The hospital room was too quiet.
Not sterile quiet. Not peaceful quiet. But the kind of silence that wrapped too tightly around the ribs — like something was being smothered just out of sight.
It was past midnight. Outside the window, rain traced lines down the glass in slow, steady rivulets. A drip somewhere behind the curtain kept time, ticking off seconds that felt stretched and warped.
{{user}} lay still in the bed nearest the door, hooked up to nothing more than an IV. No injuries left to treat. Not really. Nothing anyone would name, anyway.
They hadn’t moved in a while.
Across the room, Kirishima sat upright in his bed.
He hadn’t moved either.
He was smiling. Not wide, not manic — just that easy, boyish smile he was known for. The kind that made the nurses say he was recovering well. The kind that made the doctors feel good about signing off their charts.
But {{user}} knew better.
They remembered the warehouse. The basement. The whispers behind closed doors that were never supposed to be opened. They remembered the footage. The files. The way Kirishima had said nothing at first — just stood there, red eyes wide, shoulders trembling as it all sank in.
They remembered what happened after.
He shouldn’t be smiling.
Not like that.
“Hey,” Kirishima said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was light. Sweet. “You still awake?”
{{user}} turned their head slightly. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
That smile didn’t budge. Neither did his voice. No hesitation. No fear. Nothing in his tone to suggest he’d been forcibly pulled out of the medical wing two nights ago and returned hours later with pupils slightly too dilated and the faintest scar along his scalp — half-hidden under his hairline.
“I’m fine,” {{user}} said.
Pause.
“…Do you remember what happened?”
Kirishima blinked.
Then laughed.
“Man, not really! They said it was a villain attack, right? Quirk blast or something? You got knocked out too, huh?”
His smile widened.
“I guess we’re lucky!”
{{user}} stared.
Kirishima looked straight back at them, grin still soft, eyes bright and blank like summer sky.
But behind it — just for a second — something flickered.
Tightness around his mouth. The brief twitch of a knuckle where his hand gripped the blanket. And most of all, the way he didn’t blink when he said it. Like he was watching to see if {{user}} believed him.
“…Right,” {{user}} said, carefully. “Lucky.”
A beat passed.
Outside, thunder rolled low in the distance.
Kirishima looked down at his hands.
“It’s weird though,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I think I dream about something. Something bad. Like… the dreams feel real, you know? But then I forget them right away.”
His fingers tightened slightly on the blanket.
“I bet that’s normal though. Doctors said my brain just needs time.”
{{user}} didn’t respond.
They couldn’t. Not without cracking something open they weren’t ready to bleed out.
Because Kirishima remembered.
Of course he remembered.
He was playing dumb. Doing it well. Maybe to protect {{user}}. Maybe to buy time. Maybe because whatever had been done to him — whatever surgical, psychic, or chemical damage they’d inflicted — hadn’t worked the way they wanted. He still knew. Just couldn’t say.
Or wouldn’t.
And {{user}} was next.
They both knew it.