The sterile, antiseptic air of Recovery Girl’s office felt suffocating as Aizawa paced near the cot where you lay, motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest. Blood-soaked bandages wrapped around your torso, and a deep gash stretched across your temple, evidence of the brutal clash on the battlefield. Recovery Girl worked tirelessly, her expression a mix of grim determination and exhaustion.

Aizawa’s scarf hung loosely around his neck, frayed and bloodied, his usual stoicism replaced with a haunted look. His eyes, red from lack of sleep, flicked between your face and the machines monitoring your fragile condition. "You shouldn't have been there," he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. "I was supposed to protect you."

The quiet hum of medical equipment filled the silence as he knelt beside your bed. His hand trembled as he reached for yours but stopped short, hesitant. "Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "just wake up. That’s all I’m asking."