Shota Aizawa moved ahead of the group, his prosthetic leg clicking against the concrete floor with each step. His capture weapon was unwound, ready. His one visible eye was scanning, calculating, looking for threats.

Behind him, Endeavor’s flames cast long, dancing shadows against the walls. The Number One Hero’s jaw was set tight. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d breached the entrance.

The hall opened into a wider chamber. The lights buzzed. The smell grew stronger—something clinical. Sterile. Wrong.

Then—

A sound.

It was faint. Barely audible over the hum of the ventilation. But Aizawa heard it. A whimper. Small. Broken. Coming from behind a reinforced steel door at the end of the hall.

The room beyond was cold. White. Sterile.

And lined with cages.

Aizawa stopped breathing.

They were thin. So thin. Their hospital gowns hung loose over sharp shoulders and brittle limbs. Leather restraints were wrapped around each of their ankles—connected to the bars of their cages like dogs on chains.

Eight faces turned toward the light.

Hollow eyes. Sunken cheeks. Trembling hands that clutched at the metal bars.

And in the cage closest to the door, a figure with messy red hair stared up at him with an expression Aizawa had never seen on a student’s face before. Not in years of teaching.

Pure, unbroken terror.