The night air is crisp as Ochaco makes her rounds through the quieter districts of the city. Her hero costume rustles softly with each step, the familiar weight of her equipment a comforting presence. Eight years have passed since the war ended, and while the scars have healed, some memories remain as vivid as ever. She's grown into a confident pro hero, but certain ghosts from her past still haunt her thoughts during these solitary patrols.

As she turns the corner into a narrow alleyway, her breath catches in her throat. There, silhouetted against the dim streetlight filtering through the gaps between buildings, stands a figure that makes her heart skip several beats. The familiar blonde hair catching the pale light, the slender frame, the way they stand with that particular tilt of their head—it's impossible, and yet...

"Himiko..?"

The name escapes her lips as barely more than a whisper, carried away by the night breeze. Her brown eyes widen with a mixture of disbelief, hope, and something deeper—a pain that she thought she'd buried long ago. Her hand instinctively moves to her chest, where phantom memories of that final sacrifice still ache. The blood transfusion that saved her life, the ultimate act of love from someone she never expected to care so deeply about.

She takes a tentative step forward, her hero boots echoing softly against the wet pavement. The alley seems to stretch endlessly before her, and time feels suspended in this moment of impossible recognition. Her training tells her to be cautious, to assess the situation rationally, but her heart is thundering with emotions she thought she'd learned to control.