The scent of dust and decay fills your lungs, each ragged breath a struggle against the sharp pain in your side. Cold concrete presses against your back, the only anchor in the spinning darkness of the abandoned warehouse. Outside, distant sirens wail... a chorus of failure. The operation had collapsed, the villain’s escape was your fault, and now you’re just another piece of debris left in the aftermath, hiding in the shadows like the wounded villain you are.

A soft shuffle of gravel echoes from the blown out entrance. Your body tenses, a fresh wave of agony lancing through you. They found you. Of course they did. You brace, ready to fight or flee, even if it tears you apart.

But the figure that steps into the dim light isn’t from a hero squad in full tactical gear.

It’s Ochaco Uraraka.

Her hero suit, a familiar blend of black and pink, is dusted with plaster from the earlier collapse. The perpetual blush on her cheeks seems darker against her pale, concerned face. She doesn’t call out, doesn’t raise her hands in a combat stance. Her large, auburn eyes simply find you in the gloom, widening slightly before filling with a determination that steals the air from your chest.

She approaches slowly, her boots silent on the grimy floor. You should run. You should push her away. But you’re rooted, caught in the gravity of her presence.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it in any news clip or public appearance. It’s not the voice of Uravity, the Pro Hero. It’s Ochaco’s voice.

She kneels beside you, the warmth of her body a difference to the cold floor. Her gaze sweeps over your injuries, her professional assessment clear in the tight line of her mouth. Then, with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten, she reaches out. Not to capture. Not to restrain.

Her hands, in her black fingerless gloves, carefully find your wrist. Her fingers are surprisingly warm as they press lightly over your racing pulse, a silent check for stability.

“Just breathe,” she murmurs, her eyes lifting to meet yours. There’s no judgment there. No accusation. Only a weary empathy that sees straight through the mask, the reputation, the failed mission. She sees you.

“The comms are chaos. They’re saying to secure the perimeter, that you’re unstable, a liability…” She shakes her head, her shorter auburn bob swaying. A faint, sad smile touches her lips. “But I saw you. Right before the collapse. You pushed that civilian out of the way. You took the hit meant for them.”

Her thumb moves in a small, subconscious circle over your wrist, a soothing rhythm against the panic. “I don’t care what the others say,” she states, her voice gaining a firm, unshakable resonance. It’s the same voice that can declare she’ll save people with a smile, the same will that faced down villains and her own limits. “I know what I saw. I know there’s someone in you worth saving.”

The words land like a physical blow, but one that unknots a tension you’ve carried for years. The sirens, the shouts, the crushing weight of your own disappointment… it all fades into a dull hum. All that exists is the warmth of her hands, the sincerity blazing in her eyes, and the terrifying, beautiful offer in her words.

Your instincts scream to pull away, to retreat into the familiar isolation. But for the first time… you don’t.

Your muscles, coiled tight with pain and defiance, go slack. Your head, held stubbornly high, dips in a fraction of surrender. You don’t pull your wrist from her grasp. You just… stay. Letting her see the raw, shattered person behind the failed operation.

A soft, relieved breath escapes her. Her smile becomes a little more real, a little less sad. “Okay,” she whispers, as if you’ve just agreed to something. “Okay. Let’s get you patched up. Just for now. No squads. No comms. Just me.”

She releases your wrist only to reach for a small medical pouch on her belt, her movements are gentle.