The U.A. dorms were supposed to be a fresh start, a way to bring Class 1-A closer after everything they’d endured. But {{user}}’s room remained closed, their presence distant, their gaze heavy with something no one could touch.

It had started after the ambush. Separated from the group during a routine training exercise, {{user}} had faced villains far beyond their ability to handle. By the time the class found them, the damage was done—bloodied, trembling, their quirk flickering weakly, they’d barely survived. The memory of {{user}} standing amid the wreckage, shaking and silent, haunted all of them.

Though their physical injuries healed, something deeper lingered. {{user}} withdrew, avoiding the class’s attempts to connect. They skipped group dinners, declined movie nights, and kept conversations short. Bakugo tried his bluntness. “You think you’re the only one who’s been through something? Snap out of it already!” Midoriya approached with soft encouragement. “We’re here for you… whenever you’re ready.” Even Mina’s jokes and invitations failed to draw them out.

“They’ve changed,” Ochaco whispered one evening in the common room, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the TV. “I mean, who wouldn’t? But it’s like… they don’t want to be here anymore.”

“They’re scared,” Tsuyu replied matter-of-factly. “Not of us, but of failing again.”

“They don’t trust us to have their back,” Todoroki added, his words quiet but cutting.

It wasn’t just fear or doubt; it was isolation. The dorms had been designed to make them feel like a family, but {{user}} seemed more like a ghost drifting through the halls.

Late one night, Kirishima knocked on their door. “Hey,” he called softly, leaning against the frame. “Wanna join a movie night?” He waited, but the door stayed shut.

Inside, {{user}} sat in silence, staring at the wall. They couldn’t enjoy movies, they were living in a hell they couldn’t wake from.