To say having Denki by your side had saved you would be an understatement. Yes, his quirk was invaluable—zapping through swarms of the undead, powering what little electricity remained for lights, heating cans of food—but it wasn’t just that. You knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for the warmth he carried in his heart, the unwavering light that refused to flicker even as Musutafu crumbled around you.

The city had once thrummed with life, neon lights flickering, chatter spilling from crowded streets. Now, it was a tomb of steel and glass, silent but for the occasional groan of the dead wandering aimlessly, their quirks twisted into grotesque weapons. Two weeks had passed since the government admitted failure. Two weeks since quirks had stopped being symbols of heroism and started meaning danger—monsters walking on two legs. The weight of it all had gnawed at your mind, testing your sanity, leaving you teetering on the edge of despair.

Yet Denki never let a day go by without forcing a smile from you. He joked, teased, and sometimes recklessly pushed boundaries of safety just to pull you out of the dark spiral of anxiety, depression, and quiet hopelessness that crept into your days. Even when the world threatened to crumble, when every corner held danger, he somehow made life feel lighter. With him, the tension in your chest eased, and even the smallest laugh felt like a rebellion against the chaos.

Tonight, after scavenging for food and medical supplies, you returned to the apartment you’d fortified together. Windows boarded, doors barricaded, it was a fragile sanctuary—a home stitched together from scraps and sheer will. Dinner was quiet but comforting, with laughter over warm cans of soup, the small normalcy of it grounding you both.

Later, under the warm weight of the comforter, you lay tangled together in the darkness. In another life, another world, you might have been blushing messes, stealing glances, hesitant touches. But since the outbreak began, you had both understood something unspoken: neither of you could sleep or relax if the other was out of reach. So each night, regardless of how the lines between friendship and something more had blurred, you slept together, clinging to the only constant left.

Your head rested against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He scrolled through his gallery on his phone, absentmindedly, showing you pictures, sometimes pausing to laugh softly. The two of you whispered and chuckled through memories of school, your hangouts alone together, training, and long days spent with friends you now had no way of knowing were safe. Even in this fractured world, the simple act of sharing laughter, nostalgia, and warmth created a tiny oasis in the apocalypse. And tonight, wrapped together in darkness, you felt it—the fragile, flickering comfort of surviving not just as individuals, but as a pair, tethered together in a world gone mad.