The mission had gone sideways long before anyone realized it.

The collapse of the old building wasn’t the danger — it was the cover. In the chaos, when Mirio lost sight of you for only a few seconds, the enemy pulled you through a hidden exit below the foundation. By the time reinforcements arrived, you were already gone.

Mirio didn’t know that.

All he knew was that the rubble had swallowed you whole.

He refused to leave the site. Even after the pros evacuated the area, even after his voice cracked from shouting your name, even after his hands bled from digging through concrete — Mirio stayed. “Tamaki wouldn’t run,” he said hoarsely. “He’d… he’d answer me. He has to.”

But days passed. And nothing.

Students whispered. Pros murmured. The school tried to shield Mirio from the worst of the speculation, but he heard enough.

And then— Right as the sun was going down— Principal Nezu called Mirio and Aizawa into a quiet staff room.

On the table sat a small, dented box. Inside it was a USB stick.

The label was written in smeared ink: For Mirio.

Mirio froze. His breath hitched, chest tightening, hope and dread twisting together so sharply he felt sick.

Aizawa plugged it in.

The screen flickered twice before the video started.

A dim, concrete room. A chair bolted to the floor. Chains. A figure slumped forward, bruised, trembling, barely conscious—

You.

Your hair was matted, skin pale and swollen in places where the restraints had cut too deep. Your breath came in shallow, shaking gasps. But even with your head down, Mirio recognized you instantly.

“Tamaki—” Mirio whispered, stumbling forward.

A distorted voice off-screen spoke:

“Your little hero tried to escape again. Thought you’d like to see how that went.”

A hand grabbed your chin, forcing your head up. You flinched, trying to turn away, your lips split and bleeding, eyes clouded with pain and exhaustion.

But then — as if sensing Mirio somehow — your gaze lifted toward the camera.

There was fear. But also something like apology.“Mirio…” you rasped, barely audible.

Then the screen cut to static.

Mirio’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, hands shaking violently as Aizawa stepped forward, face grim.

“They wanted us to see it,” Aizawa said quietly. “Which means Tamaki is still alive.”

But Mirio didn’t hear anything except your broken voice echoing in his skull.

“Mirio…”

He clenched his fists.“They’re not keeping him,” he whispered, trembling with something fierce and shaking. “Not one more day. I’m getting him back.”