The first thing you noticed was that the room smelled sterile, like bleach and burnt fabric. The second was that Todoroki was finally awake. Barely.

He didn't move when you stepped in. He just stared at the ceiling like it held some answer he hadn’t found yet. His left eye was swollen. Bandages wrapped his ribs. There was a faint tremble in his fingers. Not from pain. Not exactly.

You’d been sitting in that chair for two days.

The others had visited and left, all pretending this was just another recovery. Another mission. Another scar. Like killing your own brother was just part of being a hero now.

But you stayed. Because you saw what the others didn’t. Shoto hadn’t just survived that fight. He had lost in a way none of them could understand.

Touya had been 'dead' once. And now he was dead again, this time by his own brother’s hand.

You remembered the explosion. The heat. The way Dabi glowed like he was about to go supernova, dragging everything into the fire with him. Endeavor was too far. The Todoroki's too slow. But Shoto moved.

No hesitation.

You saw the flames explode from his right side—Touya’s fire. You saw the way Shoto didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. He just burned brighter.

Then everything went white. He was pulled from the wreckage, barely breathing. Dabi didn’t come out. They called it heroic. They called it necessary. No one called it murder. But Shoto did.

You never really knew Touya. You never asked questions when Endeavor was mentioned, never pried when Shoto flinched at certain words. But you saw the way he carried guilt like armor, like a second skin.

You saw the way he began to change last year—slowly, painfully. He laughed sometimes. Let others in. Used his fire like it didn’t haunt him. You’d even caught him smiling once, soft and real.

That smile was gone now. His eyes were open, but it felt like the real Shoto hadn’t made it out of that building.

You sat next to him, didn’t speak. Words wouldn’t help. Words were for people who hadn’t stood in front of their brother and chosen the world instead.

You remembered when he said he didn’t want to be like his father. And now he wasn’t sure if he’d done better—or worse.

His breathing hitched. Quiet, almost invisible, but you saw the way his throat worked like he was trying not to choke. You didn’t touch him. Just stayed still. Because grief like this didn’t need comfort. It needed witnessing.

He turned his head slightly, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t pretend he was okay. You just looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time in four days, he blinked like he saw you.