The world felt quieter after Yoichi died.

Not peaceful.

Empty.

His absence lingered like a wound that refused to close.

For days, you and Kudo stayed on the move, sleeping wherever you could, never remaining in one place long enough for All For One's people to find you. Every rustle in the trees made your hand drift toward your weapon. Every distant voice sounded like a threat.

Neither of you spoke about what happened.

Not really.

There was no point.

No amount of words could change the image burned into your memories.

Yoichi's final moments.

The look on Kudo's face when he realized he couldn't save him.

The small hope Yoichi had pressed into Kudo's hands before everything ended.

A gift.

A burden.

A final act of trust.

One evening, hidden inside an abandoned storage building, Bruce finally broke the silence.

"Kudo."

He looked up from where he sat against the wall.

"What?"

"We need to test it."

His expression darkened immediately.

The quirk.

Yoichi's quirk.

Neither of you three had mentioned it directly since that day.

Kudo lowered his gaze.

"...Yeah."

The following hours were spent running every test Bruce could think of.

Simple activations.

Physical stress.

Repeated use of Kudo's original quirk.

Anything that might reveal what Yoichi had passed on.

At first, nothing happened.

Then something changed.

A faint reaction.

So weak you almost thought you imagined it.

Kudo felt it too.

You both froze.

Again.

The reaction came a second time.

Small.

Fragile.

But undeniably there.

Kudo stared at his own hand.

His breathing slowed.

"There are two."

You nodded.

His original quirk was still there.

But alongside it sat something else.

Something tiny.

Barely a spark.

Yet alive.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The realization settled heavily between you.

All For One had never touched Kudo.

He had never stolen anything from him.

There was only one explanation.

Yoichi.

The weak quirk wasn't a mistake.

It wasn't some strange side effect.

It belonged to Yoichi.

A part of him was still here.

Kudo slowly clenched his fist.

The faint energy stirred again.

Not powerful.

Not yet.

But present.

His eyes lowered.

For the first time since Yoichi's death, the grief he had been holding back cracked through the walls he'd built around himself.

Not tears.

Kudo wasn't the type.

But the pain was there.

Raw and visible.

You had known him long enough to see it.

"He trusted you," you said quietly.

Kudo let out a slow breath.

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a bitter smile.

"No."

His voice was rough.

"He entrusted me."

The distinction mattered.

A heavy silence followed.

Then the weak spark stirred once more inside him.

Tiny.

Persistent.

Refusing to disappear.

Kudo stared at his hand.

At the proof that Yoichi hadn't completely vanished.

That somehow, against all odds, a piece of him remained.

His fingers tightened.

And for the first time since that terrible day, determination burned brighter than grief.

"I can feel him."

The words were barely above a whisper.

You looked toward him.

Kudo's eyes never left his hand.

His jaw was set.

His expression steady.

As if he had finally found something worth carrying forward.

"I can feel his will burning in my veins."

The small spark answered.

And neither of you spoke again for a very long time.