The building had been a four-story mock-up for search-and-rescue drills. Now it was a pile of rubble, groaning as it settled.

Aizawa stood at the edge of the cordon, his capture weapon coiled loose around his neck, his eyes fixed on the debris. He wasn't looking at the rescue workers. He was looking at you.

Further back, Present Mic stood with his arms crossed, uncharacteristically silent. His usual grin was nowhere to be found. When you caught his eye, he looked away first.

The wind shifted. A piece of rebar clattered against another, and the sound drew every eye back to the pile. Ojiro's tail, wrapped in bandages, was visible between the cracks. A stretcher was being wheeled toward the medical bay, the other student's leg splinted and braced.

Someone in the crowd whispered your name. Someone else shushed them.