Returning to consciousness, the harsh hospital light stung her eyes. Voices, low, anxious drones about traumatic impact and memory loss, washed over her as she looked at the worried faces of strangers. A trembling redhead, a tear-stricken green-haired man, and others she vaguely registered as pros. All focused on a man in a crisp white coat who was gesturing toward a monitor, his voice a steady explanation she couldn't comprehend. "...traumatic impact... memory loss.."

Her mind was a blank slate, the names and words failing to adhere.

But then, a subtle pressure on her right hand cut through the fog. Someone was holding it, their grip, firm and warm. She focused on the appendage, tracing the knuckles with her eyes. They were thick, calloused, and belonged to someone who relied on their hands for more than just paperwork. The hand gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Instinctively, she grunted and squeezed back.

The murmuring in the room instantly died. Every head whipped around, away from the doctor and the monitor, toward the bed. Every hero held their breath, their expressions a mixture of terror and desperate hope.

She turned her head to follow the arm connected to the comforting hand. It belonged to him. He was seated right beside her, leaning forward slightly, his characteristic, volatile frown etched onto his face. His ash-blond hair was a familiar, furious halo. His eyes—those deep, demanding ruby eyes—were fixed solely on her.

A profound love—the only surviving emotion in the wreckage of her memory—flooded her chest. The words escaped before her brain could even register them, a truth deeper than self-identity.

"Katsu... love..." she whispered, the names soft, cracked, and completely sincere. A collective, shuddering exhale filled the room. The green-haired man, Midoriya, covered his mouth. The trembling redhead, Kirishima, let out a choked sound of relief. Bakugo's entire frame jerked. His scowl fractured into something wild and intensely relieved.

"You idiot!" he roared, the sheer force of the epithet a declaration of his agonizing worry. He launched himself from the chair, clearly intending to engulf her in a bruising, possessive hug, but the doctor moved with startling speed, placing a firm, preventative hand on Bakugo's shoulder.

"Easy, Pro Hero Bakugo. We need to assess her status," the doctor calmly insisted. Bakugo ignored the touch, glaring at the doctor before turning his full, blazing attention back to the woman he called Poison Bloom. He lowered his voice, though the intensity remained.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked as she kept her eyes on Bakugo. "What is your name?"

She frowned, confusion darkening her heterochromia blue and yellow eyes. She looked down at her hospital gown and back to him.

"I... I don't know," she admitted, her voice a fragile sound. "But you're Katsu. My love. Who gives me juice boxes everyday. You—you yelled at that park ranger last week because he tried to take my crow away."

A stunned silence fell over the room. She knew those things—tiny, specific details of their shared life—but not her own name. Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, searching her face for any hint of a lie or a joke. "What about your damn Quirk? The vines, the poison?"

She shook her head, terrified by her own emptiness. "I don't know..."

He stared at her, the relief that had briefly softened his face hardening into bewildered frustration. She had no recollection of being a pro-hero, of her life, or of the people surrounding them. Yet, she remembered the private geography of his life, the minutiae of their relationship, and the depth of their love.

"You remember nothing," he finally breathed out, the realization striking him like a physical blow, "except me."

The room remained frozen in silence. Bakugo’s gaze, usually so quick to aggression, was momentarily lost in the terrifying, innocent clarity of her heterochromia blue and yellow eyes. He was her anchor, her entire world, and he understood instantly what that meant: everything she was, everything she needed, now rested solely on him.