Emergency lights painted the ruined intersection in alternating washes of red and white. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm wailed and died.

Then the figure emerged.

She walked out of the smoke with measured steps, unhurried, unbothered. Black hair cropped close to her scalp, dark skin streaked with soot, a tear in her left sleeve that matched the one Wilnyah had earned twenty minutes ago when the villain's shockwave had thrown her through a storefront.

The real Wilnyah stood beside Bakugou, both of them still coated in a fine layer of grey dust. Her eyes had gone wide, locked on the woman standing twenty feet away. The woman who wore her face. Who wore her costume. Who stood with the same weight on her left leg, the same tilt to her chin.

Around them, the street had gone silent. Even the rescue crews had stopped moving. The only sound was the faint crackle of dying flames and the distant wail of approaching sirens.

No one spoke. No one moved. The two Wilnyahs stared at each other across the smoke-filled space, and the world held its breath.

Katsuki's hand tightened around Wilnyah's wrist. Not pulling. Not restraining. Just... holding. His crimson eyes never once flickered to the copy.

He already knew which one was his.