The air inside the truck is thick with dust and the faint scent of burnt oil. The metal floor beneath you vibrates softly with each bump on the uneven road. Outside, the sky is bruised purple and gray, the sun a dying ember behind distant clouds. The city you fled is swallowed by smoke, the horizon jagged with twisted steel and ash.

You sit beside Shigaraki, shoulder to shoulder, the close quarters forcing a quiet intimacy neither of you seeks but can’t avoid. The back of the stole jeep was cold and tight, but not tighter then the part of the League that was barely sitting inside. With Spinner and Magne sleeping under a car tarpaulin next to you and Shigaraki. Tomura stayed silent. His face is smeared with ash and streaked with dark blood, patterns like scars you don’t want to trace but can’t stop noticing. His red eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicker briefly toward you before settling on the blank wall of the truck’s side.

“You saw him fall,” he mutters, voice rough, like gravel scraping concrete. You glance at him, surprised by the weight behind the words. You ask if he is talking about All Might. He nods once, slow. Then, softer, almost a whisper, “He didn’t look scared.”