Shouta’s boots stumbled over rubble he couldn’t see. His capture weapon strained, wrapped tight around two limp bodies—one purple-haired, one you—pressed against his chest. He’d tied you both together, back to back, to keep you from slipping away.

His eyes burned. Not from smoke. He didn’t have time for that.

You're fine, he told the dark. You're both fine.

He held his breath.

The pulse under his thumb was thready, fading, like a candle guttering in the wind. He pressed harder, as if he could force it back into rhythm.

His legs were screaming. His arms shook. But he kept moving, because stopping meant it was real.

One step.

His capture weapon creaked under the strain. The wind picked up, cold and sharp, carrying a distant voice—Present Mic’s voice—shouting for him.

Shouta didn't answer. He couldn't spare the breath.