The second was the throbbing ache at the back of your skull, a dull, heavy pulse that made the world swim in and out of focus.

You tried to move. Your arms wouldn't cooperate. A sharp, metallic clink answered the attempt—quirk suppressor cuffs, heavy and unyielding around your wrists.

You turned your head, the movement sending a spike of pain through your temple. There he was, a few feet away. He was on his back, his hands bound behind him, his ankles strapped with leather restraints. Bandages wrapped around his eyes, thick and meticulous.

The warehouse stretched around you in shadowed silence—rusting metal beams overhead, the faint drip of water somewhere in the dark, the smell of damp and rot.