The mood is a low, anxious hum. Whispers cut through the heat. You feel them more than hear them, a vibration against your skin.

There he is.

Izuku Midoriya stands at the edge of the crowd, back to the wrought-iron gates. He’s still in his vigilante gear—dark, torn, and stained with city grime. Exhaustion weighs on his shoulders, bowing them forward. His head is down, green curls matted and hiding his eyes.

And there it is. The thin, impossible filament of crimson, glowing faintly in the dusty light. It stretches from the smallest finger of your right hand, across the twenty meters of nervous space, and wraps itself securely around his.