Chapter Text
The shot rang out so suddenly and sharply that for a split second it drowned out all surrounding noise. The bullet, cutting through the air with terrifying precision, flew just centimeters from the hero's cheek and the next instant, entered precisely between the eyes of the villain, who had already raised his weapon to attack.
The criminal's body collapsed limply onto the concrete, and a stunned silence reigned for several seconds.
"The sniper is here," Sotrigolova said quietly into the radio, slowly scanning the rooftops of the neighboring buildings, the dark windows of the warehouses, and the metal structures of the old industrial district.
However, as always, he saw nothing. Not a muzzle flash. Not the shooter's silhouette. Not the slightest hint of his presence. It was as if the bullet had appeared of its own accord.
The raid, which should have been one of the largest operations in recent months, was rapidly turning into a disaster. Wounded heroes and police officers lay everywhere, many of them immobilized by an unknown paralyzing substance. Medics couldn't reach all the injured, communication lines were constantly overloaded, and the criminals had already begun an organized retreat, fully aware that they had the upper hand.
But amidst this chaos, there was one factor no one could have predicted.
The sniper.
A man who had appeared about a year ago and in that time had become a true mystery to heroes, the police, and the criminal underworld alike. He couldn't be pinned down to any one side. Sometimes his bullets saved heroes. Sometimes they helped villains escape. Sometimes he eliminated criminals. Sometimes he incapacitated police officers if he considered their actions wrong. He existed somewhere in between, in that gray zone where the usual laws of good and evil didn't apply. No one knew his name. No one had seen his face. No one could predict whose side he would be on next.
The only thing everyone agreed on was that this man wielded a rifle with a frightening, almost inhuman skill.
And yet, there was one more detail that few knew. A strange pattern, noticed by the heroes after months of observation. For the entire year of the mysterious shooter's existence, Eraserhead had never suffered a single serious wound during operations attended by the sniper. Not a single one. No matter how many villains surrounded him. No matter how many times the situation spiraled out of control. No matter how many heroes were wounded, Aizawa always remained unharmed. It was as if an invisible gaze was constantly watching only him. As if, somewhere far away, beyond the battlefield, a man with a rifle was watching only Eraserhead, ready to pull the trigger before danger could get even a step closer.
Everyone noticed this. The heroes. The police. Even the villains themselves. So now, when yet another criminal fell dead literally next to Aizawa, many involuntarily glanced around. Because if Eraserhead appeared on the battlefield, it meant that somewhere far away, hidden in the shadows, a man with a rifle lay, his finger resting calmly on the trigger, his gaze fixed on only one hero.
To Shota Aizawa.
This was first noticed several months ago. Back then, the operation had ended in a veritable massacre. Several groups of villains had set up an ambush, and things had gone so badly that many heroes later called that day one of the most difficult in recent years. Police officers fell one after another, the heroes couldn't cover each other in time, and gunfire rang out from all sides without stopping.
When it was all over, the scene was so bizarre that many couldn't immediately believe their own eyes. Several police officers were seriously injured. Several heroes were taken to the hospital.
And Aizawa... Aizawa didn't even get a scratch. At the time, they chalked it up to luck.
Then the second incident happened. Eraserhead was cornered in a ruined warehouse. The villains surrounded him in a tight circle, cutting off all possible escape routes. There were too many of them, even for him. Many were certain he wouldn't escape this time. And then the shots started ringing out. One. Two. Three. Four. The villains fell to the concrete one after another. The sniper was on their side. That day, he had helped the criminals escape from the heroes. But as soon as Aizawa was threatened, the shooter, without a moment's hesitation, began killing his own allies.
After the operation, the remaining villains were furious. They couldn't understand why the man who had been covering their retreat just minutes earlier had suddenly opened fire on them. No one received a response.
The third incident was even stranger. The sniper was working with the villains again. Again helping them. Again hindering the heroes. But when one of the criminals tried to strike Aizawa from behind, the shot rang out before anyone could blink. The bullet entered his temple. Without warning. Without hesitation. Without the slightest attempt to spare his man.
And after that, such incidents began to happen constantly. Over and over again. In warehouses. On the streets. During patrols. During raids. During arrests. If Aizawa and whenever someone found themselves in danger, someone would inevitably fall with a bullet in their head. Sometimes it was real, sometimes it was a paralytic, like today.
It didn't matter whose side the sniper was on that day. It didn't matter what his targets were. It didn't matter who he supported. There was only one rule, and it was never broken. Shota Aizawa couldn't be harmed. Hundreds of such incidents had accumulated over the course of a year. Too many for coincidence. Too many for luck. Too many for mere chance.
So now, when yet another villain collapsed next to Eraserhead, a neat bullet hole in his forehead, no one looked surprised anymore. The police merely exchanged glances. The heroes sighed heavily. And some of the criminals even took a step back.
Because they all knew the same thing. Somewhere far away, beyond the battlefield, the man with the rifle was once again watching the events. And while his gaze was fixed on Aizawa, approaching him would mean signing your own death warrant.
But there were other days, too. Days the heroes almost looked forward to as if they were miracles. Because sometimes the invisible shooter would suddenly appear on their side. No one knew why he made such decisions. No one understood his motives. There was no pattern. He could hamper the police for weeks, then suddenly appear during another operation and begin eliminating criminals with such speed, as if he had decided to personally finish the entire raid.
It was then that another frightening statistic emerged. If the sniper supported the heroes, none of them died. No one. Not experienced professionals. Not young heroes. Not police officers. Even injuries became rare. It was as if luck itself unexpectedly sided with the law. The moment a criminal tried to pull the trigger, a sniper's shot rang out. The moment someone prepared an ambush, the shooter would spot it first. The moment a villain tried to escape, a bullet would destroy a car's engine, puncture a tire, or knock the weapon out of their hands. He never wasted bullets. He never missed. He was never late. Sometimes, the heroes felt as if this man could see the entire battlefield. Every movement. Every threat. Every mistake. As if he were watching from above, knowing exactly what would happen in a few seconds.
Because of this, a joke gradually developed among the heroes. An unofficial one. Never uttered in front of the higher-ups. If the sniper is with us today, we can relax. Because on days like these, operations went almost perfectly. The villains lost the initiative. Their plans fell apart. Their retreat descended into chaos. And the heroes seemed to gain an invisible advantage.
But that was precisely what frightened them most.
Because everyone understood one thing perfectly well. The sniper wasn't just a good shot. He was a man capable of changing the outcome of a battle before it was even over. One decision from him could determine who would win today. Heroes or villains. Police or criminals. One side was enjoying almost impossible luck. The other was suffering defeat after defeat. And so, an unspoken rule gradually emerged among the operatives. Before the start of every major operation, everyone asked the same question.
"Whose side is the sniper on today?"
Because the answer to this question was often more important than the number of heroes, weapons, equipment, and prepared plans. After all, if the mysterious shooter had already chosen a side, the scales would slowly begin to tip in their favor.
However, there was a third option. The rarest. The strangest. And, perhaps, the most disturbing. Sometimes the sniper wouldn't show up at all. Not a single bullet. Not a single hint of his presence. Not a single report of suspicious shots in the area. As if the man who could change the outcome of an entire operation with a single decision simply vanished.
On days like these, no one gained an advantage. The heroes fought with their own strength. The villains relied only on themselves. The side that was better prepared and made the fewest mistakes won. It was then that many first realized how accustomed they had become to the existence of the mysterious shooter. When he was gone, operations felt... unusual. Even the heroes caught themselves involuntarily glancing at the rooftops. The police listened to every loud sound. And the villains constantly glanced over their shoulders. As if everyone expected the familiar gunshot to ring out at any second.
But it never happened. Silence. Emptiness. Absence.
And this was almost more unnerving than his appearance. Because no one understood why he chose one of three options. Sometimes he helped the heroes. Sometimes he helped the villains. Sometimes he helped no one. No pattern was ever discovered. The police collected reports. Analysts studied old operations. Detectives developed theories. But each time, it all ended the same. Too many contradictions. Too many coincidences. Too many unclear decisions. It was as if the man with the rifle was guided by his own rules, known only to himself.
And yet, even in his absence, there remained one detail no one could explain. If Aizawa was present at an operation, the sniper seemed to continue to observe. Invisibly. From afar. Silently. Because throughout the entire year, there wasn't a single instance of Eraserhead being seriously wounded on a day when the mysterious shooter was nearby. It didn't matter whether he was helping the heroes. It didn't matter whether he was helping the villains. It didn't matter whether he interfered at all. Whenever a threat got too close to Aizawa, something always happened. The weapon jammed. The villain was distracted. One of the heroes suddenly appeared nearby. The attack plan collapsed at the last moment. As if reality itself somehow bent around one man. And gradually, among those who often worked in the fields, another unspoken theory began to circulate. The sniper could choose any side. He could betray allies. He could disappear for months. He could even avoid participating in a conflict altogether. But if there was one rule he always followed, it was simple:"Shota Aizawa must return home alive."
And as long as that rule remained unchanged, no one could say who exactly the mysterious shooter was—an ally, an enemy, or something far more complex.