Aizawa POV:
The night was chaotic, and those villains we faced were like a nightmare come to life. Their quirks mirrored traditional weapons—blades formed from thin air, a guy with some twisted version of brass knuckles that hit like a sledgehammer, quirks with offensive shields and paralysis darts. Practically an arsenal.
Midoriya was in the thick of it. He held his own at first, but there was this moment, this subtle change in his expression. His usual fire dimmed, replaced by a flicker of fear. That's when I knew we were done for.
These villains weren't just thugs; they were highly capable assassins. Each move was choreographed to dismantle Midoriya's every defense. It was like they'd studied him, knew his every move before he even made it. I know the investigation is ongoing, but I swear this was a targeted attack. They isolated him, singled him out. He never stood a chance.
The quirks they wielded were like weapons honed to perfection. One created blades that sliced through the air with deadly precision. Another conjured a weaponized shield, an impenetrable defense that Midoriya struggled to breach.
As the fight raged on, I caught Midoriya's eyes—those usually determined eyes were clouded with a mix of horror and a bittersweet apology. It hit us both at the same time- were facing something beyond our control. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. I knew what he was saying, "I'm sorry for letting you down."
Just thinking of him, the kid was a mess, blood staining his costume like a gruesome canvas. It wasn't a trickle, it was a river—each drop screaming in crimson red. His face, usually full of fire, was now a patchwork of bruises and cuts. I could see the struggle etched in every line on his battered skin.
How many hits did he take? I lost count. The kid fought like hell, but I'm telling you those villains had studied him, knew his every move before he even made it. His usual determination was replaced by this flicker of fear, and it hit me like a punch to the gut.
I stood there, hit by that sadistic paralysis quirk. The desperate need to move, to shield the kid, clawed at me. But I was stuck, and every drop of his blood was a reminder of my own helplessness.
The kid's movements, once sharp, became erratic. He was fighting a losing battle, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. As I watched him bleed, frustration boiled inside me—a silent scream in my mind, only held in by my body's refusal to move.
The blade, jagged and wicked, sliced through the air and found its mark—right in the kid's ribs. Time stuttered to a halt. His body contorted with the impact and he hit the ground, sprawled out like a puppet with its strings cut clutching his side struggling just to breathe. He's been through a lot in the short period of time I've known him, but I've never seen him that broken before. That was the moment he gave up.
I stood there, fists clenched so hard I could feel my nails digging into my palms. The villains, instead of pausing, moved in for the kill. It was raw and brutal—the kind of thing you can't truly imagine until you've seen it. No mercy. As they closed in, I felt the weight of my own inadequacy hit me like a truck. I had one job—to protect him. Yet there I stood, useless, watching as the raw horror of it played out in detail on the ground before me.
Finally breaking free from that cursed quirk, I rushed toward the scene with a desperation I hadn't felt in a long time. As I moved, there was this sinking feeling, an ache that whispered it might be too late.
The fight had taken its toll. The villains, sensing victory, were relentless. I pushed myself harder, rounding the corner just in time to see my problem child still on the ground, a thick pool of blood beneath him, steadily growing.
My steps quickened, every second feeling like an eternity. I reached him, hands trembling as I checked for signs of life. He was battered, broken, and the vivid details of his struggle were etched across his unconscious form.
I was too late. I wanted to scream, to shake him awake and tell him I was there now, but it was too little, too damn late.
He looked so fragile, sprawled out like that. No amount of desperate wishing could undo the damage.
I wanted to turn back time, make it okay, but life doesn't work that way. The shadows of what-ifs and pleas to the universe lingered, a crushing weight settling in my chest. It wasn't just a defeat; it was an irrevocable loss.
I was hit with the haunting knowledge that it might never be okay again.
Reinforcements arrived, late to the damn party, and their lack of attention to the kid was the telltale sign that something was horribly wrong. There was chaos, shouting, and urgent movements around us, but all I saw was him.
I knelt beside him, shaking him gently, praying for any sign of life. His body was limp, unresponsive, and the cold realization hit me like a freight train. It wasn't just a defeat; he was beyond saving. The world narrowed to a blurred tunnel.
They tried to pull me away, but I resisted with a guttural rage, an incoherent mess of sorrow and anger. I needed to be close to him, to feel the last warmth that clung to his broken form. The restraint tightened around me, and I fought against it, a messy sort of sadness leaving me thrashing and screaming.
In the midst of the chaos, the truth settled like a lead weight. He was gone, and the aftermath was a blur of tears, shouts, and the distant wails of a heartbroken hero who couldn't even save his problem child.
The funeral, a somber affair, felt like a mockery of what should've been. I stood there, offering hollow condolences to those mourning, but every word I spoke tasted like ash in my mouth. I couldn't escape the feeling that he was gone because of my own inadequacy.
Telling Midoriya's mom was excruciating. The pain in her eyes, the silent accusation—I felt it like a knife twisting in my gut. Every word I gave was an admission of my failure, and the weight of her grief, mingled with my own, became an unbearable burden.
All Might's reaction was no better. The disappointment in his eyes, the sense of loss—we were bound by a shared guilt, a silent acknowledgment that we had failed to protect the symbol of hope. But it was more than that; it was a personal failure that I couldn't escape.
Sleep became a distant memory. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of the kid dying, the fear in his eyes, played on an endless loop through my mind. It was a relentless torment, a haunting reminder that I couldn't save him. The blame weighed heavy on my shoulders, a self-inflicted punishment that left me drowning in a sea of grief and self-loathing. I hated myself for not being enough, for not saving him, and the inability to escape that suffocating guilt became a living nightmare that I couldn't wake up from.
Here I am, a hollow shell of the man I used to be. The grief, the self-loathing—it's a suffocating weight that I carry every damn day. I can't escape the loop of his dying moments, the fear in his eyes. Every time I close mine, it's there, tormenting me.
Sleep is a luxury I can't afford. Nights blur into an endless string of regrets and what-ifs. I hate myself for not being enough, for failing the kid. His funeral, his mom, All Might—they're all specters of my failure, haunting my every waking moment.
I'm trapped in this cycle of grief and blame, a punishment I've imposed on myself. I can't live with the fact that he's gone because I couldn't save him. Every word I speak now is a numb formality, a hollow echo of the man I used to be. The pain is constant, unyielding, and my own self-hatred echoes in each line of this statement.
In conclusion, I failed him. I failed to protect the symbol of hope, and now all that's left is the aftermath—a cold, desolate landscape of grief and self-loathing.
