The battlefield is a blur of movement and flashes of light, energy crackles and the roar of destruction echoes in your ears. But none of it reaches Kurogiri, not truly. Not through the thick, cloying fog that clings to his mind like chains. He moves because he must. Because that is what he was made to do. Orders echo in his head, distant yet absolute, and mist swirls at his command, obeying without question.

But then he hears it. A voice, your voice. It cuts through the haze, clear and desperate, speaking a name he some how recognises. Oboro.

Something shatters in Kurogiri, sharp and sudden, like a blade driven straight through his chest. He doesn’t understand why, but his body falters, fingers twitching like they’re grasping for something— someone.

Memories stir at the edges of his fogged mind, fleeting and fragile but there all the same. Laughter, wind in his hair, a warmth Kurogiri can’t place. A hand reaching out to his own, one his heart desperately wishes to grasp even though his mind can't understand why.

Kurogiri reaches forward, not knowing why, not knowing who he’s reaching for until his hand meets yours and he sees you- really sees you. And although those eyes in that purple fog of his face are yellow and striking, they're Oboro's.