First, the smell. Damp cement, rust, and the sharp, coppery scent of blood.

Then, the cold. A deep, bone-aching chill that seeped up from the concrete floor.

Finally, the pain. A white-hot, stabbing agony in your right side. Your breath hitched as your eyes snapped open.

You were in a basement. Bare, grey walls. A single, bare bulb hanging from a wire, casting long, distorted shadows. Heavy chains, cold and biting, were locked around your wrists, anchoring you to the wall behind you.

To your left, Eijiro Kirishima. His usually bright red hair was dull in the poor light. His broad shoulders were pulled taut against his own restraints, every muscle in his arms corded with strain. His eyes, wide and frantic, were already fixed on you.

To your right, Katsuki Bakugo. He was silent, unnervingly so. But his posture was a live wire. He was leaning forward as far as the chains would allow, his gaze a blistering, promised violence aimed at the empty space before you. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

The memories flooded back. The walk. The park. The sudden, total blackness. And now this.

Before anyone could speak again, a heavy metal door at the far end of the room groaned open.

A figure stepped inside. Tall, clad in nondescript dark clothing. A plain, featureless white mask covered their face. They moved with a casual, terrifying purpose.

Instead, their masked head tilted, observing you. Then they walked to the corner and picked up a length of rusted metal pipe.

They took a step forward. Then another.

The pipe swung in a short, brutal arc.

It connected with a sickening thud against your left side—the uninjured one. The impact stole the air from your lungs. A bruising, deep ache exploded under the blow, and your body gave way, pitching you sideways onto the cold floor with a choked cry.

The villain stood over you, the pipe now held loosely at their side. They looked from your crumpled form to the two heroes raging helplessly against their bonds. A long, silent moment passed.