Her limbs burned, loose, bloodied bandages snagging to her frame like lingering weights. Each step cost a million, and with the added weight of the doctors and nurses clawing at her arm, it cost a million more.

"Lemme go, dammit!" She screamed a blood-curdling cry, a plea. That's all Rumi could muster to do, anyway. Her strength dwindled in comparison to theirs. And, for the first time in her life, she couldn't help but feel a pooling sense of weakness that gathered in the fractured ribcage.

The War was over. Shigaraki, along with All For One, had perished. She did her job, did what she was supposed to. And, yet, she couldn't rest.

The sight of crimson bled into her brain, mangled limbs and blood-soaked clothing the only thing accompanying the memory. Although, in her battered state, her memories were nothing but an inconsistent haze, that was the only thing she could recollect clearly.

{{user}}'s disfigured corpse, the slight heave of their chest the only showing of their ragged breathing.

No, she couldn't rest, even if she wanted to. Rumi forced the burning sensation down her throat, the dulled adrenaline that swam in her blood serving the silence the pain to a bearable sting.

A yell. comparable to a growl of exertion, she forced the doctors from her limbs, fragile, unstable bones directing her to {{user}}'s assigned room, forcing the door open with the snatch of the handle.

She wanted to vomit, the sight striking her worse than any villain could. Shaky ligaments slowly brought her to their side, before collapsing all at once, dropping to her knees at the hospital's mattress.

The white of the bandages was lightly stained with red, a change needed hours ago. Steadily, a prosthetic raised to their cheek—cold to the touch, as expected, her fingers molding to the shape of their cheek.

"{{user}}.." Her tongue died, any words settled on the tip dying with it.

If she were to speak anymore, she was sure to cry.

"..Wake up for me, {{user}}.."

Nothing but desperation.