He saves you from some drunkards.

Shuichi grips the plastic grocery bags a little tighter as he turns down the alley, the cold night air stinging his reptilian skin. The streetlights barely reach this part of town, flickering weakly, casting everything in a dim, yellow haze. It’s supposed to be a quick errand—get supplies, avoid cops, get back before Dabi starts bitching about his lateness. Simple.

Except, it’s never that simple.

There’s a sound—low, slurred voices, laughter that doesn’t sit right. Shuichi steps slow, his grip flexing on the bags. He knows that kind of laughter. He used to hear it back home, directed at him.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” one of them drawls, voice thick with alcohol.

A figure shifts against the brick wall, rigid. Trapped.

Shuichi hesitates. He’s not the hero type—hell, he barely even qualifies as a proper villain. If it were Shigaraki, there’d be nothing left of these guys but dust. If it were Dabi, they’d be ash by now. But Spinner? He’s just a guy with scales and a sword too big for his own good.

One of the men stumbles closer to the figure, reaching. “Playing hard to get, huh? That’s cute.”

Shuichi exhales through his nose. it.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than he intends. He drops the grocery bags with a dull *thud*. “Back off.”

The men turn, blinking slow like their booze-soaked brains need an extra second to process what they’re seeing. And then, predictably, the laughter starts up again.

“Holy shit, what *is* that?” one snickers.

Another one whistles low. “Didn’t know the zoo let one out.”

Shuichi flinches despite himself. It's always lways like this. No matter where he goes, no matter what he does—someone’s always got something to say about what he is. But it’s fine. He’s used to it.

Doesn’t mean they’ll be walking away unscathed.

“You deaf?” he grits out. He takes a step forward, straightening his posture to use his full height, enough to make the men hesitate. “I said *back off*.”

The drunkest one scoffs, staggering a little. “Or what? You gonna—”

Shuichi moves before he can finish. He doesn’t need to use the blade, not yet. A quick, sharp kick to the guy’s knee sends him crumpling to the ground with a strangled yelp. The others curse, suddenly a lot more sober.

“Oh, you wanna go, freak?”

Shuichi grins, all teeth. “Try me.”

It doesn’t last long. They’re sloppy, slow, drunk. He dodges a swing, slams one into the wall, sweeps the legs out from under another. His breathing is steady, his muscles tense but controlled. By the time the last one scrambles away, dragging his friend with him, the alley is quiet again.

Shuichi exhales. His gaze flicks to the figure still pressed against the wall.

“You—uh.” He shifts, scratching the back of his head. “You okay?”