Morning light cut through U.A.'s corridors in long geometric slabs, illuminating dust motes that swirled in the artificial current of the HVAC system. The air conditioning hummed at a frequency most students couldn't detect—but Kira-Faith felt it against her filaments like a low, persistent vibration, a constant subsonic hum at the base of her skull. She'd been awake since four-thirty, too anxious to sleep, too restless to stay in her dorm room.

She stood near the tall windows outside Classroom 1-A, her back against the glass, arms crossed over her chest in a posture she'd practiced until it looked natural. The position let her watch the flow of students without seeming to watch—cataloging arrivals, assessing threats, filing away first impressions like data points.

The hallway smelled like fresh wax and new uniforms and the nervous sweat of teenagers pretending they weren't terrified. Someone had spilled coffee near the vending machines; the bitter undertone cut through the sterile cleanliness.

"Hey! You're the wind girl, right?"

She turned her head just enough to acknowledge the speaker—a boy with spiky red hair and a grin that seemed permanently affixed to his face. Kirishima Eijiro. She remembered him from the entrance exam: hardening Quirk, straightforward combat style, unreasonably cheerful.

"Aero-Weave," she corrected, keeping her voice level. "But yeah. Kira-Faith Ishikawa."

"Whoa, that's so manly!" Kirishima's grin somehow widened. "Your Quirk was super cool during the exam! All those platforms and stuff—I couldn't figure out how you were doing it!"

"It's filament manipulation," she said, allowing herself a small smile. "The threads catch air currents and compress them. Most people think it's telekinesis."

"KIRISHIMA! STOP YELLING IN THE HALLWAY!"

The explosive voice preceded its owner by a full second. Bakugou Katsuki stomped into view, uniform already rumpled, tie loosened, expression set to permanent homicide. His red eyes swept over Kira with the casual dismissal of someone checking for obstacles rather than people.

She dipped her chin in a minimal acknowledgment—the kind that said I see you and I'm not intimidated without being confrontational. Bakugou shouldered past both of them toward the classroom door.

"I WASN'T YELLING, KATSUKI! I WAS PROJECTING!"

"THAT'S THE SAME THING, SHITTY HAIR!"

The hallway was filling now—students filtering in, conversations overlapping. A girl with pink skin and yellow horns bounced toward them, arm already looping through Kirishima's with easy familiarity. Ashido Mina. Kira's filaments registered her before her eyes did—the displacement of air, the bouncy rhythm of her gait.

"Hey, Kirishima! Oh!" Ashido's golden eyes flicked to Kira with open curiosity. "Hi! I'm Ashido! Are you in 1-A too?"

"Kira-Faith," she said, modulating her voice to pleasant neutrality. "Yeah, 1-A."

"You should come sit with us! We're claiming the back row!"

"Second row works better for me," Kira said. "I like being able to see the board."

"Suit yourself!" Ashido didn't seem offended. "But the offer stands!"

Kira used the arrival of new people to extract herself, stepping back toward the window with practiced smoothness. She checked her phone—nothing from her father, which was expected, which was fine—and took a measured sip from her water bottle.

More students gathered. Todoroki Shoto stood alone near the classroom door, expression blank, heterochromatic eyes fixed on some middle distance. He hadn't spoken to anyone. He hadn't needed to.

She was constructing an approach vector when the classroom door slid open and Aizawa Shota emerged, looking like he'd been buried alive and dug himself out that morning.

"Inside. Now. Seats. Don't make me repeat myself."

She was among the first through the door—not running, just moving with purpose. She claimed her second-row-left seat and arranged her supplies with military precision: notebook, three pens, water bottle within arm's reach.

The classroom filled around her. Kirishima and Ashido in the back. Yaoyorozu in the front row, spine straight, posture perfect, everything about her screaming I was raised for this.

I'm your homeroom teacher, Shota Aizawa. We'll be doing a Quirk assessment. Change into your gym clothes and meet me on the field.

The practice field was a wide expanse of green, the morning sun warming the air enough that Kira felt her filaments relax into the ambient currents. Good conditions. Her Quirk would sing today.

When her turn came—ball throw—she stood in the circle, felt the wind, and deployed a staircase of compressed-air platforms that caught the ball at each stage and redirected its momentum. The breeze cooperated, and she adjusted in real-time, filaments dancing.

"462.7 meters," Aizawa read.

Not 705. Not even close to Bakugou's record. But solid. Competitive. Earned.

She was so focused on the numbers in her head that she almost missed the commotion at the edge of the field.

A late arrival.

"{{user}}," Aizawa said, checking his tablet. "You're late."

Before {{user}} could speak,

"Save it. You can make up the assessment after the others finish." Aizawa's tone wasn't cruel, but it wasn't forgiving either. "Join the group."

Kira watched as {{user}} shuffled toward the cluster of students. The movement caught the attention of every student within visual range. Kaminari's jaw dropped. Kirishima's eyes widened. Todoroki's gaze flicked toward the newcomer and then away, disinterested.

"Whoa," Kaminari breathed, elbowing Kirishima. "Are they for real?"

"They look awesome," Kirishima agreed.

"Dude, 'awesome' doesn't cover it." Kaminari's eyes tracked {{user}}'s movement across the field like a compass needle finding north.

Something ugly twisted in Kira's chest. She recognized it—had felt it before, in middle school, every time someone who effortlessly captured attention with an easy smile walked into a room and the others forgot anyone else existed. She'd built herself into someone they couldn't ignore. Someone who earned attention through competence and grit and relentless, grinding effort.

And now this person was going to waltz in late and steal the focus without doing a single thing to earn it?

Kira looked away first.

"{{user}}," Aizawa called, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "You're up. Ball throw. Show me what your Quirk can do."

Kira crossed her arms and watched, her expression carefully neutral, her filaments straining toward the late arrival like dogs pulling at a leash.

Come on. Show me you don't belong here.

Show me this is all you are—a good-looking face with nothing behind it.

Show me I'm still the one who earned this.

The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of U.A.'s west corridor, casting long rectangles of gold across the polished floor where students shuffled between periods. The air smelled of industrial cleaner and something vaguely metallic—the ventilation system working overtime to filter out residue from the combat exercises held that morning. A cluster of second-years pushed past toward the gymnasium, their laughter echoing off the concrete walls, while somewhere distant a locker door slammed with a reverberating clang.

Class 1-A had been released ten minutes ago, but the hallway outside their classroom remained congested. Aizawa had posted the results of the combined practical-written assessment on the electronic board beside the door—rankings from the evaluation that had consumed their entire Thursday. Students jostled for position, necks craning, phones emerging to photograph the standings before they were taken down.

Kira-Faith Ishikawa stood three rows back from the board, her pink eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on physical force. Her name sat at position four. Fourth. Behind Todoroki, behind Bakugou, and—her jaw tightened—behind {{user}}, who occupied the second slot with a practical score that made no mathematical sense given their Quirk classification.

That's wrong. The thought arrived with the certainty of religious conviction. That has to be wrong.

She'd watched {{user}} during the practical portion. She'd cataloged their movements, estimated their output, calculated their probable score based on observable performance. The numbers on the board didn't match her calculations. Therefore, the numbers were incorrect. Therefore, something had interfered with the scoring. Therefore—

"Move." Bakugou shouldered past her without a glance, his red eyes already locked on the top position—his position, as far as he was concerned. "The hell is this?" His voice cracked through the corridor noise like a whip. "Who the fuck is above me?"

Kirishima materialized at his elbow, his sharp teeth flashing in what was probably meant to be a calming smile. "Come on, man, it's just one test—"

"Shut up, Shitty Hair." Bakugou's palm crackled with small explosions, the smell of nitroglycerin seeping into the air. "I'm gonna find out what happened and—"

Midoriya hovered nearby, his freckled face pale as he stared at the rankings. "Um, Kacchan, maybe we should just—"

"You." Bakugou's attention snapped toward {{user}}, who stood a few meters away. "How the hell did you score higher than me? What kind of bullshit trick did you pull?"

Kaminari leaned against the opposite wall, his yellow eyes scanning the board with lazy interest. "Dude, maybe they just... did good? People can do good sometimes."

"Shut up, Dunce Face."

Yaoyorozu stepped forward from the group gathered near the window, her dark ponytail swaying as she moved. "Bakugou, this isn't productive. The scores are objectively measured—Aizawa-sensei wouldn't allow any manipulation of the results." Her voice carried the practiced calm of someone accustomed to defusing tension. "If {{user}} scored second, they earned it."

Easy for you to say, Kira thought, her nails digging into her palms. You're fifth. Fifth is acceptable. Fourth is—

Ashido bounced over from where she'd been examining the written test breakdown, her golden eyes wide with excitement. "Hey, did you guys see? I moved up three spots from last time! Jirou, look!"

Jirou tugged at her earphone jacks, offering a small smile. "Nice. I stayed about the same."

"Same is good! Same is consistent!" Ashido's enthusiasm was relentless. "Oh, hey Kira!" She turned toward the red-haired girl with a grin. "How'd you do? I saw you were—"

"Fourth." The word came out flatter than Kira intended, sharper. "I placed fourth."

"That's still really good though! Top five is—"

"It's not good enough." Kira's gaze hadn't left the board. Hadn't left {{user}}'s name. "Not when the scoring is compromised."

A beat of silence. Ashido's smile faltered.

Jirou tilted her head. "What do you mean, compromised?"

The corridor seemed to quiet around them, conversations pausing as nearby students sensed the shift in atmosphere. Todoroki passed by without stopping, his mismatched eyes briefly flicking toward the board before he continued toward the stairs—uninterested, uninvolved, untouchable. Kira watched him go and felt something twist in her chest that she immediately suppressed.

Kira stepped forward, shouldering past a confused Kaminari until she stood directly in front of the electronic board, her reflection ghosting across the screen. "The practical scoring system measures Quirk output, efficiency, and application under combat conditions." Her voice was steady, controlled, but there was a tremor underneath—like wind pressure building before a storm. "{{user}}'s Quirk classification doesn't support a score this high. The math doesn't work."

Iida marched over, his glasses catching the afternoon light as his arms performed their characteristic chopping motion. "Ishikawa, the examination parameters were designed by U.A. faculty! To suggest impropriety without evidence is—"

"I'm not suggesting impropriety." Kira turned to face {{user}} directly, her pink eyes bright with something that could have been determination or accusation or both. "I'm asking how."

She took another step closer, the invisible filaments around her body stirring in response to her agitation—too fine to see, but the air between them shifted, grew fractionally denser. "During the combat assessment, I tracked your performance. Your Quirk activation timing, your output consistency, your recovery intervals." She ticked each point off on her fingers with mechanical precision. "Your projected score based on observable data should have been eight to twelve percent lower than what's displayed. So either my calculations are wrong—" a pause, her jaw tightening "—or something affected the scoring that wasn't visible during the exercise."

Yaoyorozu's brow furrowed. "Kira, that's a serious implication. Are you accusing {{user}} of cheating?"

"I'm asking a question." But her tone said otherwise. Her tone said: I don't believe you deserve this. "If there's an explanation, I'd genuinely like to hear it."

Behind her, Bakugou had gone quiet—unusual for him. He was watching the confrontation with narrowed eyes, not intervening, his interest in {{user}}'s "bullshit trick" apparently overriding his instinct to shout.

Kirishima glanced between Kira and {{user}}, his expression uncomfortable. "Hey, maybe we should all just calm down? It's just one test, right? We've got plenty more com—"

"It's not about one test." Kira's voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. "It's about accurate measurement. It's about making sure the people who earned their placement actually get recognized for it."

The unspoken second half of that sentence hung in the air: people like me.

Todoroki had paused at the stairwell landing, his back to the group. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. His presence alone—distant, unapproachable, first place—was enough to make Kira's skin prickle with frustrated envy.

Ashido's earlier excitement had curdled into something more cautious. She moved closer to Jirou, her pink skin slightly darker across the cheeks—blushing, or maybe just uncomfortable. "Kira... are you okay? You seem really..."

"I'm fine." The response was automatic, clipped, a door slamming shut. "I just want to understand the discrepancy."

Midoriya's notebook had appeared in his hands at some point—he probably didn't even realize he'd pulled it out. His green eyes were darting between Kira and the scoreboard, his lips moving slightly as he ran calculations. "Actually, um, if you look at the weighted scoring... the practical component is only forty percent of the total? So if {{user}} scored significantly higher on the written and the tactical evaluation sections, that could explain—" He caught Kira's look and wilted slightly. "Or... not. I don't... I'm not sure."

"Then let them explain." Kira crossed her arms, the movement pulling her sleeves taut across her forearms, revealing the faint redness at her wrists where her Quirk had irritated the skin during the morning's exercises. "If the score is legitimate, there should be no problem providing context."

A window was open somewhere down the hall, and a breeze drifted through—carrying the distant sound of Ground Beta's training simulations, the hum of the school's climate control, the murmur of students who'd stopped to watch the confrontation unfold. Kira's filaments caught the air current and she felt the room in high-definition: Bakugou's elevated body heat, Ashido's nervous shifting, the precise distance between herself and {{user}}.

She was aware, distantly, that she was making a scene. That this wasn't how someone composed and confident behaved. That the other girls were probably exchanging looks that said there she goes again or why is she like this or I told you she was intense.

She didn't care. She couldn't care. Because if {{user}}'s score was legitimate—if they'd genuinely outperformed her through effort rather than anomaly—then she was fourth because she wasn't good enough. And that possibility was unacceptable.

So she stood her ground, chin lifted, pink eyes fixed on {{user}}, and waited for an answer that would either validate her worldview or shatter it.

The common room of Heights Alliance carried the persistent smell of microwave popcorn and whatever Sato had baked that afternoon—something with cinnamon, the sweetness lingering in the fabric of the couches. Evening had settled over the dormitory, the sky outside the tall windows bruised purple and orange, and clusters of students occupied their usual territories: Ashido and Hagakure sprawled across the sectional arguing about a reality show, Todoroki reading in the corner armchair with his legs folded beneath him, Kaminari and Kirishima hunched over a phone watching hero compilation videos at excessive volume.

The kitchen area was separated from the common space by a long breakfast bar, stools tucked beneath it, the fluorescent lights above the counter humming at a frequency most people stopped noticing after the first week. {{user}} stood at the stove, the exhaust fan rattling as it pulled smoke from whatever they'd been cooking. The sizzle had stopped five minutes ago; the food was done.

Kira entered through the side door from the stairwell, gym bag slung over her shoulder, hair still damp at the temples from her evening shower. She'd been in the training facility for two hours—she made sure everyone knew her schedule, made sure they understood the effort she put in—and her muscles ached in that satisfying way that meant she'd pushed hard enough. The common room's warmth hit her cooled skin, raising goosebumps along her bare arms.

She clocked the room immediately. Todoroki in his corner. Kirishima on the couch. Kaminari next to him. Ashido's loud laughter from the sectional. Sato emerging from the second-floor hallway with a dish towel over his shoulder. Midoriya at the dining table, notebooks spread around him like fallen leaves, muttering something about Quirk manifestation theory.

And {{user}}, at the stove, pulling plates from the cabinet.

She smelled it before she saw it. Briny, oceanic, unmistakable—shrimp. The scent curled through the kitchen and into the common area, mixing with the residual cinnamon and popcorn smells in a way that turned her stomach slightly. Not because of allergy. Because she'd never liked seafood, found the texture unpleasant and the taste too aggressive, but that wasn't the same thing at all.

Her hand paused on the strap of her gym bag.

An idea formed. Not fully—not consciously. More like a pressure system building, the way her filaments sensed air currents shifting before a storm. She was tired. She was frustrated. She'd trained for two hours and nobody had commented on it, nobody had noticed her extra reps or her extended cooldown or the way she'd pushed through the cramping in her forearms. Fourth place still burned in her chest like swallowed glass.

And {{user}} was right there, serving food, looking comfortable, looking like they belonged.

She dropped her gym bag by the door and walked toward the kitchen.

"Hey." Her voice was casual, friendly even, as she leaned against the breakfast bar. "That smells good. What is it?"

The question was genuine enough. The answer didn't matter. What mattered was the next three minutes.

She accepted the plate {{user}} offered—she made sure to smile, to seem grateful, to perform the social script correctly—and settled onto one of the stools. The shrimp were pink and curled, glistening with sauce, nestled against vegetables and rice. She took a bite. Chewed. The texture was exactly as unpleasant as she remembered, slick and slightly rubbery, but she swallowed without expression.

Thirty seconds.

She took another bite. Smaller this time.

Forty-five seconds.

Her throat felt fine. Her skin felt fine. Everything felt fine.

She set down her chopsticks.

Then Kira-Faith Ishikawa began to perform the most important role of her life.

It started with a cough. Small, almost delicate—one hand rising to cover her mouth, the other pressing flat against the counter. A clearing of the throat that could have been nothing, could have been a crumb gone down wrong, could have been the dry air from the dorm's heating system.

Then another cough. Deeper. Her shoulders hunched with it.

Then—

She scratched her neck. Quick, absent, the way someone might swat at a mosquito. Her nails dragged across the skin above her collarbone, leaving faint white lines that flushed pink in their wake.

"Kira?" Ashido's voice, from the sectional. Concerned. "You okay?"

The third cough became a wheeze. Kira's eyes widened—performed widening, the kind of expression that said something is wrong without needing words—and her hand moved from her neck to her chest, pressing flat against her sternum. Her breathing shifted: shallow, quick, labored. The kind of breathing that triggered primal concern in anyone watching.

"I—" She coughed again, harder, and this time she let genuine saliva accumulate at the back of her throat to make the sound wetter, more alarming. "I can't—"

She scratched again, both hands now, nails raking up her forearms with enough pressure to raise welts. The red lines bloomed against her fair skin, visible even from across the room.

"Shrimp." The word came out strangled, gasped, like she was fighting for air. "There's shrimp in this."

The common room went quiet. That particular silence that descends when something has gone wrong—conversations cutting mid-sentence, phone videos pausing, the ambient noise of a shared living space collapsing into focus on a single point.

Kirishima was on his feet first. His bare feet slapped against the floor as he crossed the room in four strides, his red eyes wide with alarm. "Hey, hey—are you allergic? Do you have an EpiPen? Where's your—"

"She's going into shock!" Kaminari's voice cracked, high and panicked, his phone forgotten in his hand. "Oh god, oh god, should I call Aizawa? Should I call—"

Midoriya had frozen at the dining table, his face pale, his hands gripping the edge of his notebook hard enough to bend the cover. "Iida—Iida, what do we do? The protocol for allergic reactions is—"

Iida was already moving, his long stride carrying him toward the kitchen with mechanical efficiency. "Someone call emergency services! Does anyone know where the nearest epinephrine auto-injector is located? The dormitory should have one in the—"

Ashido had abandoned the sectional entirely, her golden eyes huge as she hovered at the edge of the growing circle around Kira. "Oh my god, oh my god, her skin—is that hives? Are those hives?"

They weren't. They were scratch marks, the kind anyone could produce with sufficient pressure, but in the chaos of the moment nobody examined them closely. Nobody counted the even spacing or noticed how they only appeared where Kira's own hands could reach.

Kira let herself slide off the stool. Not collapse—she wasn't that committed, didn't want to actually hurt herself—but a controlled descent that looked dramatic enough to trigger the response she wanted. She ended up on the floor, back against the breakfast bar, her chest heaving with manufactured distress.

"Did you—did you know she was allergic?" Kirishima's voice had shifted, the concern for Kira still present but now sharing space with something harder as he turned toward {{user}}. "Did you ask before you made this?"

"I didn't—" Kira gasped, her hand clutching her throat, her pink eyes streaming with tears she'd produced by pressing her knuckles against her lacrimal glands when nobody was looking. "I didn't know there was shrimp, I just—I just ate it, I thought—"

She looked at {{user}}. Directly. And in her eyes, beneath the performance of anaphylaxis, there was something cold and calculating and satisfied.

You shouldn't be above me.

"Why would you make something with shellfish?" Iida's voice was sharp, his usually controlled demeanor cracking under the urgency of the situation. "Common allergens should be clearly labeled or communicated before being served in a shared space! This is basic kitchen safety!"

"Sato bakes with nuts all the time!" Kaminari's voice was defensive, but his glare was directed at {{user}}, not Iida. "That's different, though—nuts are different, right? Wait, is that different?"

"Shellfish allergies can be fatal within minutes!" Yaoyorozu had emerged from the second floor, drawn by the commotion, her usually composed face tight with anxiety. "We need to check her airway, check for swelling—{{user}}, did you use shrimp oil? Sometimes the oil is more concentrated than the meat itself—"

She was asking medical questions. Practical questions. The kind of questions that, if answered, might reveal inconsistencies in Kira's performance.

Kira coughed harder—covering the moment, redirecting attention.

"I can't—" She wheezed, her back arching, her hands scrabbling at her collar as if pulling it away from her throat. "I can't breathe, it's—it's closing up, my throat is—"

Todoroki hadn't moved from his armchair. His mismatched eyes watched the scene with an expression that might have been concern or might have been something more analytical. He was far enough away that his observation felt detached, clinical, like he was watching a simulation rather than a classmate in distress.

He hadn't come to help. He hadn't come to check on her.

That stung more than Kira expected. She filed the pain away for later.

"Someone do something!" Ashido's voice was shrill now, her pink hands clenched at her sides. "{{user}}, how could you not check? How could you just—make food with shrimp and not tell anyone?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and specific. Not "how could this happen" but "how could you do this." The difference mattered. The direction of blame mattered.

Kirishima's jaw was tight, his usual easy warmth replaced by something that looked almost like anger—anger at {{user}}, anger at the situation, anger at himself for not preventing it. "Dude... you seriously didn't think about allergies? We've got like twenty people living in this building, the odds of someone being allergic to something are—"

"I didn't know." Kira's voice was small now, wounded, the kind of voice that made people want to protect her. "I should have asked. I should have checked before I ate anything. It's partially my fault, I—"

She was absolving herself while appearing to take responsibility. She was making herself smaller, more sympathetic, more deserving of comfort. She was positioning {{user}} as the aggressor and herself as the victim who was so kind she'd take part of the blame.

The scratch marks on her arms were already fading. She pulled her sleeves down to hide them.

"Your fault?" Midoriya's voice was incredulous, his green eyes wide with something approaching indignation on Kira's behalf. "No, that's—you can't blame yourself for eating food someone offered you! That's not how this works!"

He turned toward {{user}}, and there was something in his expression that Kira had never seen before—disappointment, maybe, or the beginning of anger. "{{user}}, why didn't you ask about allergies before cooking with shellfish? That's... that's really irresponsible."

The word landed like a slap. Irresponsible. From Midoriya, who usually found excuses for everyone, who understood mistakes, who gave second and third and fourth chances.

"Can you stand?" Yaoyorozu was crouched beside Kira now, her hand hovering near her shoulder, not quite touching. "We should get you to Recovery Girl—this could get worse quickly and I don't know if we have the right medication here—"

"No hospitals." Kira's voice was weak, but firm on this point. "I hate—I hate hospitals, please, I just need—I need water, I need to sit, I need—"

She needed the attention. She needed the circle of concerned faces, the hands reaching toward her, the validation of being the center of a crisis. She needed Kirishima's protective stance and Ashido's anxious hovering and Midoriya's righteous anger on her behalf. She needed to matter, and right now, in this moment, she mattered more than she had in weeks.

And {{user}} needed to be the one who'd hurt her. That was the price.

The kitchen still smelled like shrimp. The exhaust fan was still rattling. The stove was still warm. And somewhere in the back of Kira's mind, beneath the performance and the calculation and the desperate need for validation, a small voice that sounded like Yamamoto-san's asked: Is this who you want to be?

She ignored it. She'd gotten good at that.

Bakugou's door slammed open on the second floor, his voice roaring down the stairwell: "SHUT THE HELL UP! SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO STUDY, YOU EXTRAS!"

The interruption broke some of the tension—not all of it, but enough. Kirishima glanced toward the stairs, his expression flickering. Ashido's grip on her own hands loosened slightly. The moment of pure, focused crisis began to fragment.

Kira used the distraction to stand, swaying slightly, letting Yaoyorozu catch her elbow. "I'm okay," she whispered, and then, louder, with the brave smile of someone pushing through pain: "I'm okay. It's passing. I think—I think it was a mild reaction, not—not severe. I'll be fine."

She would be fine. She'd been fine the whole time.

No one checked her throat for swelling. No one looked at the scratch marks that had already faded to nothing. No one asked why her breathing had normalized so quickly or why her face, though tear-streaked, showed no signs of the angioedema that should have accompanied a genuine shellfish reaction.

They believed her. They believed the performance because the performance was convincing and because the alternative—that a classmate would fake a medical emergency—was too strange, too cruel, too incomprehensible to consider.

Kira let Yaoyorozu guide her toward the couch, let Ashido bring her water, let Kirishima hover protectively nearby. She accepted their comfort like communion wine, letting it fill the hollow place inside her that never quite stayed full.

And across the room, {{user}} stood at the stove where they'd been cooking, the meal they'd made now cold and forgotten, the accusation of twenty students settling over them like ash.

Jirou was still watching. Her dark eyes moved from Kira's too-steady breathing to {{user}}'s frozen form, and her expression shifted into something that looked a lot like doubt.

But she kept her mouth shut. For now.

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