Chapter Text
{Day One}
Morning in homeroom started like any other day—too early, too loud, and full of people Katsuki didn't feel like dealing with.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, cutting pale stripes across the rows of desks. The low hum of conversations filled the room while chairs scraped against the floor and bags thumped onto desktops. Someone near the back was laughing too loudly about something dumb, and the faint tapping of pencils echoed from a few scattered desks where people pretended to study.
Katsuki sat leaning back in his seat, one arm hooked over the back of his chair while the other rested on his desk. His bag hung off the side of his chair, half unzipped.
Across the classroom, Izuku Midoriya was flipping through a notebook, mumbling softly to himself while scribbling something down. His pen scratched against the page in quick bursts, his brow furrowed in concentration like whatever he was writing actually mattered this early in the morning.
Katsuki rolled his eyes.
"Damn nerd," he muttered under his breath.
Just as he leaned back farther in his chair, the television mounted high in the corner of the classroom flickered.
The screen crackled to life with a burst of static.
Conversations faltered. A few heads turned upward.
Katsuki barely looked at it at first. School announcements were always useless—some club meeting, some dumb event nobody cared about. He crosses his arms over his chest, already bored.
Then the static cleared.
The face of the country's leader appeared on the screen.
The classroom went quiet.
The man on the screen looked wrong. His expression was stiff, eyes tense in a way that didn't match the carefully practiced tone of his voice.
"This is an emergency broadcast."
The words made a few people laugh nervously.
"A viral outbreak has been confirmed within several major cities across the country. Citizens are instructed to return home immediately and remain in quarantine until further notice. Keep your distance from others and do not leave your residence unless directed by government officials."
The room went completely still.
Katsuki snorted.
"Yeah, right."
"Is this some kind of prank?" Ojiro—who was sitting near the back— asked in disbelief.
The man on the screen continued speaking, his voice tight.
"This virus spreads through bodily fluids and the exchange of DNA. If you encounter an infected individual, maintain distance and contact emergency services immediately."
The broadcast ended abruptly.
For a second, the screen went black.
Then the same message started again.
"This is an emergency broadcast."
A ripple of uneasy murmurs spread through the room.
"Is this real?"
"No way..."
"What kind of virus—?"
Katsuki scoffed and leaned back again. "You idiots are really falling for this?"
It had to be some kind of joke. Some government scare tactic or a stupid hack. People didn't just start biting each other and spreading viruses like some shitty horror movie.
The message looped again.
And again.
And again.
Before anyone could say anything else, the classroom door slammed open.
Every head snapped toward it.
Mr. Aizawa stood in the doorway, his hair slightly dishevelled and his favourite scarf hanging loosely around his shoulders. But what made the room go silent wasn't how he looked.
It was the expression on his face.
He looked serious. Tired. Tense in a way Katsuki had never seen before.
"Everyone," Aizawa said flatly. "Contact your parents. Immediately."
The room erupted.
"What's going on?"
"Is that broadcast real?"
"Should we go to the dorms?"
Aizawa raised a hand, and the noise died down.
"You are all going home," he said. "Right now. The buses are already being arranged. There's no time to return to the dorms, so take whatever you already have with you."
That was when the reality of the situation started creeping in.
So it wasn't a joke.
Chairs scraped loudly as everyone jumped up at once. People scrambled for their bags, phones already in their hands as they started calling their families.
Katsuki grabbed the strap of his bag and shoved the loose papers on his desk inside one of his binders, not really paying attention to which one he pulled out. His movements were quick and rough, zipping his bag shut in one sharp motion before slinging it over his shoulder.
The room was in chaos now.
Some people sounded scared. Others confused. A few were already halfway out the door.
Katsuki straightened and glanced toward the front of the classroom—
And paused.
Izuku was standing by the door.
He wasn't talking to anyone. Wasn't on his phone.
He was just...waiting.
For him.
Katsuki frowned slightly, annoyed at the small, stupid flicker of warmth that hit his chest.
Of course the nerd would wait.
They lived in the same rural area, nearly thirty minutes outside the city. They'd have to take the same bus anyway. It wasn't like Izuku had a choice.
Still.
Katsuki adjusted the strap on his shoulder and walked toward the door.
Izuku pushed himself off the wall when he saw him coming.
"You ready?" he asked.
Katsuki huffed. "What kind of dumb question is that?"
But he stepped past him toward the hallway anyway.
Izuku followed right beside him.
And even though Katsuki would never admit it out loud, he was glad Izuku had waited.
Katsuki briefly wondered if Izuku had said a proper goodbye to Round Face before leaving the classroom, but he shook the thought out of his head. It was Izuku, of course he said goodbye to his girlfriend.
The hallway spilled them out into the courtyard, where the morning air felt sharper than it had any right to be. What was usually a place for students to loiter and waste time between classes had turned into something restless and uneven. Groups clustered together, voices overlapping in confusion, while others moved quickly toward the gates with their phones pressed to their ears.
Katsuki walked beside Izuku without saying anything, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Teachers were trying to keep some kind of order, directing students toward the buses pulling up one after another, but it wasn’t working very well. People were really starting to panic.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Izuku reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
He didn’t need to guess who he was calling.
Izuku lifted it to his ear, turning slightly away as it rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.
Katsuki watched him lower the phone just enough to check the screen before bringing it back up again, trying once more. His posture had gone rigid, his focus completely locked onto the call as if he just waited long enough, it would connect.
It didn’t.
When Izuku finally pulled the phone away, there was something off about the look on his face. Not full panic—Izuku wasn’t the type to break that fast—but something unsettling, something that didn’t sit right.
Katsuki clicked his tongue.
“She’s probably just rushing to get home,” he said, like it was obvious. “Might’ve left her phone at the lab or something.”
Izuku blinked, like he hadn’t expected Katsuki to say anything at all.
Then he gave a small nod. “Yeah...yeah, you’re probably right.” The tension in his shoulders eased just a little, and he let out a quiet breath.
Katsuki almost let out a cocky 'I'm always right,' but refrained.
Time and place.
“Thanks, Kacchan.”
The smile he gave was small—barely there, really—but it was real.
Katsuki noticed.
It caught him off guard in a way he wasn’t about to acknowledge. It had been a long time since Izuku had looked at him like that.
Katsuki looked away first.
“Whatever, just stop overthinking," he grumbled.
A bus pulled up near the curb, brakes hissing loudly as it came to a stop. A teacher nearby called out the route, and Katsuki recognized it immediately—it was theirs.
He jerked his head toward it. “That’s ours.”
They moved toward the line forming near the door. Compared to the chaos around the other buses, this one was quieter, shorter. Only a handful of students stood waiting, most of them from the outskirts like them.
Katsuki glanced around as they got closer. Beyond the school gates, he could see people moving faster than usual—some running, some shouting, cars pulling away too quickly. Something about it felt off in a way that had nothing to do with a normal emergency.
“Katsuki!”
He turned sharply at the sound of his name.
Kirishima was jogging toward him, weaving through the scattered groups of students. His expression was tight, but he still managed to look like himself—just...a little less steady.
“What the hell, man?” Kirishima said as he reached him, slightly out of breath. “You were just gonna leave without saying anything?”
Katsuki rolled his eyes. “In case you haven't noticed, we're in the beginning of a crisis.”
Kirishima let out a short, disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well—still. That's even more reason to say goodbye.”
He glanced over his shoulder and pointed toward the far side of the courtyard. A woman stood near the gate, scanning the crowd anxiously—his mom.
“She’s waiting,” Kirishima said, jerking his thumb in her direction. “We’re heading out now.”
He looked back at Katsuki, something softer slipping into his expression. “Just...get home safe, alright? Both of you.” His gaze flickered briefly to Izuku before returning to Katsuki. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again real soon.”
The words were confident.
His face wasn’t.
Katsuki caught it—the slight hesitation, the doubt that didn’t match what he was saying. It sat there, just under the surface, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.
Katsuki didn’t say anything about it.
Instead, he stepped forward and grabbed the front of Kirishima’s shirt, pulling him into a rough, tight hug.
Kirishima froze for half a second before hugging him back just as hard.
Around them, the courtyard kept moving—voices rising, footsteps rushing, the distant sound of another bus pulling in—but for a moment, it all blurred into the background.
Katsuki didn’t hold on longer than he had to.
But he didn’t let go too quickly, either.
When they finally pulled apart, Kirishima grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.
“See? Was that so hard?” he said lightly.
Katsuki scoffed. “Shut up.”
Kirishima laughed, then turned to Izuku and held out his fist. “You too, man. Stay safe.”
Izuku bumped his fist without hesitation. “You too, Kirishima.”
With one last look between them, Kirishima turned and ran back toward his mom.
Katsuki watched him go for a second longer than necessary, the uneasiness in the air settling heavier with every passing moment.
Then the bus driver called out for the last of the students to get on.
Katsuki turned without another word and stepped onto the bus.
Izuku followed right behind him.
The bus ride was quiet in a way that didn’t feel normal.
The usual noise that should fill a bus ride—music leaking from headphones, loud conversations, the occasional argument—was gone. Instead, there was only the low rumble of the engine and the soft squeak of the bus shifting over uneven roads.
Katsuki sat by the window, his arm resting against the cool glass as he stared outside. Izuku sat beside him, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, his phone resting face-up against his thigh.
The scenery changed slowly.
Tall buildings and packed streets gave way to smaller structures. Convenience stores turned into houses. Sidewalks thinned out, replaced by stretches of grass and patches of trees. The further they went, the quieter it became—like the world itself was pulling back.
Neither of them said a word the entire time.
When the bus finally slowed to a stop at their corner, they stood and stepped off together. The doors folded shut behind them with a dull hiss before the bus pulled away, leaving them standing on the side of the road in the open air.
The silence followed them.
They started walking.
It was about ten minutes from the stop to their neighborhood, a route they both knew by heart. Katsuki found himself stepping over the cracks in the pavement habitually as they moved down the familiar road, the houses spaced out just enough to feel separate, the trees lining the edges swaying slightly in the breeze.
When they reached their houses that stood side by side, neither of them slowed.
They both turned toward Izuku’s house.
There was no discussion. No glance exchanged. No plan spoken out loud.
They just knew.
Even after everything—after years of distance and sharp words and unspoken things—they still moved in sync when it mattered.
Izuku unlocked the door and stepped inside, Katsuki right behind him.
The house was quiet.
Izuku didn’t call out for his mom. He didn’t need to; the empty space answered for him.
He slipped off his shoes quickly and headed upstairs without hesitation, already moving with purpose.
Katsuki didn’t follow.
Instead, he turned down the short hallway and pulled open the storage closet. After a quick scan, he grabbed a couple of duffel bags and the old camping cooler shoved near the back. The zipper on one of the bags caught for a second before he yanked it free, not bothering to be gentle.
He moved into the kitchen next.
The fridge wasn’t full—just a few containers, some vegetables, a pack of meat, and a couple of drinks. He took what he could, packing everything into the cooler efficiently. It wasn’t much, but he had a feeling that every little bit would be helpful.
Once that was done, he moved through the house, grabbing whatever else made sense. Spare blankets from the linen closet. A small first aid kit. A flashlight from the drawer near the entryway. Things that could matter later.
By the time Izuku came back downstairs, Katsuki had already filled the duffel bags.
Izuku had one slung over his own shoulder, packed with whatever he’d grabbed from upstairs. He paused at the bottom step for half a second, taking in the sight of everything Katsuki had gathered, then adjusted his grip on his bag.
Izuku moved to the door, slipping his shoes back on.
Katsuki grabbed the bags and the cooler.
And then they left.
Crossing the short stretch between their houses felt automatic. It was the same unspoken understanding as before—split between them without needing to be shared out loud.
Katsuki unlocked his front door and stepped inside, Izuku following close behind.
The house felt just as empty.
Izuku immediately got to work, setting his bag down and unzipping one of the duffels Katsuki had packed. He began pulling things out, organizing them across the counter with a quiet kind of focus.
Katsuki set the cooler down and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
He dialed his mom first.
It rang.
And rang.
No answer.
He ended the call and tried his dad.
Same result.
Katsuki lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a second longer than necessary before shoving it back into his pocket.
When he looked up, Izuku was watching him.
There was something in his expression—something worried—but he didn’t say anything.
He just nodded once, small and understanding, before turning away.
A moment later, Izuku moved toward the basement door and pulled it open. The stairs creaked softly under his weight as he disappeared down them.
Katsuki stood still for a second, listening.
Then the faint sound of the basement shower turning on echoed up through the floor.
Katsuki exhaled through his nose and turned back to the kitchen.
He opened the cooler and pulled out what he’d packed from Izuku’s place.
He worked quickly.
The knife hit the cutting board in steady, precise motions as he chopped everything down. The stove clicked as he turned it on, the pan heating up before he tossed the ingredients in. The scent of cooking food filled the quiet house, sharp and familiar, cutting through everything else.
It wasn’t anything complicated. Just a quick stir-fry.
Something hot.
Something normal.
The sound of the shower cut off, and a few minutes later, footsteps creaked up the basement stairs.
Izuku emerged quietly, a fresh set of clothes hanging loosely on his frame. His curls were still damp, pushed back from his face in a way that made them look darker, heavier. A few strands had already started to fall forward again, clinging slightly to his forehead.
Katsuki looked up from the stove.
For a second, his gaze lingered. Not on anything specific. Just...Izuku.
Then he clicked his tongue and turned back to the pan.
“Sit,” he said shortly.
Izuku didn’t argue. He stepped forward and took a seat at the table, his movements quiet, like he didn’t want to disrupt whatever fragile rhythm had formed between them.
Katsuki grabbed a bowl, scooped a portion of the stir-fry into it, and pushed it across the table toward him. The ceramic scraped softly against the surface.
Izuku looked at it for a second before murmuring, “Thanks.”
Katsuki didn’t respond.
He made his own bowl and sat down across from him.
The silence that settled between them wasn’t the same as before.
It had weight now.
The last time Izuku had been in his house flashed through Katsuki’s mind without warning—his stupid, excited face, holding out that acceptance letter like it meant everything. Trying to share something that mattered.
Katsuki’s grip tightened slightly around his fork.
The urge to say something came out of nowhere.
Not sharp or forced, not like the usual things that came out of his mouth. Something quieter.
An apology.
The thought sat there, unfamiliar and stubborn.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
Didn’t know how to say it without it coming out wrong, without it turning into something else entirely.
So he said nothing.
Across from him, Izuku took a bite.
Katsuki noticed.
Not just that he was eating, but the way his shoulders eased slightly after the first couple of bites. The tension that had been sitting in him since the courtyard seemed to loosen, just a little.
Katsuki looked down at his own food and started eating again.
They finished in silence.
Afterward, they moved into the living room. Katsuki grabbed the remote and dropped onto the couch, Izuku sitting on the opposite end, leaving a small space between them that felt both intentional and not.
Katsuki turned on the TV.
Static flickered for a second before the screen cleared.
The same message appeared.
The same hard expression. The same controlled voice.
“This is an emergency broadcast—”
Katsuki’s jaw tightened.
He flipped to another channel.
Same thing.
Another.
Still the same.
Every station. Every channel. Nothing but that looping message, repeating over and over like it was trying to drill itself into their heads.
Katsuki stared at it for a second longer before abruptly turning the TV off.
The room fell quiet again.
This time, the silence felt louder.
The first week passed slowly, stretching longer than it should have.
There was no word from either of their parents.
Katsuki checked his phone frequently, trying both numbers at different times of the day like it might somehow make a difference. It never did. Izuku stopped trying after the first couple of days, but Katsuki noticed the way he still kept his phone close, like he was waiting for it to light up at any moment.
They cooked everything fresh before it had the chance to go bad. Meals were simple and quiet—just enough to get through the day. Katsuki handled the cooking without question, and Izuku showed up when he was told, sitting at the table and eating without complaint.
Outside of that, they kept their distance.
Izuku stayed in the basement, settling into the spare bedroom like it was the only place he felt he could exist without getting in the way. Katsuki stayed upstairs, mostly in his own room, the door shut more often than not.
It was a strange change from their usual bickering at U.A.
Now they only shared space when they had to, and even then, they didn’t say much.
—
By the second week, the neighborhood had changed.
At first, it was subtle. A car that didn’t move for days. A house that stayed dark even at night. Curtains drawn and never opened again.
Then it became obvious.
Most of the neighbors were gone.
The few that remained didn’t leave their houses. No one walked their dogs. No one checked the mail. No one stood outside talking like they used to. The street had gone still in a way that didn’t feel natural.
Katsuki found himself standing by the window more often, arms crossed as he looked out at the empty road.
Izuku did the same, though usually from a different room.
They didn’t leave the house either.
There wasn’t anywhere to go.
So they stayed, watching a world that had quietly shut itself down.
—
The third week took away the remaining bit of outside connection they had.
The Wi-Fi cut out first.
Then the cell service followed.
Just like that, the world beyond Katsuki’s house disappeared completely.
Before that, Katsuki had been keeping up with a group chat—Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina, Sero, and Jiro. It had started chaotically, messages flying back and forth at all hours. Updates, jokes, and questions, none of which had answers. It had felt...normal, in a way.
Until it didn’t.
The messages slowed. Gaps between replies stretched longer and longer.
Then they stopped altogether.
It had been a full week since anyone had said anything.
Katsuki had texted Kirishima privately after that. A simple message. Nothing complicated.
No response.
Now there was nothing.
No notifications. No updates. No way of knowing anything beyond what they could see with their own eyes.
With nothing else to fill the time, the distance between them started to close.
Not all at once. Not in any obvious way.
It just started happening.
Izuku began leaving the basement more often. At first, to grab things, then to stay a little longer.
Katsuki didn’t tell him to leave.
They ended up in the living room more than anywhere else. Books pulled from shelves that hadn’t been touched in years. Old puzzles spread across the coffee table, pieces slowly coming together over hours of quiet focus.
Sometimes they sat on opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes at the same table. They even did some home workouts together.
They still didn’t talk much.
But they were there together, and that was enough.
—
By the fourth week, the truth started to sink in.
This wasn’t something that was going to pass quickly.
Their parents weren't coming home.
For the first time since the first day, they went back to Izuku’s house.
Standing at Katsuki’s front door, Izuku hesitated, his hand hovering near the handle.
“What if it’s airborne?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Katsuki stared at him for a second.
“…For a nerd, you’re pretty dumb.”
Izuku’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What—?”
“If it were airborne, we’d already be dead,” Katsuki cut in. “We’ve been opening the windows every morning. You think that wouldn’t have done it?”
Izuku paused. “…Right.”
The house was exactly how they’d left it, untouched and still. They moved through it with determination, gathering everything that would last—canned goods, dry foods, anything sealed and safe.
When they brought everything back to Katsuki’s house, they organized it carefully, taking note of what they had.
And then they started rationing.
Meals became smaller. More deliberate.
They weren’t just getting through the day anymore.
They were planning for the days ahead.
—
The fifth week started with a flicker.
The power cut out without warning.
Everything went dark.
It only lasted a few hours, but it was enough to make them realize how much they’d been relying on something they couldn’t control.
When it came back, they didn’t waste time.
Every container they could find was filled with water. Jugs, bottles, anything that could hold it. Izuku handled the smaller ones, moving quickly between the sink and the counter, while Katsuki took care of the larger containers.
They even filled the bathtub in the basement, the sound of running water echoing through the house.
That afternoon, the power went out again, and this time, it didn’t come back.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night.
Without the power, the house felt wrong—too still, too hollow. Katsuki lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to a silence that didn’t belong. The constant hum of electricity he’d never paid attention to before—the low buzz in the walls, the quiet whir of appliances—was gone.
He hadn’t realized how much noise electricity actually made until it disappeared.
Now there was nothing.
Every small sound felt too loud. The faint creak of the house settling. The shift of his nightshirt fabric when he moved. His own breathing, steady but too noticeable.
He turned onto his side, then onto his back again, irritation building under his skin.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under in uneven waves. He drifted in and out of consciousness, not fully asleep, not fully awake—just suspended somewhere in between.
Until—
A sharp, burning pain tore through his leg.
Katsuki jolted awake, breath catching harshly in his throat as his body snapped into full awareness. For a split second, he couldn’t think past the pain—hot, searing, wrong.
His hand shot out toward the nightstand, fumbling until his fingers closed around the flashlight he kept there. He flicked it on, the beam cutting through the darkness as he aimed it downward.
The light landed on his leg.
On the thing hunched over it.
His mind stalled.
It didn’t make sense—not right away. Just a shape, a presence too close, too real. Then it moved, shoulders shifting as its head dipped lower.
A wet, tearing sound filled the room.
Katsuki froze.
The beam of the flashlight trembled in his grip as he stared, trying to force his brain to catch up to what he was seeing.
Slowly, the figure lifted its head.
The light hit its face.
And everything stopped.
It was his mom.
Or—something that looked like her.
The structure of her face was the same. The features were right. But her skin was grey and drawn tight, her eyes dull and lifeless, no trace of the ruby red irises they shared.
Her mouth stretched into a smile.
Wide.
Wrong.
Her teeth were coated in blood.
Katsuki couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
The world tilted as his mind tried—and failed—to make sense of it.
A noise from across the room snapped his attention away.
The flashlight jerked up.
There was someone else standing there.
A stranger. Or something close enough to one.
They looked the same—grey skin, empty eyes, posture slack and unnatural. Just...standing there. Watching.
Waiting.
Then came the sound from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
More than one.
They were getting closer.
The shock shattered.
Katsuki tried to pull his leg back, but his mother’s grip tightened instantly. Her fingers dug into his skin, nails piercing through the fabric of his pajama pants as she held him in place with unnatural strength.
“Get off—!”
His voice came out rough, strained, but she didn’t react.
Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to figure him out, her grip tightening further.
The footsteps were right outside the door now.
Closer.
Closer—
A crack split the air.
Her body went limp.
She dropped to the floor.
Before Katsuki could even react, something grabbed him—hard—and yanked him upward.
Izuku.
He was there.
Katsuki hadn’t heard him come in.
Izuku’s grip was tight, urgent, dragging him toward the window. In his other hand, he held a frying pan, the metal slightly bent from the hit.
“We need to get out of here!” Izuku’s voice cut through everything, sharp and panicked.
Katsuki tried to respond, but something felt wrong.
Heat spread through his body, fast and overwhelming. His skin burned, his head starting to spin as the pain in his leg pulsed outward. He could feel his pant leg sticking to the fresh wound.
Izuku slid the window open, cool night air rushing in. He grabbed the flashlight from Katsuki's hand and pointed it outside.
Movement.
More of them.
Drawn by the noise.
Behind them, the room filled with the sound of shuffling steps as more figures pushed through the doorway.
Izuku turned, swinging the frying pan hard. It connected with one of them, the impact echoing sharply.
“Katsuki,” Izuku snapped, “Jump!”
Katsuki did as he was told, climbing onto the windowsill. His movements were slower than they should have been, his body lagging behind his thoughts. He lowered himself as far as he could before letting go.
He hit the ground hard.
Pain exploded through him, his leg giving out instantly as his body locked up. His vision blurred, something sharp pulsing behind his eyes.
He couldn’t move.
For a second longer, he just stayed there.
Then Izuku landed beside him, grabbing him and hauling him up with force. “Move!”
Katsuki tried, but his leg wouldn’t respond.
Numbness was already spreading, dulling everything from the bite downward. Each step felt wrong, unstable, like his body wasn’t fully his anymore.
But they ran.
Or Izuku did.
Dragging him along.
The flashlight beam bounced ahead of them, cutting through the darkness as they moved down the street. Behind them, the sound of footsteps followed—uneven, relentless, getting closer.
Katsuki’s breathing grew unstable. Heat coiled through him, his vision blurring at the edges. His leg felt like dead weight now, slowing him down, making every step harder than the last.
Figures appeared ahead of them.
Blocking the road.
Izuku didn’t slow.
He yanked Katsuki sharply to the side, pulling him down another street. Katsuki stumbled, barely keeping up, his body lagging as everything around him started to slip.
“Stay with me,” Izuku pleaded, his voice strained, tighter now. “Kacchan—stay awake.”
Katsuki tried.
Tried to focus.
Tried to stay conscious.
But everything was fading.
The sounds blurred together.
The movement.
The light.
Izuku’s voice was the last thing that stayed clear.
Calling him.
Begging him.
Then—
Everything went dark.