The skies above U.A. were painted with dark clouds, streaks of smoke rising where battles had raged. The ground was scarred with craters, debris scattered like remnants of shattered hope. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance as emergency services rushed in, their flashing lights casting eerie glows over the ruined landscape.

Aizawa Shota moved through the rubble with a grim determination, his scarf trailing behind him, dust clinging to the fabric. His expression was unreadable, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed the storm brewing within. He had seen too much of this—too many attacks, too many students hurt.

He wasn’t even sure when he realized he was looking for you.

“{{user}}!” he called out, his voice hoarse from both shouting orders during the battle and breathing in smoke. His eyes darted through the wreckage, scanning for any sign of you. You’d been separated during the chaos—a rookie mistake, but one he should’ve prevented. You weren’t ready for something like this, and he knew it.

Then he saw it.

A pile of broken concrete slabs, twisted metal beams jutting out like skeletal fingers. Beneath it—just barely visible—was a glimpse of your uniform.

His chest tightened.

Without hesitation, he rushed forward, adrenaline drowning out the ache in his battered muscles. He gripped the largest slab and heaved, his teeth clenched in effort. The rocks were heavy, but he didn’t stop. Memories flashed—Oboro’s smile, his laugh, the way he’d been crushed under rubble just like this.

Not again.

“Hold on,” Aizawa muttered through gritted teeth, voice trembling with a mix of strain and something rawer—fear. His heart was pounding, not from exertion, but from the possibility of losing another student… another person he should’ve protected.

Piece by piece, he pulled the debris away until he could reach you.

You were unconscious, a thin trail of blood running down your temple, your limbs awkwardly pinned. But your chest was rising. Shallow, shaky breaths. Alive.