Not All Heroes Wear Capes, Some Carry Knives (MHA)

Chapter 1 - Mistakes Were Made...

(Toshinori collapsed, panting heavily and clutching at the crater of a scar in his side, biting back a scream of pure agony. He really was going to die, and all before he could even dream of finding a successor. What luck.

He was perfectly ready to resign himself to dying in this dirty alleyway when a man weilding a capture scarf swung down to meet him, eyes burning a gorgeous shade of red. Toshinori found his saviour.)

Shota returned to the world of the living in stages, slowly blinking his eyes open to the unusually bright lights outside and the buzzing in his head. He moved to scratch at his hairline and froze when he felt something wet. On instinct, he reached for the nearest cloth or rag-- which happened to be his capture weapon-- and dabbed at his head, pulling his hand back to see a large dollop of sweat. On the bright side, at least, his reflexes were still sharp.

He pulled the scarf away, swallowing his embarrassment as he stood to stretch himself out after collapsing onto his couch the night before. The satisfying pops that came from his lower spine resulted in almost euphoric groans, stretching out his arms and cracking his legs to fully prepare for the day. His most recent stray, Tiger, waltzed into the room and used Shota's leg as his own personal scratching post, sinking his tiny claws into the man's sweatpants and stretching out with a satisfied yowl.

Shota smiled and gave the cat a scratch behind the ear and turned to the kitchen, staring at his clock in shock as the time read 2:27pm.

How the fuck did he sleep for almost ten hours straight? And who let him do that? Sure, he lived alone, but how dare his cats not try to bother him that entire time, or the ghosts of his apartment not try and wake him up. Shota shook his head. He didn't believe in ghosts, and if he did, they probably were lame nice ghosts that wanted him to sleep. His eyebags were quite dark the last time he checked. Shota scoffed, suddenly dropping into a defensive crouch at the sound of clattering at his window. He wasn't sure how the targeting was that spot-on, considering Shota lived on the third floor and hardly had any windows to speak of to begin with, but he wasn't going to question a threat. Villains were crafty motherfuckers and loved to prey on the curious.

He flinched again as something harder hit the window, looking up just in time to see a book slide off the sill and drop to the pavement below. "What the fuck?" He muttered to himself, dusting his palms on his knees and deciding to ignore whatever it was going on downstairs.

And he did, semi-successfully. As Shota finished getting changed, he heard a repetitive tapping on his front door. He sensed something odd about the rhythm, and tried to listen and ignore the building headache in his skull. A few short taps, then some with long pauses, then a few more short ones, and the pattern repeated itself. It took five repeats for the message to click in Shota's mind; someone was saying 'Hello' in morse code? At his front door?

"What the fuck?!" Shota yawned, exasperated, and pulled his hair from his neck before opening the door and narrowly dodging the squared fingernail in his face. Both Shota and the newcomer stood in shock, suddenly aware of the position they were in. The man at the door straightened, as much as he could, and attempted what Shota could call a smile. It looked more like a grimace.

"Hello, Young Aizawa, is it?" The man greeted, voice soothing and loud and safe, if safe could describe a voice. And yet he knew his name. How the FUCK did he know his name? And why did he feel so... familiar. Shota couldn't understand it, and he hated it. How could he know his name, and yet Shota didn't know this man at all? He glared at the lanky man, dark eyes scanning him from behind his messy bangs. The longer the silence dragged on, the more the newcomer began to squirm. Good.

"Can I help you?" Shota finally asked, adjusting his posture and crossing his arms protectively. He had at least two weapons in reach from here, not including the tiny dagger in his pocket that he always kept on him. If this guy tried anything, he'd surely be dealt with in seconds. The man blinked and shuffled, slightly awkward.