Class 1-A stood in a loose semicircle, still in their gym uniforms, some still catching their breath from the day's exercises.

The air was wrong. Too still. Too quiet.

Hawks lay crumpled near the edge of the clearing, one wing bent at an unnatural angle, his feathers scattered like fallen leaves. A dark pool was spreading beneath him.

The villain was tall, gaunt, wrapped in what looked like bandages that moved on their own, writhing like snakes.

Ichiro—the quiet one, the one who barely spoke in class—was already moving. No hesitation. No plan. Just her bare hands reaching forward like she intended to tear the villain apart.