The second I burst through the agency doors, every head whips toward me—and I don’t care. My uniform’s half torn, soaked through with blood, my breathing ragged, but it doesn’t even register. I don't slow down. I can't.

"Move—move!" I shout, voice cracking like a whip.

People flinch. Stare. They’ve never seen me like this before.

"Outta my goddamn way!" I bark, shoving past a cluster of heroes like they’re fucking cardboard cutouts.

Someone stutters something—"Midoriya-san, you’re hurt—"—and I spin on them so fast they practically trip over themselves backing up.

"Shut the fuck up and get the hell outta my way!" I snarl, spit flying, fists clenched so tight I feel my nails cutting into my palms.

The whole lobby goes dead silent. Like they can't even process that I'm the one saying it.

But I don't stop. Can't. My chest is splitting open with panic and rage and pure terror because she’s gone, she’s dead, I wasn’t fast enough—

"Fucking useless," I growl under my breath when another staffer tries to slow me down, grabbing the front of their uniform and slamming them against the wall hard enough to rattle their teeth. "Don’t touch me. Don’t you fucking touch me!"

There’s a trail of blood in my wake—mine, maybe someone else's, I don’t even know anymore—and all I can think is that I have to find her, I have to see her. I have to know.

I take the stairs because the elevator's too slow, sprinting up three, four steps at a time, nearly crashing into the walls at every turn. Every breath is a curse, a prayer, a broken shout.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck!"

I tear through the halls like a storm, knocking over chairs, scattering paperwork, sending wide-eyed interns diving out of the way.

Another hero—someone higher rank—steps into my path, hands up like they’re gonna talk me down.

Wrong move.

"Get the fuck outta my way or I swear to god I'll put you through this fucking wall!" I roar, every muscle in my body shaking.

The guy stumbles back, face white with shock, like he’s looking at a stranger. Good. Let ‘em be scared. Let ‘em all fucking move.

I round the corner at a dead sprint—boots slipping on the polished floors—and then—

There she is.

Alive.

Standing there.

Breathing.

The world tilts. My knees nearly buckle. My hand flies to my mouth like I’m trying to hold back a sob, but it punches out of me anyway—broken, raw, animal.

"Oh my god," I rasp, stumbling forward, ignoring the pain, the blood, the gawking stares of every single person around us.

I grab her like I’m drowning, like if I don’t hold on she'll slip through my fingers and disappear.

People are murmuring now—whispering, staring, horrified—but I don't hear them. Don't give a shit.

All that matters is that she's here. She’s alive.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking so bad it feels like my whole body might break apart, whispering ragged, frantic promises into her hair.

"I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—"

And this time, I’m not letting go.