himself slipping — his eyelids heavy, his body weak. He won’t leave him, not like this.
Hitoshi wraps his arms tighter around himself, breath coming in shallow, white bursts. He’s exhausted, drained, and unsure how much longer he can stay propped up. His head slumps forward, but he forces his eyes to stay open.
Then—
A low, muffled sound breaks through the howling wind.
“...nnngh…”
Hitoshi jerks upright, startled. His eyes snap to Aizawa.
Another groan — faint, broken — escapes the older man’s lips. His head shifts just barely to the side, the gauze at his temple now spotted darker where blood continues to seep beneath the bandage.
“Eraserhead?” Hitoshi says, voice cracking. He leans closer. “Can you hear me?”
There’s no answer, but the small movement is enough. Enough to mean he’s alive. Still fighting. That was all Hitoshi needed.
Relief surges through him like a wave, hot and overwhelming. His throat tightens, but he bites it back. He can’t cry — not yet. Not while they’re still in this storm, not while help hasn’t arrived.
Suddenly, he feels a shift near his legs. Something warm and soft presses into him.
The cat.
It curls up directly in his lap like it belongs there, a tiny furnace against his freezing thighs. Its thick black fur is flecked with snow, but it doesn’t seem to mind. It kneads briefly at his sweater before settling down, tail wrapping around its small frame.
Hitoshi blinks down at it, stunned for a moment.
“You really brought me to him, didn’t you?” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the wind.
The cat looks up, yellow eyes steady, then closes them again with a slow blink, purring softly as it nestles deeper into his lap.
And just like that, the cold feels a little more bearable.
Hitoshi lets his head rest lightly against the wall behind him, one hand still on the radio, the other hovering near Aizawa’s arm just to feel the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. The snow continues its assault, but it feels softer now, less overwhelming.
He doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to hold out like this, but at least now, he’s not alone. Hitoshi presses closer to Eraser, his hoodie soaked through, sleeves stiff with frost. The jacket he’d been wearing is still wrapped tightly around the man’s chest, and the gray scarf is doing its best to shield his neck.
But there’s nothing protecting Hitoshi now. His hands are numb, lips bluish, and the ache in his legs cuts deep—like the cold is chewing through the bone.
His thoughts flicker like static. The world softens, slips—his body jolts. Not yet.
And then — shouting.
His head jerks up this time. Distant voices, distorted by the wind, but unmistakably human.
He forces himself to move. Get up, Shinso. Move. He lurches upright, legs numb and trembling. The alley wall is the only thing keeping him from collapsing. His joints scream with cold; his lips are cracked, his fingertips raw and useless. Still, he lifts an arm.
“Here!” he croaks. “OVER HERE!”
At first, he thinks it’s a trick of the snow — shadows, maybe. But then one breaks into a sprint, and the wind carries a voice that shatters the cold.
“SHOUTA!!”
The voice pierces the wind like a gunshot — unmistakable.
Present Mic.
He barrels forward, goggles fogged and hair soaked through, scarf whipping behind him. He looks wild — desperate — snow clinging to every inch of him. But he drops to his knees the second he sees Aizawa.
“Shouta—hey. I got you. I’m here, okay?” His hands hover, unsure where to touch. “God, you’re freezing…”
Hitoshi stumbles forward and collapses to his knees.
“I gave him my jacket,” he gasps, “Didn’t know what else—couldn’t leave him—”
Mic reaches out just in time, his grip firm as Shinso sways to the side, his voice raw with panic. “No, no—you’ve got to stay up. You're in bad shape.”
Tether, Trailblazer, and Echo Pulse arrive in seconds — part of the storm-trained response team. Echo Pulse immediately calls in over comms while the others spring into action, cracking open thermal packs and unwrapping insulated med wraps.
"Strip the wet layers!" Echo Pulse orders, kneeling beside Aizawa. "Careful — don’t jar him too much!"
Tether works with swift, practiced hands, cutting away soaked fabric. They don’t expose skin to the air any longer than necessary — they get a thermal liner under Aizawa’s back, then cover him chest-down in an insulated wrap, heating packs pressed beneath his armpits and against his chest.
"Core rewarming first," she mutters, her hands moving quickly. "We focus on the limbs after."
Mic helps support Aizawa's head, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusts the heated oxygen mask. "We’ve got you," he murmurs, but his voice cracks — barely audible over the storm. "Hang in there."
"We’ve got a pulse," Echo Pulse confirms, her voice tight with both relief and urgency. "No arrhythmia. He’s hypothermic but viable. Let’s move — we need to get him out of here, now."
On the side, Trailblazer is working on Hitoshi. “Kid’s not frostbitten yet, but he’s on the edge. Responsive but fading.”
She gets his outer clothes off and into a dry thermal liner too, wrapping a heated shell around him, careful not to jostle too much.
Mic’s hands are still shaking. He moves to tuck the now-silent black cat inside the insulated wrap on Shinso’s chest — the cat burrows in like it belongs there.
“You rest, kid,” Mic says softly, pulling the wrap tight. “You did good. You saved his life.”
Someone squeezes Hitoshi’s shoulder, their grip firm yet gentle, and the touch feels like a lifeline. “You’re okay. We’ve got you both,” they say — the words soft, but with a promise of safety.
And just like that, the adrenaline broke. His body sags as the warmth from the heat packs begins to seep into his frozen skin. It feels like the heat is burning him, too sharp after the cold, but he doesn’t care. His vision narrows, the world fading around him.
He didn’t realize he was crying until someone wiped his face.
The team moves like clockwork. Trailblazer and Echo Pulse carefully transfer Shinso and Aizawa onto the collapsible stretchers, securing them with thermal restraints. The snowstorm howls around them, but inside the wraps, warmth envelops them, a brief sanctuary from the storm.
“Secure and go,” Trailblazer calls. “Evac in three—”
They move, heroes flanking the stretchers, pulling them up by line and foot through the alley and toward the evac point beyond the street.
The storm screams on.
But Shinso doesn’t hear it anymore — only the purr of the cat against his chest, and the steady rhythm of another breath beside him.
He didn’t move.
He stayed.