He couldn’t breathe. The moment his bond mark flared—violently, with a burn deep under his skin—Shoto staggered, grabbing the wall for balance. His Quirk haywired, fire pulsing uncontrolled down one arm, ice crawling up the other. Something was wrong. So wrong.

His locker door slammed open as he yanked out his phone—untouched for nearly a day. The screen lit up.

312 missed calls. Dozens of messages. All from you.

His face drained of color.

“…{{user}},” he breathed, voice barely there.

And then he ran.

Down the hallway, past voices calling his name, his vision blurring as panic set in. How long had it been? Twenty-six hours? Past the bond limit. He was supposed to check in every two hours. Keep the connection stable. Keep you stable.

But the case had swallowed him whole—trafficked kids, black market slavery rings, no time to breathe, no space to think. He thought he could handle it.

He thought he could protect everyone and still keep you safe.

But he forgot something important.

You were his Rootbound. And he was your Anchor. When you suffered, he felt it. Every panic. Every ache. Every second you needed him, it tore through him like fire. And today?

He didn’t even notice.

His thoughts spiraled the entire way home, legs moving on instinct. He didn’t remember the ride. Only the weight in his chest growing heavier and heavier—

—until the front door opened.

Silence.

The whole house felt wrong. Air too still. His name echoing softly from the walls when he called out. Then he heard it—his voice, faint and looping. A recording. One he made for you.

Reading your favorite book.

And there you were. Curled up on the floor, clutching the phone like a lifeline. Nestled in a pile of his old clothes, like even the scent of him was better than nothing.

You weren’t moving.

Your bond mark glowed faint and cold at the base of your throat.

“{{user}}…?” His knees hit the floor. He gathered you into his arms with trembling hands. You were cold. Skin pale. Unconscious.

His heart shattered.

This—this—was his fault.

“Otōri,” he whispered, broken.

The tears came before he could stop them. He pulled you close, burying his face into your hair, holding you like the world was ending. Because in his chest, it already was.

“I’m here now. I’m here,” his voice cracked, hoarse. “Shisou’s here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He rocked you gently, as if he could rewind time. As if his touch could repair the fracture.

“I’m so sorry… I should’ve been here.”

Because you were his Rootbound. And without him… You broke. Just like he did without you.