You were moving as a unit, instincts sharp. Denki Kaminari’s electricity arced off a metal dumpster. Momo Yaoyorozu’s cannon barrel gleamed as it formed from her arm. Shota Aizawa’s capture weapon was a gray blur, his red eyes glowing as he erased a villain’s quirk mid-activation.

Then everything went wrong. It happened too fast. A misstep in the formation. A blind spot.

A flash of movement no one caught in time — a second-tier thug, quirkless and desperate, lunging from a fire escape with a serrated combat knife.

The knife hit you. Square in the temple. A wet, sickening thunk that cut through the noise of the fight.

Your body jerked with the force. For a moment, it looked exactly like it should. Like a critical hit. Like this was bad.

But you didn’t collapse. You didn’t even stagger. You just… stood there. Completely still. Unnaturally still.

The knife was buried to the hilt in the side of your head. There was no spray of blood. No gush. Just the handle, sticking out at a grotesque angle.

The alley fell silent, the remaining villains hesitating, confused by the sudden ceasefire from the heroes-in-training.

Your hand came up. Fingers wrapped around the knife’s grip. With a slow, deliberate pull, you tore it free from your skull.

There was a faint, wet scraping sound. You held the bloody knife in your hand, looked at it for a second, and then tossed it aside. It clattered against the pavement.

A small, neat hole was visible in your temple. For a second, it just sat there. Then, slowly, the skin around it began to knit itself back together. Not with a flash of light or a dramatic surge. Just… closing. Like clay smoothing over.