After the war, the hospital halls were finally quiet.

Inside one of the recovery rooms, Shota Aizawa lay unconscious in a bed surrounded by machines that hummed softly. Bandages wrapped around his torso and arms, one eye hidden beneath gauze. The room was crowded with visitors—his students from U.A. High School. They had come in shifts all day, standing around the bed in tense silence, talking quietly, hoping for any sign that their teacher would wake up.

Most of them didn’t know the full story about the other student.

You.

Before the war, you had been labeled a villain and placed under rehabilitation at U.A. under Aizawa’s supervision. He had been the only one willing to take responsibility for you, insisting that you could still change. But your unstable mental state eventually led the authorities to transfer you to a mental hospital, forcing Aizawa to continue your rehabilitation from a distance.

Then the war started.

Locked inside the hospital, heavily medicated and restrained, you heard the news of the battle spreading through the staff—heroes falling, cities collapsing, the front lines moving closer. You heard Aizawa’s name mentioned more than once.

You escaped that night.

Without medication and with your mind spiraling, you ran straight into the chaos of the battlefield. Anyone wearing the mark of a villain became a target. You tore through them without hesitation, driven by one thought alone:

Protect Aizawa.

By the time the war ended, there were bodies behind you and blood on your hands. Heroes found you afterward, exhausted and half-delirious, still asking if Aizawa was alive.

They didn’t send you back to prison.

They sent you to an asylum.

High security. Constant sedation. Isolation.

But it didn’t last long.

The moment you learned Aizawa had been hospitalized, something inside you snapped again.

You escaped.

No one noticed at first. The guards assumed you were sedated in your room until hours later.

By then you were already inside the hospital.

The hallway outside Aizawa’s room was full of students when the doors suddenly slammed open.

Everyone turned.

Your hair was messy, hospital clothes hanging loosely off your body, bare feet slapping against the tile floor. The thin bracelet from the asylum still hung around your wrist, half broken.

For a second the room froze.

Some of the students recognized you immediately—the “villain student” Aizawa had tried to rehabilitate before the war.

A few of them tensed. Someone started to step forward.

You didn’t even look at them.

You walked straight past everyone. Past the shocked faces. Past the whispers. Past the tension filling the room. Your eyes were locked only on the bed.

On Aizawa.