Class 1-A stood in a loose semicircle on the sidewalk, most of them grimy, exhausted, or both. Some sat on the curb. Others leaned against patrol cars.

Aizawa Shouta looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Which, admittedly, wasn't new. But the way he was pinching the bridge of his nose suggested this particular headache was fresh.

Everyone turned.

On the steps of the wrecked convenience store, wrapped in a singed hero coat far too large for him, sat a baby. Maybe six months old. Hair split red and white. Wide heterochromatic eyes staring at the crowd with dawning recognition—and then terror.

The baby's lower lip trembled.