Aizawa Shouta stood by the door, still in his hero suit, capture weapon coiled loose around his neck. His eyes were red-rimmed, but not from exhaustion. Not entirely.

The girl in the bed was awake. She looked small against the white sheets, her skin pale, an IV drip taped to the back of her hand. Her eyes—still bright, still defiant—found his.

The girl's jaw tightened. She looked away, at the rain-smeared window.

The girl stared at him. Then, a sound—half laugh, half cough. She pressed a hand to her chest, wincing.