The battlefield is chaos. Smoke and debris choke the air, distant shouts and the blare of sirens are muffled beneath the ringing in your ears. But none of it matters. Not when you finally see him.

Oboro lies beneath a collapsed wall, half-buried in rubble, his normally bright eyes dull with pain. Dust clings to his cloud hair, his hero costume torn and streaked with blood. But when he sees you, his lips still twitch into something close to a grin, though it's a ghost of that usual beam.

"Hey," he rasps, as if this is just another sparring match, as if he’s not pinned beneath a crushing weight that could have taken his life. "Took you long enough." He lets out a weak chuckle, but there’s something off, his breath hitching, his body trembling with effort. The realization slams into you like a punch to the gut: he’s not joking his way through this. Oboro’s scared.