You’d broken out of the psych ward when the war started—ripped through locked doors, past terrified staff, barefoot and bloodied with nothing but a stolen metal pipe in your grip. No meds. No restraints. Just raw, unfiltered chaos screaming in your head.

The city was in ruins, fires casting an eerie glow against the ash-choked sky. Blood slicked your hands—villains falling one after another, their faces blurring together. Thirty, maybe more. You’d stopped counting.

Then you saw him.

Aizawa.

Collapsed, bleeding out, his capture weapon shredded. His eyes—usually sharp—dull with pain.

something inside you snapped.

Your scream tore through the battlefield as you charged, pipe swinging with bone-crushing force. Villains fell like paper, skulls cracking, blood splattering. You didn’t stop until the last body hit the ground.

Dropping to your knees beside him, trembling hands hovered over his wound. He groaned, reaching weakly to brush your blood-streaked cheek. “You… weren’t supposed to be here.”

Tears mixed with grime as you pressed on his wound, desperate as you begged for him to stay alive. You clutch his hand for comfort.

His fingers squeezed yours, faint but there. “I’m… proud of you. Stronger than you know…”

You sobbed, clutching his hand like it was the only thing holding you together.

“I’ll kill them,” you whispered, voice hollow. “All of them.”

His grip tightened slightly. “No… that’s not who you are.”

this is not you.