In the distance, sirens. Always sirens now. Heroes shouting orders. Civilians being led away. The war was over, but nobody had told the city that yet.

You were still kneeling when they found you.

Your hand was pressed over someone's face. No—not someone. Him. Bakugou Katsuki. His body beneath your palm was cooling, but not cold. Not yet. Still within thirty minutes.

You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your hand was shaking.

Your thumb was over his right eye. The other eye stared at nothing.

And you felt it. Your quirk. That terrible, screaming thing inside you that you had never let out before. The one your parents had begged you never to use. The one the teachers had called too dangerous for training, for practice, for anything.

It unfurled in your chest like a root breaking through stone.

You ignored them.

Your fingers curled over Bakugou's right eyelid. Closed. Shut tight beneath your palm.

And you whispered, so quiet that nobody could hear it over the sirens and the shouting and the end of everything—