Low. Heavy. Choking.

Somewhere in the distance, a generator coughed and sputtered, the only sign of life for miles. The ruins of what had once been a highway stretched out in either direction, cars rusted into skeletons, their windows long since smashed, their seats picked clean by scavengers years ago.

The wind carried grit. Fine, grey, toxic. It settled on everything like a second skin.

A figure moved through the wreckage.

Boots crunched over fractured asphalt. A gas mask hung loose around his neck, but the filter was fresh, and his eyes scanned every shadow with the sharp, predatory focus of someone who'd survived long enough to know better.

Instead, there was nothing but wind and silence and the distant howl of another storm building on the horizon.

He turned to leave.

That's when he saw it.

A hand. Fingers curled, palm up, half-buried under a slab of concrete and debris.

The hand didn't move.

Slowly, deliberately, Bakugo stepped forward. His boot nudged a piece of rebar aside, and the body beneath the rubble became clearer.

A person. Beaten. Blood crusted over their face, their clothes torn and stained dark. Barely recognizable as alive.

The filter on their mask was cracked. Useless.

The wind picked up. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his teeth.