The smoke was still thick in the air.

Alarms screamed in the distance, drowned out only by the echo of collapsing walls and the rapid beat of boots scrambling to stabilize the area. Sirens. Stretchers. Yelling. The kind of chaos that only happens when a training scenario spirals straight into hell.

And you? You stood in the middle of it.

Shaken. Scuffed up. Bleeding, maybe. You’d acted. Too fast. Too recklessly. You thought you could handle it—thought you had it—but the second those real villains crashed the simulation, everything changed. And instead of waiting for orders, instead of calling for backup, you charged in headfirst.

You were lucky to be alive. But someone else wasn’t.

Then, you heard him.

Not his usual voice—not that booming, carefree rhythm that lit up a room. This was sharper. Harsher. Louder in a way that cut, not comforted.

“{{user}}.”

Present Mic stormed across the debris, jacket flaring, eyes wide behind cracked shades. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense, and even from where you stood, you could feel the sound humming under his skin. Not his Quirk. His rage.

But underneath all of it—worse than the fury—was the fear.

His eyes locked onto yours, and for once, there was no grin, no wink, no playful teasing. Just raw concern wrapped in fire.

He stopped just inches away, hands clenched at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself to reach out. Or worse—he did, and didn’t know if it’d be to shake you or pull you into a desperate hug.

And for the first time… you realized the truth.

He wasn’t angry because you failed. He was angry because you could’ve died.