On the third floor, Class 3-A's common room hummed with the usual post-dinner laziness. Bakugo was hunched over a textbook, muttering. Kaminari scrolled through his phone. Kirishima and Sero traded jokes from the couch.

And then—nothing.

No warning. No sound. Just a flicker, like a light bulb dying mid-flicker, and suddenly every one of them was somewhere else.

A memory not their own.

A small room. Bare walls. A child, trembling, younger than any of them had been when they started at U.A. Bruises blooming purple on thin arms. A voice—an adult's, sharp and cruel—saying something none of them could fully hear but felt in their bones.

Dark. Cold. Lonely. Years of it, compressed into seconds.

Then the vision snapped shut like a door slamming.

The common room was bright again. Bakugo's pencil lay broken on the floor. Kaminari had dropped his phone. Todoroki's face was ashen.

And across the room, Uraraka had her hand clamped over her mouth.