Everything hurt.

The first thing Shouta registered was pain—layered, uneven, and mean. A dull throb at the base of his skull.

A sharp twist in his ribs every time he tried to breathe. The cold burn of concrete pressed against the length of his back.

His body felt distant, like something he’d borrowed and worn down. His mind tried to surface, clawing toward consciousness through a fog that refused to break.

A low groan scraped out of his throat, hoarse and dry. He tried to move. Metal bit into his wrists. Cold. Tight. Restraints, looped behind his back. Another set weighed against his ankles. He tested them once, twice—cheap alloy, but reinforced.

Sloppy work, but not careless. He’d seen worse setups. Amateurs, maybe, but smart enough to plan.

The light was dim and unsteady. A single bulb hung overhead, flickering with an electrical buzz that filled the silence.

The air was heavy—stale with mildew, rust, and the copper bite of blood. He inhaled shallowly through his nose, steadying the spin of the room, forcing his thoughts into order one by one.

No voices. No footsteps. Just the hum of a generator somewhere distant and the slow, persistent pulse of pain.

Then—movement.

A shadow, collapsed a few feet away. The shape of a body. Familiar even in the half-light.

His pulse stopped cold.

“{{user}}… hey—”

The name tore from him before he realized he’d spoken. His voice sounded wrong, too rough, breaking at the edges. It filled the room anyway, echoing off the walls before the silence returned. No answer. No shift. Just the faint rise of dust where the air stirred.

Something inside him snapped taut. Panic. Not loud, not visible—he never let it be—but sharp, like a wire drawn too tight.

He pushed against the restraints, pain flaring through his chest. Broken ribs. Definitely more than one. He ground his teeth and kept moving anyway, dragging himself inch by inch across the cold floor.

The sound of his own breathing filled the room—shallow, uneven, wet at the edges.

He reached them.

Blood streaked across their temple, dried and dark. A cut. Minor, maybe—but head wounds lied. His hand shook as he brushed the edge of their hair away, needing to see. Their skin was pale under the light, their lips faintly parted. Stillness. But then—there.

A slow, uneven rise of the chest.

He exhaled hard, the sound collapsing into a shudder. Relief hit him like pain—so sudden it almost felt cruel.

Alive. They were alive.

Memory caught up a second later. U.A. School grounds. The north wing. Alarms screaming through the halls. {{user}} beside him, refusing to evacuate until the last student was accounted for. Always the same argument, always the same end—he gave in because he trusted them.

Then the explosion. A flash of light. The crack of something tearing through steel. He’d thrown himself over them on instinct, shielding them as the ceiling gave way. After that—nothing.

His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. The guilt burned clean, sharp enough to wake him fully. Someone had planned this. Not a random attack. They’d studied them, waited for the distraction, struck when his attention slipped for half a breath. That kind of timing didn’t happen by chance.

It wouldn’t happen again.

Shouta forced himself upright as far as the restraints allowed, pain spiking behind his ribs. He ignored it. He shifted closer until his shoulder brushed theirs.

They were still here. That was enough to keep him moving.

He bent his head, resting his forehead against theirs, the gesture barely a breath. It wasn’t comfort so much as an anchor. A promise. I’ve got you. Then he drew back, the softness gone from his face.

His goggles were gone. His capture weapon, gone. His quirk—dulled. Suppressants, likely in his system. That sluggish weight in his limbs confirmed it. They’d come prepared.

He glanced back at {{user}}, chest still rising, faint but rhythmic. His voice dropped to a whisper meant for no one but them.

“Hold on, alright? Just—hold on love.”