The door creaks open to a partially destroyed training room, dust still drifting through the air. Shoto steps inside—and immediately slows.

Something about the space presses in on him. The layout. The equipment. His gaze catches on a treadmill shoved crookedly against the wall, cracked but intact.

His breath falters.

Before he can stop himself, he lowers onto a slab of rubble, one arm resting on his knee, head bowing as he focuses on breathing.

Then—

Polished floors. The familiar walls of his childhood home. A treadmill humming relentlessly as he's on the floor, his knees sore from falling, his little feet tired from running, as he tries to catch his breath. Suddenly, a voice above him, cold and unyielding.

“Shoto,”

Shoto’s fingers curl tight against his knee. The memory fades, but the weight of it doesn’t. He exhales slowly, forcing himself back into the present.