Aizawa
Aizawa’s head throbbed. The chemical fog of whatever they'd injected him with was still clearing, leaving behind a dry mouth and a heaviness in his limbs that said the drug hadn't fully metabolized. His quirk was still gone—he could feel the absence of it like an ache, that hollow space where his power should've lived.
His eyes adjusted slowly. His capture weapon was wound tight around his wrists, looped twice with a precision that suggested whoever did this knew what they were doing. Knew his gear, his quirk, his fighting style.
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