The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed faintly—soft, persistent, the kind of sound that blended into the white noise of hospital life. Morning hadn’t fully claimed the sky yet; the windows were still tinted with that gray-blue haze that clung after a night full of restless dreams. Inside the recovery ward, the air was heavy with antiseptic and undertones of exhaustion, the sort of stillness that followed battles no one truly won.

{{user}} stirred, vision settling slowly on the quiet room. Bandages, monitors blinking gently, the distant echo of footsteps—they all blurred into one muted world. The last thing they remembered was the sound of crying. Inko’s sobs, raw and trembling, as she clung to her son’s hand. All Might seated beside Midoriya’s bed, face etched with lines deeper than age alone could grant. Now, though, the room felt emptier. Hollow somehow, as if grief itself had been sitting vigil and only just stepped away.

The door slid open with a soft hiss.

“I see they’ve all woken up…”

It was Best Jeanist. His voice was low, contemplative, barely louder than a murmur. He scanned the room with a meticulous, assessing gaze, his posture straight despite the exhaustion weighting his features. Beside him, Hawks stepped in—bandaged, stiff, wings much smaller now, but the shadow of them still lingering behind him in posture and memory. He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

All Might, who had barely moved from his seat, nodded slowly. There was worry there—deep, genuine, and almost suffocating.

“Yeah… but they still need to recover. None of them are in a state where they can fight right now.”

The monitors beeped softly, a steady rhythm cutting through the heavy silence. Midoriya shifted slightly against the pillows, bruised but awake, eyes dimmed yet determined.

“Don’t worry… I think I’ll be fine with some rest.”

His voice cracked in the middle, too soft, too hopeful in a world that was beginning to doubt hope at all. Hawks rubbed the back of his neck, bandages shifting slightly, and exhaled through his nose. Whatever words he wanted to say died before reaching his tongue. Best Jeanist laid a hand on Hawks’ shoulder—not comforting, exactly, but anchoring.

The two further into the room, Best Jeanist adjusting his coat with mechanical precision. He moved with purpose—calm, steady, but even he seemed dulled around the edges, the war still clinging to him like smoke.

Midoriya looked down at his hands, fingers trembling just slightly. The room felt colder then, in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Hawks moved closer to the foot of the bed, gaze softening just a little.

“Don’t rush it, kid. No one’s expecting you to jump back in right away.”

The irony of that statement lingered between them like a ghost. No one said anything else for a long moment.

Outside the window, clouds drifted lazily, indifferent to the turmoil below. If there was victory to be felt, it didn’t linger here. Not in this room full of recovering students and broken pro-heroes. Not in a world where secrets had been ripped open like wounds and left to bleed in front of millions.

Shigaraki had been driven back. Dabi’s broadcast had spread like wildfire. Midnight was gone. Twice… gone. The weight of loss pressed down on the hospital like a suffocating fog, seeping through cracks and into the very air they breathed. And so far, not one of them had realized that {{user}} Is also back to consciousness.