Sirens wailed through the shattered streets of Musutafu, their pitch rising and falling like a panicked heartbeat. Smoke clung to the air in thick, choking plumes, carrying the stench of burning concrete, scorched metal, and something far worse—ozone and blood.

“Civilians first! Don’t let anyone linger near the unstable structures!” Endeavor’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. Flames curled along his shoulders and beard, not wild, but tightly restrained.

Nearby, Hawks landed lightly atop the remains of a collapsed overpass, crimson wings flaring before folding neatly behind him.

“This one’s bad,” Hawks muttered into his communicator. “Worse than the Kamino aftermath. Whoever led this attack wasn’t testing the waters—they were sending a message.”

“Yeah, well, they picked the wrong day,” Mirko snapped, cracking her knuckles as she stood guard near a cluster of rescue workers.

Mount Lady’s towering form loomed at the edge of the district, kneeling carefully as emergency crews worked around her. Her usual bravado was subdued, replaced by a quiet focus as she used her size to stabilize leaning buildings and shield rescue teams from falling rubble.

“Kamui, on your left!” she called out.

“I see it,” Kamui Woods replied, wooden tendrils extending from his arms to brace a cracked support beam. His voice was calm, professional—grounded. “Jeanist, once this is secure, we’ll need help clearing the lower floors.”

Best Jeanist stepped forward, immaculate as ever despite the dust coating his fibers. With a precise flick of his wrist, denim threads tightened and reinforced weak points in the structure, holding it together just long enough for medics to extract survivors.

The heroes worked like a well-oiled machine. They had fought together before. Bled together. Lost together.

And still, the weight of it never lessened.

Stretchers lined the streets now, forming rows where storefronts had once stood. Civilians cried openly—some from pain, others from shock. A few vomited. Many clutched phones with shaking hands, desperately trying to reach loved ones.

Hawks descended near the triage zone, folding his wings with a soft exhale. He scanned the injured out of habit, eyes flicking from face to face. Most reactions blurred together—wide eyes, sobbing mouths, trembling hands.

Then he paused. Nudging Aizawa who had joined him at some point or another.

“…That’s weird,” he murmured.

At the far edge of the triage area sat a single stretcher, angled slightly toward the ruins. The person on it—{{user}}—was sat upright.

They weren’t crying. They weren’t shaking. They weren’t screaming or staring at their hands, wondering how they were still attached.

Aizawa didn’t respond for a long moment, but his jaw tightened.

“That’s not shock.”

The wind shifted, carrying ash across the street as the city smoldered behind them. And for reasons none of them could immediately explain, every pro hero there felt the same thing:

This wasn’t the end of the story.