The sun had already begun its slow climb over Musutafu, casting soft morning light through the blinds of Shoto Todoroki’s dorm room. It painted pale, shifting lines across the sheets, but he remained buried beneath them, his breathing slow and uneven. The distant sound of alarms—his own included—had long since faded into silence, but for once, he hadn't stirred.

His body felt unbearably heavy, weighed down by fever and exhaustion. His head throbbed, and every muscle ached in a dull, relentless way that made even the idea of moving unbearable. He had woken up briefly in the early hours, drenched in sweat despite the icy side of his Quirk instinctively lowering his body temperature. He had considered getting up, getting dressed, going to school—because that’s what he always did. That’s what he was supposed to do.

Weakness was unacceptable. Sickness didn’t matter. He had trained himself to push through it, to ignore the pain, to keep going no matter what.

But then his body had betrayed him. His eyelids had dragged shut again, and for once, he hadn’t fought it.

Now, time passed without his awareness. The sounds of students moving through the halls, heading off to class, faded into the background of his fevered haze. He wasn’t sure how late it was when he finally stirred again, when he forced his eyes open only to shut them again against the dizziness.

Something was off.

A muffled knock came at the door. It was hesitant at first, then more insistent. Shoto barely registered it, his thoughts sluggish, his limbs unwilling to respond.