The walls of Tartarus felt suffocating, the air thick with something you couldn’t name. You weren’t supposed to be here. You knew it the second Aizawa and Hizashi led you down the cold, sterile halls.

Then you saw him.

Kurogiri stood behind the reinforced glass, his mist shifting like it was alive. You’d heard about him before—the League’s warp gate, a villain. But the way Aizawa looked at him made your stomach twist.

“Why are we here?” you asked, voice wary.

Aizawa was silent for a long moment. Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“His name was Oboro Shirakumo.”

The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—like it hurt to speak—made your chest tighten.

“He was our best friend,” Hizashi added, his usual energy gone. “A hero student. Just like you.”

You glanced between them, confusion and unease creeping in. “But he’s—” You gestured at Kurogiri, at the mist where a person should be. “He’s not—”

“He was taken,” Aizawa interrupted. “Turned into this.” His voice was steady, but his hands were curled into fists. “He was supposed to be a hero. Just like you.”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach drop.

“You remind us of him,” Hizashi said quietly.

Your breath hitched. “What?”

Aizawa finally turned to you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The way you fight like you’ve got nothing to lose. The way you throw yourself into battle like you don’t care what happens to you.” His voice lowered. “The way you’ve been left behind.”

The words struck something raw inside you. “So that’s it?” You forced out a bitter laugh. “I’m just his replacement?”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened. Both men stayed silent, which was even worse because they didn’t deny it.