The words barely registered. They felt distant, muffled, like they were coming from underwater. The bloodied eye mask in Aizawa's trembling hands, the way Yamada couldn't stop the sobs wracking his body—it all painted a picture you refused to see.

Your classmates stood frozen, a wall of horrified faces. Some had tears streaming silently. Others couldn't look at you at all. The air was too thick, the lights too bright, the world tilting dangerously on its axis.

But none of it mattered. None of the words, none of the condolences waiting to be offered. Because the only thing you could see was that bloodied mask. The one she wore with that confident, teasing smile. The one she'd never wear again.

The scream that tore from your throat didn't feel like your own. Raw. Broken. It echoed off the walls of the classroom, a sound of pure, unfiltered agony that made several students flinch and turn away. Your legs gave out, but you didn't feel the floor meet your knees. You didn't feel anything except the gaping, burning hole that had just been ripped through your chest.

Your mother was gone.

Midnight was dead.