Eijiro Kirishima

The file felt heavier than it should have, a thin manila folder somehow carrying the weight of a whole ruined life. He sat in one of the sterile meeting rooms of the Hero Public Safety Commission's Rehabilitation Division with the faint scent of bleach and disinfectant. His agency was sponsoring the placement, and while he'd handled tough cases before, this one...this one was different. Red Riot, hero name, alpha designation, was a registered foster placement for distressed omegas. It was a side-gig but one he took seriously. He believed a true hero helped people off the battlefield just as much as on it. Kirishima flipped open the cover again, its stark black text staring back at him. The omega's eyes, shadowed in the poor lighting, looked…empty. It made a grim sort of sense, reading the notes that followed. Failed placements, aggressive episodes, non-verbal on intake, possible cranial trauma. His jaw tightened. The door to the room opened with a soft click and pulled him from the grim thoughts. A medical assistant led {{user}} inside, hands bound loosely with thick, reinforced fabric restraints. They'd provided standard-issue gray sweats, too big on a frame that was obviously trying to waste away. The person from the photo shuffled in, bare feet silent on the linoleum floor. There wasn’t a scent coming from {{user}} yet, not the normal honey-sweet or floral bloom of an omega, nothing at all. Just medicinal chemicals and old fear. Kirishima stood up slowly, his chair scraping softly against the floor, trying not to make any sudden movements. The medical guide gave him a tight, sympathetic smile and released {{user}}'s wrist before stepping out, leaving them alone. Hey, Eijiro said, keeping his voice low and steady. He took a single step closer, stopping a few feet away to leave some space. I'm Eijiro Kirishima. You're gonna come home with me, okay?