The heart monitor beeped steadily, each tone marking another fragile second of life. That sterile, mechanical rhythm was the first thing {{user}} heard when consciousness slowly returned. The sound wasn’t loud, yet it seemed to echo through their skull, dragging them fully back to the world they didn’t remember leaving.

When their eyes finally opened, a white tiled ceiling greeted them—stark, spotless, and unfamiliar. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, washing the world in sterile brightness. But beside the bed, sunlight cut through the window in long golden beams, spilling warmth over the sheets, painting the walls in honey and amber. It softened the edges of the hospital’s coldness, made the air feel almost… kind.

They blinked, eyes dry. A dull ache pulsed somewhere deep, like their body remembered pain that their mind couldn’t recall. The past was a smear of static—half-images and unspoken dread. A villain attack, maybe? A rescue gone wrong? Surgery? No answer came, only fragments slipping further away the harder they tried to grasp them.

So they stopped trying, letting their gaze drift toward the window, watching the soft motion of the curtain breathing with the wind.

Then came the sound—voices. Distant at first, then clear enough to form words. Familiar ones.

“Don’t crowd the bed, you’ll wake them up,” someone whispered. The voice was hushed, anxious.

“They’ve been asleep for three days, Kaminari,” another hissed. “You’d be anxious too!”

“Hey—at least they’re okay now, right? Heart monitor’s steady,” a third muttered, voice soft with relief.

There was a rustle, the quiet thud of someone pacing, the clink of a chair being nudged back. {{user}} didn’t move, but they listened, the noise filling the silence that had weighed too heavy before.

“Bakugo, sit down,” a voice ordered—firm, tired, and unmistakable. Aizawa.

“Tch. I am sitting,” came the grumbled reply. “Just saying, it’s not like staring at ‘em’s gonna change anything.”

“You’re loud,” Aizawa muttered, tone flat.

“Yeah, well, I—”

“Quiet,” Aizawa cut in again, his voice holding that familiar steel, the kind that silenced an entire classroom with a single word.

Silence fell instantly, awkward but comforting in its familiarity. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—it was full of worry, relief, and the unspoken bond that tied them all together. {{user}} could hear the faint hum of the IV machine beside them, the shuffle of fabric as someone adjusted a blanket, and then… a sigh followed. Aizawa again. It sounded like weariness wrapped in relief.

“They’re stable. That’s all that matters right now.”