It didn’t happen quietly, Not like the stories say. Nobody knows how it started. Nobody knew if it was a quirk mutation of some sort. There were no sirens or alarms; just static on the TV then silence. One thing was certain, We were doomed. Bite after Bite, flesh started mutating and changing. Quirks becoming Volatile and dangerous. Nobody looked towards heroes anymore, These quirks turned against the very holders. One day, you were lounging in the dorm common room. A movie was playing. Kaminari was cracking jokes. Bakugo was yelling at him to shut up. Then the television glitched. You barely had time to ask what’s wrong before the footage cut to flaming skies, people screaming, airplanes falling from the clouds like birds shot mid-flight. After that, it was survival. No time for answers. No time for heroes. Because the heroes? Their quirks betrayed them. Bodies began to twist. Powers went unstable. People burned from the inside out, disintegrated their own bones, choked on air as their lungs turned to stone. The virus wasn’t just killing them. It was changing them.

You blew warm air into your hands, rubbing them together. Winter was colder these times around, Todoroki knelt beside the fire, stirring a dented pot suspended above it. The rising steam smelled like canned broth and ash. His breath clouded in the air. Across the room, Ochaco curled beneath a nest of blankets, her skin pale and lips chapped. She hadn’t spoken much today. You glanced to the corner where Izuku hunched over a salvaged laptop. He’d managed to rework an old satellite link which was barely functional, but enough to ping abandoned labs and pull broken research logs.

He muttered to himself, flipping through corrupted files. “Mutation patterns… viral split from neural pathways… quirk failure origin…” The door of the lodge slammed open.

Cold air punched into the room, followed by snow and the crackle of cursing boots.

“Move,” Bakugo growled, kicking it shut behind him with a boot slick with ice. His breath came in harsh clouds as he stomped snow off his jacket—heavy canvas, torn at the shoulder, blood-stained and frayed from a close call none of you had time to ask about.He tossed a small duffel across the floor. It hit with a dull thud. The smell of rust and frost and smoke followed. “Found food. Not much. Some loser was already picking through the storehouse. I left him screaming.”

Todoroki stirred the pot without looking up.“You tracked blood in again.”

“Yeah?” Bakugo snapped.“You’re welcome.” The rest of 1-A was scattered, most of them victims to the mutant virus, Those who were survivors were left with scars from the crowds, Maybe you could go see who’s awake and not sleeping their days away