Around him, the rest of the class reacted with varying shades of surprise. Tsu's brows pinched in disbelief. Uraraka's mouth opened, then shut again. Even Yaoyorozu, who rarely let her composure falter, tilted her head like she'd misheard.
But Shinsou didn't waver.
And then—quietly, almost reluctantly—Midoriya spoke up.
"I actually think so, too." His voice was soft, but the conviction in it carried. "I'm not sure why… but Kacchan has some kind of… soft spot for him."
The phrasing was awkward, like it barely fit in his mouth, but he meant it. Shota could tell from the way Midoriya's hands twisted in his lap, the restless energy sparking off him even as he tried to appear calm.
Soft spot.
The words rattled around in Shota's skull, strange and foreign when applied to Bakugou. But he couldn't ignore the way both boys—so different, so detached from one another—had landed on the same conclusion.
And suddenly, the thought of Bakugou storming out into the night wasn't just another problem to solve. It was a thread that might lead him straight to Todoroki.
But… it still left him with no truly helpful answers. Every path looped back into itself. Because if Bakugou had gone after Todoroki, then the only way to find one was to find the other—and Shota still had no idea how to do that.
So he defaulted to the practical. The only thing he could think of. He sent the UA security bots out into the night with orders for a full sweep—every hallway, every corner of the grounds, every blind spot the students had learned to exploit when they thought no one was watching. At least it gave him the illusion of movement, of progress.
And in the meantime, there was only one other option left. He turned toward the dorms.
Todoroki's room.
It felt wrong before he even reached the door. An invasion, one he couldn't justify to himself no matter how carefully he tried to stack the excuses. Necessary, he told himself. Urgent. His duty. But when the lock clicked open under his keycard, when the door gave way with the faintest groan, the wrongness pressed in on him like stale air.
He stepped inside.
The room was bare. Too bare. Utilitarian to the point of emptiness. No posters. No personal touches. No scrawled notes stuck to the wall or evidence of a life lived. Just the regulation furniture lined up in tidy silence—a bed, a desk, a dresser—and the faint echo of a boy who seemed determined not to exist here at all.
The bed was made with mechanical precision. A single pillow, a single blanket, corners tucked so sharply they might cut. The desk, at first glance, was nearly as empty—except for the stack of books.
They lay in disarray, scattered like someone had dropped them in a hurry, the spines fanned out unevenly across the surface.
All except one.
One volume sat perfectly straight. Posed deliberately along the corner of the desk, shoved as far away from the rest as possible, like a child ostracized from its siblings.
Shota's feet carried him toward it before his brain had time to ask why. His hand closed around the cover.
The Awakening.
He'd read it once, years ago. Remembered little beyond the cadence of the prose and the sense of quiet inevitability that clung to its pages. It held no significance for him now, and yet… the placement was deliberate. Todoroki had touched this last. Had meant for it to stand apart.
But it didn't give him answers. Not about why. Not about where.
He tried the drawers next. Nothing but pressed button-ups lined in perfect rows, underwear folded with crisp, military neatness. Too neat for a boy of his age, but not damning. Just… sterile.
The closet offered more of the same. Bare uniforms, shoes lined heel-to-toe with mathematic precision. Nothing strange. Nothing incriminating. Nothing at all—
Except.
Tucked in the far corner, shoved behind the line of uniforms, was something out of place. A hoodie. Faded black, loose in the shoulders, stretched at the cuffs from long wear. Not Todoroki's style. Not Todoroki's at all.
But familiar.
It took him a moment to place it, but then the memory came: the training camp, the night air humming with crickets, Bakugou's sharp voice carrying across the grounds. The boy had worn it then.
Why did Todoroki have it now?
The question sat heavy in Shota's chest. A puzzle piece without the picture to fit into. A hint that meant nothing on its own and everything at once.
He shut the closet, his hand lingering on the handle longer than he meant to.
And then he stood in the middle of the boy's sterile, silent room—surrounded by folded clothes, straight lines, bare walls—and realized he still had no idea what to do. No idea where to go. No closer to finding either of them.
Just more questions. And less time.
That truth gnawed at him all the way back down the hallway, chewing at the edges of his resolve like acid. By the time he reached the common room, it had carved him hollow.
Dozens of eyes lifted to meet him as he stepped through the doorway—wide, worried, unbearably expectant. Hopeful, even. He hated that most of all. Hope made their gazes heavier, harder to carry. As if he had answers tucked behind his teeth, ready to spill out. As if he could fix this.
He glanced down at his watch. The numbers glowed back at him, merciless. Almost two hours since Bakugou had slammed the door. Even longer since Todoroki had vanished into the night. Time stretched cruelly in situations like this—minutes dragged and snapped like elastic, but underneath, it was slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold onto. Every second he spent standing here meant they were farther away.
And for a terrible, fragile moment, he didn't know what to do next. Or what to say to the students still gathered around him, still looking at him like he was the axis of their world. His tongue felt thick. His mind stuttered against the sheer weight of it.
The pressure behind his eyes had sharpened into a pounding throb. He pressed his fingertips hard into his temples, grinding them in slow, punishing circles. Long. Hard. Until sparks of white lit up behind his lids and the ache dulled to a low hum. It was something to hold onto. Something he could control.
And then—
The sharp trill of a ringtone split the silence like a blade.
Every head in the room snapped toward the sound. Midoriya fumbled at his pocket, wide-eyed, dragging out his phone with shaking fingers.
On the screen, plain and glaring, was Bakugou's name.
For half a second, the room held its breath.
And then Shota was moving—too quick, too sharp—crossing the distance and plucking the device straight from Midoriya's grip. He didn't even think about whether it was appropriate, didn't give himself the chance to hesitate. He brought the phone to his ear, jaw tight, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.
Finally—finally—something.
"Bakugou?"
The word hangs in the air, almost swallowed by the line itself. And there's nothing—for far too long—nothing at all. Just the faint, ragged hiss of breath, intermittent and uneven, barely audible over the sharp, whistling wind that seems to claw at the edges of the receiver. Each second stretches impossibly long, dragging with it a weight he can feel pressing against his chest. His pulse thunders in his ears, loud enough that it almost drowns out the faint sound from the other end.
He can't let it sit for long. He can't take the silence, thick and suffocating, like it's swallowing the space between them. Maybe he doesn't even give Bakugou a chance to respond, maybe he's already spoken again before the other can find his words. Time, for the last few hours, has been crawling through mud, and he can't afford the luxury of patience anymore.
"Where are you?"
The line remains quiet. Nothing. Not a hint, not a crack in the tension, not even a curse. Just the harsh wind, twisting and whining across the receiver. And still, he asks again. Because he has nothing else to do. Because the weight of the unknown is unbearable, and repeating the question, no matter how pointless it feels, is all he can offer himself as a tether.
He tells himself he's keeping calm. He repeats the thought like a mantra: Bakugou called—he had to be on the other side. There had to be a voice waiting, even if it was buried under silence and hesitation. The logic is thin, fraying at the edges, almost laughable if he lets himself think about it too long, but it's enough to hold him in place. Enough to stop him from throwing Midoriya's phone across the room in frustration, from losing himself entirely to the fear that coils around his chest.
Neither panic nor surrender is an option. Not now. Not when the line could spark to life at any second. Not when Bakugou's whereabouts—and maybe Todoroki's, too—hang on the other end of that tenuous thread. He grips the phone tighter, knuckles whitening, and waits, because there's nowhere else to go. Waiting is all he can do.
And eventually, after what could have been seconds—or maybe minutes, the world had lost all sense of time—Bakugou speaks. His voice, rough around the edges, cuts through the line, carrying a weight that immediately makes Shota's chest tighten.
"I need help."
And… Shota can't remember ever hearing those words from Bakugou. Not during the USJ attack, not when the boy had been cornered and threatened at the summer camp, not during any of the countless scrapes, fights, or high-stakes hero exercises. He's always been loud, brash, defiant—but never vulnerable. Never openly admitting he couldn't handle something himself.
For a moment, Shota doesn't know what to do, what to say. The line feels impossibly thin, fragile, like it might snap under the tension. Panic surges, hot and unwelcome, curling in his stomach, because if Bakugou is saying this… something serious must have happened. Something bad.
But he doesn't have the luxury of pausing for long. Before he can even formulate a response, Bakugou keeps going. His voice is almost reluctant, clipped in places, but he doesn't leave gaps unfilled.
"Todoroki…he fell off the bridge"
The words hit Shota like a punch he wasn't ready for. And the way Bakugou says it… it's strange. Hesitant. Guarded. Like there's something he's not telling. And that subtle hesitation sets off a cascade of thoughts in Shota's mind, each spinning faster than the last.
Todoroki isn't the clumsy type. He's precise, controlled, graceful—he doesn't fall. At least, not normally. And yet here he is, off a bridge. Shota tries to piece together how this could have happened. Maybe Todoroki's emotional state contributed—he's been struggling, shaken. But then why would Bakugou sound like he's hiding something?
Bakugou is close to Kirishima… were the two fighting? Did Todoroki fall during the fight? Is that why Bakugou doesn't want to tell him? Is Bakugou withholding details to protect himself? The questions churn and spiral, each one sharpening the knot of worry in Shota's chest.
Still, he knows he can't linger on the uncertainties—not yet. The immediate danger is Todoroki. The bridge. Whatever Bakugou is holding back can wait, because right now, he has to focus. He has to move, think, act. All the other questions, all the why's, are secondary.
So he swallows all of that—the swirling fear, the frustration, the knot of helplessness—and he says again, quieter this time but no less urgent:
"I need to know where you are."
Bakugou's response is jagged, uneven, almost incoherent at first. Words stumble out in fits and starts, clipped syllables, pauses that feel far too long, like he's trying to pull coherent thoughts out of a brain running on pure adrenaline. Shota keeps his tone calm, even though the blood pounding in his ears says otherwise, and slowly, painstakingly, he begins to piece together the fragments Bakugou gives him. Landmarks, a hurried description of terrain—enough to get a mental map forming. He agrees to stay on the line until they can track him more precisely.
It's the first real sigh of relief he's allowed himself all night, the tiniest crack in the wall of panic that's been pressing in from every direction. He's already lowering the phone, thinking ahead: who to page at this ungodly hour to triangulate the signal, how to wake Hizashi to monitor the rest of the class until the situation is under control. His mind starts cataloguing everything—contacts, protocols, backup plans—like he's assembling a battle plan on instinct.
There's still so much to do. A terrifying amount.
But then Bakugou's voice cuts through again, raw and jagged, and it shreds any illusion of calm:
"You have to fucking hurry, he's gonna fucking die!"
The sentence rips the air between them apart, and Shota feels the comforting tone slip away entirely. There's no time for placation here, no easy words to soothe the fear. All he can do is ask, probe, anchor himself in facts.
The boy's voice breaks with a kind of vulnerability Shota's never heard from as he admits that he doesn't know why. That's he's certain it's going to happen anyway. There's a deep seated terror there, strong enough to have taken over logical thought.
It's enough to soften his voice, as he promises the other no one will.
Even as he says it, the words sharpen his focus. There's no margin, no delay, no room for second-guessing. The promise is made, and the timeline collapses around him. He has to move. Now. Every second counts. Hesitation isn't an option—not tonight, not with Bakugou's fear and Todoroki's life.
He turns—already partway through a sentence about keeping Midoriya's phone for tracking—and stops cold. Every eye in the room is on him, inches of space between them suddenly heavy with resolve. It's like being stared down by a pack; youthful intensity crackling in the air.
"We want to come with you."
It's Midoriya who says it. Of course it's Midoriya: breathless, earnest, pitch-perfect moral outrage mixed with that stubborn, quiet iron in his spine. He's half up from his seat, fingers curled like he's ready to spring, voice pitched so steady it almost sounds rehearsed.
"Absolutely no—" Shota begins, reflex and policy rising in the same breath. He can feel the old, trained authority in the words before they leave his mouth. This is discipline. This is control. This is what keeps kids alive.
Midoriya doesn't give him the chance. He collapses the next sentence into the room like a closing door. "Before you say anything else, we've already heard everything. Kacchan isn't exactly… quiet. Even through a phone. We're going. You can either let us go with you, or we'll go alone."
The way he says it—so certain, so blunt—feels like a challenge. Defiant, yes. Terrifying, absolutely. Shota watches the set of Midoriya's jaw.
"If any of you leave," he says, the words sharp and quick, "I'll have you expelled immediately. Don't test me. I already let you get away with that stunt at Kamino Ward."
"A stunt that was successful," Midoriya fires back without missing a beat, voice steady as a metronome. "And do you think I care if you expel me? I'm going anyway."
There's that look—defiance wrapped up in principle—and Shota knows arguing will do nothing but waste time. He doesn't have the luxury of standing on his high horse when Todoroki might be dying two towns over. He opens his mouth to double-down and then clamps it shut, because more shouting won't stitch a bridge together.
Before he can formulate the threat again, others pile in. Iida steps forward, perfect posture and gleaming earnestness, and lays out the practical angle like a miniature officer: "I agree with Midoriya. Plus, we have quirks that may be useful. I could get there faster and secure the scene ahead of time." The words are brisk, logical—a plan rather than a plea.
Uraraka's hand is already in the air; she's bright-eyed and fierce. "Me too! My float quirk could be useful depending on where Todoroki landed and how injured he is. I could get him out without causing more damage!" Her hope is infectious; the air lifts a degree.
Even Sero, who's been glued to the edge of the room, pipes up in a rush: "You gotta let me come! Todoroki and Bakugou are both my friends, and if I can help them I want to!" His voice trembles in the vulnerable, earnest way friends do when someone they care about is in danger.
Shota feels it—the sympathetic pull, the moral weight. He can see each of them practicing usefulness in their minds: routes, contingencies, who to contact. He wants desperately to let them all go—let youthful fire be applied to the problem—but practicality gnaws at him. Nerves and training tell him a scattering of uncoordinated rescuers could make things worse. One misfired quirk in the wrong place and someone else could be hurt. He's not willing to roll those dice.
"Fine," he snaps finally, tired and decisive. "Fine. But you can't all come." His voice cuts through the flurry. He points, quick and businesslike, because time is a thing he can direct. "Uraraka—you come. Midoriya—you too. But I swear to God, if you lose your cool or get in the way, you're expelled. Do you understand me?"
Midoriya nods, fierce and quiet, and Shota takes that as a victory. It's small, but it's something. He doesn't have time to savor it.
"Everyone else stays here. Got it? I mean it—if you leave, I'll expel you."
There's grumbling, the kind of low protest kids make when they're disappointed but resigned. Bodies slump back into couches, but one by one, they nod—acceptance more than agreement. The room exhales as if it was holding its breath the entire time.
Shota feels the bitter relief of a decision made. It's not ideal. It's not everything he wanted. But it's the only plan he can execute cleanly in the next ten minutes. He palms his phone, already thinking through the logistics: who to call first, which campus bot to redirect, how to get Midoriya and Uraraka kitted and moving without slowing him down. The line between authority and failure is thin tonight—he knows it by the way everyone's hope, fear, and expectation focus on him—and he steels himself against it.
They're moving. That's enough for now.
He sends the two of them upstairs for their hero costumes, and turns his attention to his next steps, Midoriya's phone still glaring at him with Bakugou on the other end.
He fumbles for his own phone and dials Hizashi, fingers trembling just slightly despite the sharp focus in his chest. The line rings once, twice… and, by some small miracle, the other picks up. Shota lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relief washing over him in a slow, simmering wave.
"It's me," he says quickly, skipping greetings, skipping pleasantries. "I need you to come in. Now."
Hizashi's voice is groggy, layered with sleep, but Shota doesn't wait for complaints. He lays out the situation in rapid-fire sentences: Bakugou and Todoroki, a bridge, a call for help, students in the dorm who need supervision. By the end, Hizashi is already moving, sliding out of bed, muttering that he'll take over and that Shota should hurry.
Shota allows himself a small, genuine moment of gratitude. The man's calm decisiveness, his willingness to step into the chaos without hesitation, is a rare gift tonight, and Shota feels it like armor against the gnawing tension in his chest.
Next, he dials Nezu. His tone is clipped, professional, stripped of anything unnecessary. He updates the principal on the situation—explaining as much as he can without wasting time, emphasizing the urgency. Then he asks Nedzu to track the call, to locate Bakugou. The request is short, clear, and unambiguous.
The confirmation comes faster than he expected. Nezu's calm, meticulous efficiency slices through the anxiety like a scalpel: they've pinpointed the location. A bridge. A remote stretch of road. Not far—only about a ten drive by car, laughably close by—but in this situation, every second counts, every decision matters.
Shota stares at the phone for a moment, the weight of coordination pressing on him: students to manage, Bakugou on the line, Todoroki's life hanging in the balance, the city streets between them. And yet, amid the panic, there is a sliver of control—a tangible, usable thread to grasp onto.
He dials Recovery Girl, voice tight, clipped, the kind of tone that carries authority without question. tells her to stay at the school, in the clinic. To keep the lights on. The doors open. To be ready. Each word deliberate. There's no room for misunderstanding, no time for debate. He can almost hear the unspoken understanding behind her calm acknowledgment. She's capable. She'll manage.
The line clicks, and the call ends, leaving behind only the faint echo of static and the weight of what's about to happen.
Almost immediately, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Uraraka and Midoriya step out, framed by the harsh glare of the hallway lights. They're in their hero costumes, practical and familiar, but tonight those costumes feel like armor against the chaos waiting outside these walls. Shota catches a glimpse of their faces: alert, tense, determined. Not a hint of hesitation. He doesn't have the time—or the patience—to let it register.
He hangs up the phone without another word. No updates. No plan. No explanations. There isn't time. The urgency has distilled his focus into something singular, uncompromising. He points sharply toward his car, and they fall into step without question, moving with the instinctive precision of students trained to act under pressure.
He doesn't look back. Every step toward the car carries the weight of what they're about to face: Todoroki, Bakugou, a bridge, a crisis that could turn deadly in a heartbeat. His mind races ahead, faster than his legs can move, calculating routes, anticipating obstacles, forcing every decision into the narrow margins where speed and caution intersect.
They reach the car. Shota swings open the door, slipping inside, the leather cool under his palms, the engine's familiar hum a small comfort in the storm of adrenaline. Uraraka and Midoriya follow, sliding into their seats with practiced ease. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. The air is thick with shared understanding: the stakes are life and death, and they're heading straight into it.
He starts the engine, tires crunching against the pavement, headlights cutting through the dark like knives. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He pulls out of the school, following the directions blinking on the GPS screen, mind racing with calculations, contingency plans, and the relentless drum of panic pressing against his chest.
Every second, every streetlight, every mile is a countdown. The world shrinks to urgency, to motion, to the pulse of what must be done. The three of them are a single unit now: teacher, hero, student, a lifeline stretched taut toward the unknown. The bridge, the fall, the fear—they're coming, and nothing else exists beyond the road ahead.
They're coming.
When they finally pull up to the bridge, Shota slams on the brakes harder than he should, the tires screeching and the old car groaning in protest. The sharp squeal of metal grinding against metal ricochets into the night, an ugly sound that makes his teeth grit. They've come to a stop too fast, too reckless. The urgency has left no room for grace.
The bridge looms ahead of them, its gaping mouth stretching into the dark like some waiting beast. The skeletal frame of rusted steel arches over the river, jagged lines etched against the starless sky, its hollow silhouette daring them to step closer. Half the structure is cordoned off with faded yellow tape, fluttering in the wind like warning flags—yet even that tape feels inadequate. It's not just an unsafe crossing they're about to enter. It's something deeper, darker, a place that feels wrong to stand in.
Silence rules here. Heavy and unnatural. No traffic hum, no voices. Just the low hiss of the wind threading through metal beams and the distant, mournful scream of a train horn somewhere far off, echoing like a ghost across the city. The sound lingers in the air long after it fades, as though even the train itself refuses to come too near.
Neither Midoriya nor Uraraka says a word when they climb out of the car. Their movements are small, deliberate, shoulders tense as they slip beneath the strands of caution tape. The tape snaps back against the cold metal railing with a hollow slap, too loud in the suffocating quiet. Each step forward seems to magnify the creak of the wood and steel beneath their feet, as though the bridge resents their intrusion.
At first, there's nothing. No voices. No shadows moving. Just the yawning stretch of old train tracks laid out across the bridge, black as pitch, reflecting the beam of Shota's flashlight in quick flashes. Panic starts to claw at him, sharp and insistent, every second of emptiness drawing his chest tighter. His breath fogs in front of him as he sweeps the light wildly back and forth, refusing to accept the thought that he might have come too late. Might be in the wrong place.
Then—there.
The beam catches on something pale and unmoving in the center of the bridge. His heart stops before it slams back into motion. A body.
Bakugou.
Sprawled flat on his back across the cracked wood and rusted tracks, his arms thrown out as though he's been dropped from a great height and left where he landed. For a moment, Shota thinks the worst—that the boy is unconscious, or worse, gone. His chest goes hollow with the weight of it, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Then Bakugou blinks. Just once, slow, squinting against the sudden glare of the flashlight as the beam strikes his face. His eyes crack open with effort, lids heavy, and they lock briefly on the source of the sound of footsteps drawing near. Alive.
It's the smallest thing, that blink. But it drags the air back into Shota's lungs, lets his boots hit the ground harder as he surges forward, his students on his heels. Relief crashes into urgency all at once, like floodwaters breaking a dam. Bakugou is here. He's breathing. But he's sprawled out across the bridge like something dragged down, and that raises questions Shota isn't sure he's ready for the answers to.
"Bakugou! Where is Todoroki?"
The words leave Shota sharp, clipped, more command than question. The flashlight beam slices across Bakugou's pale face, catching on the way his eyes flutter open and shut, struggling to focus. He blinks up at him a few times, slow and heavy, as though even the act of keeping his eyes open requires more strength than he has left.
A shiver racks through him so violently it jerks his shoulders off the wood, his whole body convulsing as his teeth chatter together with a sound that makes Shota's stomach turn. The boy looks like he's being shaken apart from the inside, nothing left to hold him steady.
Finally, after what feels like far too long, Bakugou drags his gaze toward the edge of the bridge. His hand lifts, trembling so badly it looks more like a spasm than a gesture, but his finger points down toward the dark water below. His voice comes rough, thready, barely scraping past his lips.
"On the… bank. Got him out. Couldn't get him up here."
Each word falls like stone, heavy, broken apart by the shallow gasps he takes between them. He sounds like he's forcing them out one at a time, as though speech itself costs him. His lips are an alarming shade of bluish-purple, cracked and shaking, and the sight confirms what Shota already suspects—he's been in the water, and for too long. His clothes are soaked through, plastered to his skin, dripping in steady rivulets onto the tracks beneath him. His hair clumps together in frozen spikes, strands stiff with cold, and steam curls faintly off him in the freezing night air.
"Okay. Okay." Shota forces his voice low, steady, an anchor against the panic rising in his chest. He shrugs out of his own coat in a single motion and drapes it heavily over Bakugou's narrow shoulders, the fabric swallowing him almost whole. "Here. Take this."
He turns immediately, tossing his car keys to Uraraka. She catches them without missing a beat, though her wide eyes flick nervously between teacher and classmate.
"Get him to my car," Shota orders, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Turn the heat on full blast. Then use your quirk to meet Midoriya and me on the bank—we'll need you to get Todoroki up here."
But before the words can fully settle, Bakugou moves. All at once, as though spurred by sheer stubbornness alone, the boy lurches upright, too fast, too hard. His muscles give a violent twitch as his body protests, but he grits his jaw anyway, the coat slipping askew around his shoulders.
"Fuck no!" His voice is raw, breaking on the edges, but the fire in it is unmistakable. "You aren't sidelining me. I'm coming."
Shota's first instinct is to snap, to put the boy back down with one sharp retort—but the sight of him like this, trembling so hard his words stumble, his whole frame threatening to fold under its own weight, reins him in. He swallows a sigh instead, chewing down the frustration that claws at his throat.
"No, you aren't," he says firmly, eyes locking hard onto Bakugou's. "Look at yourself. You're exhausted. You'll only slow us down. You've already done a lot—more than enough. You're actions likely saved Todoroki's life. It's okay to stop. It's okay to rest."
Bakugou's mouth opens, his shoulders squaring in defiance, ready to launch back into the fight with every shred of willpower he can scrape together. His voice rises like it's already on his tongue. But Shota doesn't give him the chance.
"The longer we sit here and argue," Shota cuts in, sharp as a blade, "the longer Todoroki stays down there. Do you understand me?"
The silence that follows is taut, stretched like a wire about to snap. Bakugou's teeth clench, his jaw trembling—not just from cold now, but from the battle of will inside him. His chest heaves, harsh and shallow, as though he can't quite force himself to back down, but the words Shota left him with sit like stone, undeniable.
His mouth shuts with a hard click, his scowl so bitter it could curdle blood. He looks furious, looks betrayed, but doesn't speak again. Uraraka steps in then, her expression soft with sympathy as she ducks under his arm. She hoists it carefully across her shoulders, steadying his trembling weight against her. Bakugou doesn't fight her, not physically. But the set of his jaw, the storm in his eyes, make it clear he's far from at peace with it.
But Shota doesn't need him to be. He just needs him alive.
"Midoriya, can you get us both down there with your quirk?"
The boy doesn't even pause to think. His answer is an immediate nod, that stubborn fire already lit behind his eyes—the one that always makes Shota's stomach twist between irritation and reluctant respect. The look that says I'll do it, no matter what it costs me.
Shota tries not to dwell on how wrong it feels to be asking this of him. To lean on a fifteen-year-old, to place not just his own weight but his trust in him. It grates against every instinct he has as an adult, as a teacher, as a pro-hero who is supposed to be the one doing the protecting. But there's no time to indulge that discomfort. The kid is their best shot, and they both know it.
With a sharp inhale, Shota braces himself and swings his arms around Midoriya's shoulders, letting the boy hook one arm firmly behind his legs and the other across his back. It feels strange—humiliating, almost—to be carried like luggage by someone who should be looking to him for guidance. He shoves the thought down, jaw tightening as he locks his focus on the riverbank below.
Midoriya crouches low, the muscles in his legs coiling like springs. Shota feels the boy's breath stutter once in his chest—controlled, steadying—and then, with one explosive pump of his legs, they launch off the ground.
The world tilts violently.
The wind tears at them immediately, snapping Shota's hair back from his face, stealing the air from his lungs. His stomach lurches, climbing up into his throat as gravity catches hold, dragging them down in a dizzying rush. The dark water flashes below them, the jagged bank rushing up far too quickly. For a heartbeat, his instincts scream that this was a mistake—that they're falling, not flying, that he should have never trusted this to a child.
But then, at the very last instant, Midoriya flares his quirk. The pressure shifts. His body glows faintly with that telltale crackle of energy, the sudden impact that should have broken bones dissolving into a soft, controlled thud against the dirt.
They hit the bank in a crouch, the earth vibrating beneath them. Shota staggers as Midoriya lowers him, his boots sinking slightly into the damp soil, but they're upright. Unharmed.
The boy exhales a shaky breath, eyes still locked on the water, as if daring the river itself to challenge him. Shota straightens his scarf around his shoulders, forcing the tension from his muscles.
It isn't lost on him that the student just carried the teacher. But there's no time to think about it. Not when Todoroki is somewhere in the darkness ahead, waiting.
He clicks his flashlight back on, the bulb flaring to life with a weak buzz before steadying into a sharp cone of white. The rocks crunch and rattle beneath his boots as he moves forward, the noise too loud in the stillness, like it doesn't belong here. Each step sends pebbles skittering down toward the waterline, their echoes vanishing into the dark.
The beam wavers as he sweeps it left, then right, cutting across the skeletal shape of the bridge supports and the uneven ground. The light bounces off the water, catching it at sharp angles that send knives of brightness into his eyes. For a second he's blind, squinting against the glare, his heart hammering with the frustration of wasted seconds. He lowers the beam and tries again.
Somewhere behind him, or maybe off to his left, Midoriya has broken away. Shota can't pinpoint exactly when the boy slipped from his side—just noticed suddenly that his presence, that persistent shadow of green, wasn't there anymore. He doesn't call out; sound carries too easily in spaces like this, and he's not sure he wants to hear the echo of his own worry. He forces himself to trust that Midoriya is doing the same thing he is: searching.
But the silence gnaws at him.
There's nothing.
No splash of movement, no ragged breath, no groan of pain carried on the wind. Only the constant whisper of water flowing past the banks, the occasional creak of the bridge overhead, and his own breathing, harsh and too fast inside his scarf.
It feels wrong.
Too empty. Too calm.
Like the world has already moved on from whatever violence took place here—like the river has swallowed the evidence and left him chasing shadows. The hair along the back of his neck prickles, instinct screaming that he's missing something just outside the beam of his light.
He tightens his grip on the flashlight until his knuckles ache and forces himself to keep walking, to keep cutting through the dark.
Because if there's nothing here… then where the hell is Todoroki?
He's already pivoting on his heel, flashlight beam jerking across the stones, when Midoriya's voice slices through the night.
"Aizawa-sensei!"
The tone is wrong—too sharp, too urgent, panic edging each syllable like barbed wire.
He's running before the thought has even formed, instinct propelling him faster than reason. His boots scrape against the slick, river-smoothed rocks, one foot nearly sliding out from under him as he pushes forward. The sharp air bites at his lungs, cold and wet and unforgiving, but he doesn't slow.
The beam of his flashlight swings wildly with each stride, bouncing off the pale curve of stone and the glittering water until—finally—it catches on the outline of a crouched figure. Midoriya. That unruly mop of green hair bent low, his entire posture wound tight like a bowstring about to snap.
But it isn't Midoriya that makes Shota's stomach drop.
It's what he's crouched over.
The shape beneath him—slumped, pale, unnervingly still against the jagged line of the riverbank.
Shota's heart kicks hard against his ribs, the world narrowing to a tunnel that begins and ends at that body. His stride lengthens, urgency burning down his legs. He forces the light down, cutting across water-dark clothes, too-white skin, the unmistakable profile of Todoroki Shouto.
And in that moment, even before he reaches them, one thought drowns out everything else—
Too still. Too quiet.
He drops hard to his knees, the rocks biting through the fabric of his pants, but he doesn't care. His flashlight beam skitters across Todoroki's chest and face, pale and slack in the wash of light, before Shota angles it toward the boy's neck. His fingers hover for a split second, the tiniest tremor betraying the urgency he won't let himself show, before pressing carefully to the side of Todoroki's throat.
Midoriya's voice comes fast, shaky, but sure. "He's breathing. But it's faint. And he doesn't seem conscious at all."
The boy's green eyes are wide and glassy in the dark, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and river mist. He looks about one second away from breaking, but he's holding himself together with sheer force of will.
Shota barely has time to register the crunch of hurried footsteps closing in before Uraraka skids to a stop beside them, chest heaving. She gasps when the flashlight catches Todoroki's still form, her hand flying up to her mouth.
"Woah… is… is he—?"
"No." Shota cuts her off with the flat finality of a blade. There's no room for hesitation, no room for doubt. "He'll be fine. But we need to move now. Uraraka—use your quirk. Float him up. Midoriya and I will be right behind you."
He doesn't waste time watching to see if she obeys, though in his peripheral vision he sees her swallow hard and kneel, already pressing her fingers to Todoroki's shirt. The boy's body lifts an inch, then another, weightless but horribly limp.
Shota's hands are already moving, pulling his phone free from the interior of his capture scarf where he tucked it earlier. His thumb scrolls with practiced speed to the right contact, the screen's glow stark against the darkness.
They need help, and fast—but not the kind that comes with blaring sirens and reporters sniffing out tragedy before the dust has even settled. The hospital is too public, too exposed. Todoroki doesn't need the eyes of the world dissecting this moment.
What he needs is privacy. Safety. Time.
Shota presses the call button, the device cold against his ear. Relief coils tight in his chest at the thought that UA keeps its own ambulances, its own medical teams, away from prying eyes. Most days, the existence of such a fleet has always felt grim, a quiet acknowledgement of how dangerous their world truly is.
Tonight, though, it feels like a small mercy.
Nezu answers on the very first ring. There's no delay, no shuffling background noise, just his small, even voice, steady in a way that feels almost unnatural against the chaos still ringing in Shota's head. Too calm. Too composed. Shota doesn't need to wonder why—Nezu never put the phone down in the first place. He's been waiting. Listening. Ready for this call like he always is, anticipating disaster before anyone else can name it.
Shota doesn't waste a second on pleasantries. He doesn't have the breath for it anyway. His words come in clipped fragments, efficient but jagged with strain: Todoroki is alive. Breathing. Unconscious. Cold to the touch, ice lodged so deep in him that it feels like it's settled in his bones. Bakugou's not much better—shaking, soaked through, blue-lipped. Both of them on the edge of collapse. They need help now.
Nezu doesn't ask for elaboration. Doesn't scold him for the situation spiraling this far out of control. The response comes immediate, sharp, and clean—like a knife cutting through tangled rope. "I'll dispatch one of our ambulances right now. They're already on standby near the school." A pause only long enough to let the words land. "Recovery Girl will be inside when it arrives. You'll have her expertise the moment they reach you."
For the first time since this began, Shota feels the faintest thread of steadiness pull taut beneath his feet. There's something almost unnervingly reassuring in the way Nezu speaks, as though the outcome is already fixed, as though the lives trembling in his hands are not balanced on a knife's edge but merely paused until safety arrives. Shota knows better. He knows it's far from over—knows what hypothermia can do, knows how quickly unconscious breathing can stop altogether—but still, that certainty in Nezu's tone slips under his ribs and forces out the smallest exhale of relief.
"Good," he mutters, gravel low in his throat, though the word feels too thin, too meager for the storm in his chest.
The line clicks dead a second later, the abrupt silence rushing back into his ears. The faint hum of static is gone, leaving him only with the sound of his own ragged breathing and the river grinding along the rocks.
It's not over. Not by a long shot.
By the time Shota slides the phone back into his pocket, the world feels subtly altered. Uraraka is gone, the faint shimmer of her quirk having lifted Todoroki out of reach minutes ago. Now, there's nothing but the empty bank, the whisper of water against stone, and the dull ache of absence. Without her presence—without the boy's pale, unmoving form beside them on the rocks—the air feels thinner, emptier, like something vital has been carried away with them.
Midoriya lingers just ahead, framed in the beam of Shota's flashlight. The boy shifts from foot to foot, boots scraping against wet stone, his green hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands. His fists are tight at his sides, knuckles showing white through the skin, and there's a tension in his shoulders that looks painful—like a bowstring pulled back too far. Every line of his body screams with impatience, but more than that—with need. A desperate urgency, raw and sharp, to be moving. To be doing something. To be back at his classmates' side where his hands might finally matter.
His eyes flick to Shota then, wide and restless, pupils blown too large in the dark. It isn't even a question, not really. It's pleading, demanding, begging for permission all at once. A wordless call to let him go. To let him act.
Shota studies him for only a breath—long enough to see the fire in the boy's stance, the unsteady edges of it, the way it shakes with a cocktail of adrenaline, fear, and stubborn determination. The same expression he's worn too many times before. Shota doesn't have the luxury of taming it tonight. He doesn't even try.
He nods once, brisk and sharp. "Let's move."
And that's all it takes.
Barely waiting for Shota to secure himself across his back, Midoriya surges forward like a coiled spring released, his entire frame snapping into motion as though he'd been holding himself in suspension, waiting for that single command. His boots splash against shallow water, his breath coming quick and harsh as urgency drives him up the bank. The boy moves with a reckless energy that pulls them both back toward the looming shadow of the bridge.
The night around them stays too quiet, the silence pressing against Shota's ears, reminding him again and again of the bodies they've already found half-frozen.
When their boots scrape back onto solid asphalt, the shift is almost jarring—stone and slick moss giving way to smooth black pavement. The sudden firmness beneath his feet makes Shota realize how tightly his body has been wound, every muscle locked for balance on the uneven bank.
The bridge yawns open before them, steel ribs silhouetted against a starless sky. And then the headlights hit him. His own headlights, glaring bright and merciless, reflecting off the guardrails and forcing him to squint. For a moment he's nearly blinded, the sharp light drilling past his eyelids until he blinks furiously against it. The contrast after so much darkness leaves his vision swimming, disorienting enough that his steps stutter for half a beat.
When his sight steadies, he finds Uraraka waiting at the hood of the car. She's folded against the metal, arms wrapped tight around herself, her posture caught somewhere between exhaustion and stubborn endurance. Her hair is damp with mist, her cheeks raw from the wind. But she stands alert, her eyes lifting the instant she catches sight of him.
Todoroki, however, is nowhere in sight.
Shota's mouth is already parting, words forming, when she beats him to it—her voice quick, as though she'd been bracing for the question.
"He's in the car with Bakugou. I figured the heated car was the best place for him."
There's no hesitation in her tone, though the tremor in her fingers betrays how much she's been thinking it through, second-guessing, trying to do right.
"Has he woken up?" Shota asks, sharper than intended, but he doesn't have space for softness.
Her head moves in a tight shake. "No… but Bakugou looks a lot better. I think he's in pain, but if so he isn't saying it." She swallows hard, glancing toward the vehicle. "Still, he's conscious, and his lips aren't blue anymore."
Shota lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, slow through his nose. The cold air burns his lungs as he drags it in again, forcing himself back to focus.
"Good," he mutters. His voice is low, but firm enough to carry. "That's… good. UA has already sent an ambulance. It should be here any minute."
He pauses, eyes flicking to the car, catching the faintest outline of two figures inside—the jagged rise of blond hair, the pale form beside it. "If Bakugou is stable, they'll likely just take Todoroki."
The words feel matter-of-fact on his tongue, clinical, but the weight in his chest says otherwise.
"But, sir!" Midoriya blurts, his voice cracking with the weight of urgency. His fists ball at his sides, trembling with the effort to hold himself back, and his eyes burn—not just with panic, but with something fiercer. Defiance. But for once, it doesn't feel aimed at Shota himself. It's aimed at the situation, at the unfairness of it, at the thought of his oldest friend being left behind. "Kacchan needs medical attention, too!"
Shota narrows his gaze, the lines around his eyes deepening with exhaustion, though his tone doesn't waver. "And he'll get it," he says, clipped, absolute. "I will see to it personally that Bakugou makes it to the infirmary. You have my word." He lets that sit, firm enough to cut through Midoriya's rising emotion. "But right now, Todoroki is the main priority. He's unconscious. Hypothermic. If we don't stabilize him first, there won't be anything left to prioritize. Surely you understand that, yes?"
The boy's throat bobs as he swallows hard, teeth digging into his lip. His eyes shine in the glow of the headlights, wet but unyielding. "But—"
"Did you forget what I said?" Shota's voice sharpens, slicing clean through the protest before it can gather weight. "About losing your cool? I can still expel you, Midoriya. Don't think for a second I won't." His tone softens just slightly, but only enough to press the truth heavier into the boy's chest. "Please… don't make this more difficult than it already is."
There's a long beat of silence, filled only by the restless whistle of wind through the bridge structure and the distant, hollow rumble of a train. Midoriya's mouth clicks shut, lips pressed so tight they tremble, his entire body taut like a bowstring that refuses to snap but can't relax either. It's a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.
"Good." Shota exhales slowly, fighting to keep the relief from showing in his voice. "Now, let's get in the car." His gaze sweeps between them, sharp and commanding. "I don't need anybody else catching a cold, and neither of your uniforms are made for this weather. Move."
For once, Midoriya doesn't argue. He only nods, stiff, and falls into step toward the car. The defiance hasn't left his eyes, but for now, at least, it's quiet.
Bakugou doesn't speak when they open the doors and slide inside. He doesn't so much as scowl when Midoriya wedges in beside him, forcing him into the middle seat, pressed tight between an unconscious classmate and the childhood friend he's spent half his life snarling at. Normally, that alone would've been enough to ignite a fight—sharp words, a shove, anything to claw back some air. But now? Nothing.
His body sits rigid, damp clothes still clinging stubbornly to his skin, but his eyes—his eyes don't move. They're locked with unnerving focus on Todoroki's pale, slack form, head lolling gently against the door as the car hums around them. Every shallow rise and fall of Todoroki's chest seems to snag Bakugou's attention, as though he's silently daring the boy to stop breathing. As though he can hold him alive by sheer will alone.
No one else dares disturb the moment. Midoriya's shoulders are stiff, hands curling into restless fists on his knees as though the silence might crush him if he lets it last too long. Uraraka, settled into the passenger seat, keeps glancing back at the three of them in the rearview mirror, her expression drawn tight with worry but her lips pressed shut. Even she seems unwilling to break whatever fragile balance keeps the air in the car intact.
Shota keeps his eyes on the road, though his peripheral vision catches every flicker of movement in the mirror. He doesn't know what to say, what words might fit the weight in the car. Comfort feels useless, redundant. He's already given what reassurances he can, already stretched himself thin trying to thread panic into something manageable. Anything more would sound hollow.
So he doesn't. He sits. And stares. Stares out at the bridge yawning like a crater ahead of them. The engine hisses in the cold air, headlights cutting a pale swath through the dark, and the car fills with nothing but the low hum of the heat and the sound of three teenagers breathing unevenly beside one another.
And in that silence, it almost feels as though the car itself is holding its breath.
For a long time, nothing happens. Too long. The silence presses heavy against the glass windows, and Shota feels the weight of every breath in the car. Each exhale fogs faint patches on the windshield before the heater wipes them away again, but the condensation feels like a clock—like evidence of how long they've been waiting.
His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, the rhythm uneven. He can feel it, the creeping pressure of doubt threading through his skull. He begins to question himself—question everything. Should he have called for the ambulance at all? Was it overkill, wasting precious minutes when Todoroki might not have that much left to spare? Would it have been faster, simpler, to push the car to its limits and drive them straight back to campus himself?
The uncertainty gnaws at him. Every rational part of his brain tells him he made the right call—medical specialists, proper equipment, the chance to keep things quiet and controlled. But logic is a frail thing when stacked against the image of Todoroki's motionless figure, the faint shallow breaths rattling through his lungs, and Bakugou's hunched shoulders bowing tighter with every second that ticks by.
The car feels like it's shrinking, the walls pressing in. The quiet is too loud. The absence of sirens is deafening. Each moment stretches itself into something unbearable, the air charged with expectation and no relief. He catches himself glancing at the clock on the dash, at the empty road in his mirrors, over and over until the minutes blur into one another.
Finally—just as his hand shifts toward the gear stick, ready to abandon the wait altogether, to leave the ambulance to roll up to nothing but an empty bridge and a lingering echo of failure—he hears it.
The sirens. Thin and distant at first, like a wail carried on the wind, but building. Growing louder, closer. Relief doesn't come as a rush but as something jagged, stumbling, almost painful as it forces the tension out of his chest in a single exhale.
And then it's there—like some great beast summoned to the fight, the ambulance's lights slice across the darkness in blinding red and blue. The vehicle squeals to a stop right alongside his stationary car, brakes hissing, headlights flooding the asphalt in stark white.
It feels less like simple machinery and more like an angel arriving on the scene.
He flings open the door without a second thought, the slam ricocheting across the asphalt like a gunshot in the still night. His body is already in motion, boots crunching against gravel-dusted pavement as he rounds the car with long, purposeful strides. His gaze is locked, unwavering, on the back door, vision tunneled to the single priority waiting inside. He yanks the handle so hard it rattles, and the cold night air rushes in, colliding with the trapped warmth inside the car, prickling at his skin as adrenaline sharpens every nerve.
Todoroki's form slumps forward slightly with the shift, his head lolling against the seat, strands of pale hair catching the dim glow of the headlights. Shota's hands are on him almost before the boy's body fully registers—one arm sliding behind narrow shoulders, the other bracing under half-dead weight. The chill that seeps through Todoroki's uniform is biting, shocking enough that Shota feels it even through the fabric of his own sleeves. It's the kind of cold that speaks not just of weather, but of the body itself betraying its core, failing to hold the heat it needs to survive.
He maneuvers him out with as much care as the urgency allows, each movement precise, deliberate—turning Todoroki just so, mindful of dead weight and limp limbs. The boy's arm swings uselessly against him, his head pressing into Shota's chest for a fleeting moment before gravity drags it back. It's a sensation that sends a faint ache pulsing behind Shota's ribs, though he forces it down, focuses on keeping Todoroki steady, supported.
By the time his boots skid to a halt, Chiyo and her assistants are already there, closing in with swift, rehearsed precision. Their gloves gleam faintly under the flood of headlights, hands outstretched, palms up like a safety net. Their faces are sharp with focus, not alarm—eyes cutting quick glances across the boy's exposed skin, the sluggish rise and fall of his chest. Their voices, when they speak, are calm but clipped with urgency, the kind of tone born of endless drills and triage. Barked instructions, not for him but for one another. Efficiency, not comfort.
Still, something in that rhythm steadies Shota, even as he feels his own muscles tighten, unwilling to let go. He eases Todoroki into their hold with a care that borders on reluctant, adjusting his grip at the last moment so that the boy's head doesn't jolt back, so his legs don't buckle unprotected.
For a breath, just a heartbeat, he resists. His arms are reluctant to empty, his body braced against the pull of separation. But there's no space for hesitation—not when the boy's lips are ghostly pale, bluish at the edges, not when his breath is so faint it threatens to vanish if one blinks too long.
So he lets go. He forces his fingers to release, muscles straining as if against their own will. Todoroki disappears into the waiting arms, swallowed by the collective steadiness of Chiyo's team. And Shota is left standing with the absence, his chest heaving once as though only now he remembers to breathe.
Bakugou gets only a fraction of the attention—no stretcher, no urgent calls for oxygen or IV lines, no immediate swarm of hands like Todoroki drew. One medic peels away from the main group, crouching low beside the car's open door. The fluorescent spill of the ambulance lights flickers over Bakugou's sharp features, carving shadows under his eyes, catching on the sheen of damp river water that still clings to his temple.
The man works methodically, voice low but brisk. A penlight flicks across Bakugou's eyes, the sudden burst of brightness forcing him to narrow his gaze, teeth gritting at the intrusion. The medic doesn't comment, only nods faintly before pressing the bell of his stethoscope against the boy's chest. The cold metal touches bare skin where his neckline pulls down—soaked— dragging a flinch out of him despite his best effort to remain stone-still. The medic listens in silence, head tilted, then shifts the stethoscope lower, pressing again, more carefully this time.
Bakugou stiffens, jaw flexing, when the probing fingers brush over his collarbone. He inhales sharply, the sound betraying pain even as his glare tries to deny it. The medic hums under his breath, not unkind, and announces the obvious with clinical detachment: "Fractured clavicle."
Bakugou's expression sours instantly. His mouth twists, eyes narrowing into a searing look that lands somewhere between outrage and disdain. It's not aimed at the medic, not really—it's aimed at the situation, at himself, at the very fact that his body has betrayed him in front of witnesses. The set of his shoulders radiates restrained violence, every muscle taut with the effort of not exploding in anger.
A blanket is tossed over him, thicker than Shota's coat, the heavy fabric falling across his shoulders and down to his lap. It swallows his frame almost completely, a smothering cocoon meant for warmth, but he doesn't shove it off. He sits rigid instead, shoulders squared beneath the weight, as though he can endure it by sheer will. His hands clench at the edges of the blanket, knuckles whitening, but he doesn't rip it away.
The medic straightens after a moment, eyes steady, and delivers instructions with the clipped finality of someone who expects obedience. "Report to the infirmary immediately upon return to campus. No detours, no delays." His tone brooks no argument, though he leaves no opening for Bakugou to vent either.
For once, Bakugou doesn't lash back. He doesn't spit fire or bark his defiance. He only glares, a silent storm burning behind his eyes, and lets the order hang unchallenged in the air. The medic, satisfied, moves on, leaving him wrapped in layers of heavy wool and restrained fury.
He's conscious. He's breathing steady. He's not bleeding out or slipping under. In their triage assessment, he's stable enough to wait—and in that cold arithmetic, Bakugou Katsuki is relegated to second place.
Todoroki is not.
He lies sprawled on the stretcher, body carefully aligned in a single practiced motion, the wheels clattering against the asphalt before locking with a metallic snap. Already, the air is thick with urgency, words cutting through the night like scalpel-edged commands—sharp, clinical, devoid of sentiment:
"Possible hypoxia."
"Early frostbite on the fingers."
"Circulation's slow, sluggish."
A medic presses a cold oxygen mask over his face, the plastic biting lightly against his skin, while another peels back his soaked uniform to expose his torso. Fingers glide along his ribs with deliberate caution, testing, probing, cataloguing injuries. Todoroki doesn't stir, doesn't even twitch; his lashes flutter briefly, but his face remains placid, almost disturbingly still.
A grimace forms on one of the medic's faces as they confirm aloud, tone clipped but edged with precision:
"Fracture. Left side, at least two ribs."
The stretcher shifts under careful hands, metal squealing faintly under the strain of weight and motion. Shota feels a tug in his chest, the raw immediacy of the boy's fragility pressing against him. Around him, the medics move in a precise, almost choreographed rhythm honed through years of repetition—swift, sure, never frantic. Their words layer over each other in a rapid litany that makes Shota's head swim: hypothermia, trauma, stabilization, IV lines, oxygen flow. Each phrase is a tool, a measure, a step in the cold calculus of saving life.
The night air is sharp against his cheeks, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic, damp clothing, and the ozone sting of the ambulance's lights. Shota notices the subtle details he'd usually filter out—the way the stretcher's wheels grind against the asphalt, the quiet hiss of the oxygen tank, the small tremble in Todoroki's fingers despite the stillness of his body.
And then, almost impossibly fast, the stretcher is lifted, guided toward the ambulance doors. Bright white light floods the space, swallowing Todoroki in its sterile glare. The medics wheel him inside with fluid, practiced movements, voices still sharp but now subdued under the hum of the vehicle.
In the sudden quiet that follows, Shota is left with only the echo of wheels on asphalt, the faint rustle of uniform fabric, and the cold stillness of the night pressing in from every side. The weight of the moment lingers, heavy and unyielding, as the ambulance doors close, carrying Todoroki away from his reach yet into capable hands.
For a long moment, none of them move. All four of them stand frozen, eyes fixed on the retreating ambulance as it swallows Todoroki in its blinding lights, sirens fading into the distance. The world feels muted around them—the wind whipping at their clothes, the faint rustle of leaves along the bank, the distant hum of the city—but none of it registers.
Bakugou's expression is the one that finally rips Shota out of his own daze.
It's… different. Not just tense or annoyed, but hollow, fragile almost. Like a kicked puppy, that look of helplessness and frustration mingled with confusion. Like a dog left at the curb, watching its owner drive away, abandoned yet loyal still. Shota can almost see the fight draining out of him, a rare and quiet vulnerability that makes his chest tighten.
Stable or not, Bakugou needs medical attention. The thought sharpens Shota's focus, slicing through the haze of adrenaline and worry that's been clouding his mind all night. The sooner he gets the boy back into the car, the sooner they can move, the sooner they can start addressing the injuries—the broken clavicle, the soaking wet clothes, the lingering chill that won't dissipate on its own.
He doesn't speak, just moves, instinctively guiding the three students back toward the car. Each step is deliberate, his boots crunching against the gravel-dusted asphalt. He waits patiently, aware of the weight of responsibility pressing against his shoulders, for both of Bakugou's legs to swing back into the vehicle. The boy doesn't rush, doesn't argue, just glares briefly, the scowl tugging at his face like some armor he refuses to take off.
Shota doesn't care. Not now. He closes the door behind him with a careful push, the sound sharp in the quiet night, and feels the slight give of the seat beneath him as he sits. His mind is already running through what comes next—making sure Bakugou's stable, starting the drive back to campus, preparing for the next wave of care.
Bakugou doesn't say anything, just shifts slightly, the blanket over his shoulders doing little to ward off the cold that still lingers in his bones. Shota ignores the glare, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides. None of that matters right now. What matters is moving, acting, keeping control of the situation before it slips through their fingers completely.
And as the engine hums to life and the car begins to roll forward, Shota allows himself a small, grim acknowledgment: the night isn't over yet, and neither is the responsibility he bears.
Midoriya is the first to break the shroud of silence that's settled over the car like a thick, suffocating armor. The hum of the engine and the steady thrum of tires on asphalt are the only other sounds. They make Midoriya's voice feel almost fragile in the confined space.
"Kacchan… are you—I mean, well—are you okay?" The words stumble out, careful, hesitant, almost as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet.
Uraraka shoots him an alarmed look, her eyes darting to Bakugou with the kind of instinctive worry that comes from months of reading every subtle cue of a someone's triggers. She leans slightly forward in her seat, fingers curling against the edge of the console as though she could physically hold Midoriya back from speaking if she tried. Her quirk isn't needed here—just her attention, her concern, and the faint pressure of presence.
Shota says nothing. He sits behind the wheel, knuckles lightly gripping the steering wheel, letting the words hang in the air. He wants to hear Bakugou's response. He wants to gauge the boy, to measure how deep the exhaustion and frustration run, to understand the weight of what he's carrying. He has questions too, but few of them can be asked right now—not without the right moment, not without a sliver of control over the conversation.
Bakugou scowls, the sharp crease in his brow cutting across the dim glow of the car's interior light. His lips move, barely audible over the engine hum, mumbling something about being fine, about Midoriya needing to shut up and mind his own business. His tone is defensive, clipped, but betrayed by the subtle tension in his shoulders and the way he curls deeper into the door frame, as though the metal and glass could shield him from everything else in the world.
The blanket over his shoulders is pulled up tight, white-knuckled hands gripping it near his chin, a fortress against both the cold and the vulnerability he refuses to show. It's a typical reaction—loud, abrasive words. But it's paired with a body that practically screams exhaustion, pain, and frustration. Shota watches silently, noting the tiny tremor that runs through Bakugou's fingers, the way his chest rises shallowly with each breath, and the slight quiver in his jaw. There's more there than the boy admits. Always more.
"Bakugou…" Shota begins, voice low but edged with the kind of urgency that can't be disguised. His fingers tighten briefly on the steering wheel as he glances into the rearview mirror, catching the boy's reflection in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He needs answers to something—needs them now. Some questions feel too harsh for a moment as fragile as this one, too heavy to drop into the already charged silence. But this one—this one feels okay. Safe enough.
"How did you get Todoroki out of the water? After he fell off the bridge."
The boy's head snaps up at that, red eyes narrowing like twin embers. He stares at Shota as if the question is ridiculous, as if the answer is self-evident. The scowl that settles on his face is sharp enough to cut glass, but Shota doesn't miss the flicker of something else underneath—tiredness, the aftershock of adrenaline.
"I jumped after him. Obviously."
Shota's chest tightens, a slow sinking feeling rising beneath his ribs. He turns his head enough to see Bakugou's expression in full now, reading between the lines of that scowl. The boy doesn't look proud of what he's done; he looks exhausted. Frayed. The answer confirms exactly what Shota suspected—and dreaded.
"You… jumped?" Shota's voice drops lower, the incredulity dragging out the syllables.
"Well… dived. But yeah."
"You… dove… off a bridge…"
"Yes?" Bakugou's tone has the audacity to sound almost bored, like this is the part of the night he doesn't have patience for.
"Do you even realize how stupid that was? How reckless? You're lucky you didn't die!" Shota's voice sharpens, a flash of the teacher breaking through the worried man. The words cut through the car's close air like a whip crack.
"It wasn't luck!" Bakugou shoots back immediately, eyes flashing with something that looks almost like anger but is too raw to really be fury. "I know what I'm doing…"
"Oh? Do you now?"
The sarcasm is deliberate, but before Bakugou can respond, Midoriya pipes up from the seat beside him, his voice tentative and low, like a peace offering being slid across a table. "Actually, sir… Kacchan used to be a diver. He was really good! He won state… went to nationals and everything…"
The words trail off as Midoriya catches the unimpressed look Shota shoots him through the mirror—a look that says that while the fact might be true, it changes nothing about the situation. Midoriya's shoulders hunch a little, the green of his hair shadowing his eyes.
"And what were you diving into, pray tell?" Shota's tone cuts back in, cool and precise. "Pools? Controlled bodies of water? This was a completely unknown entity. You had no way to tell how deep the water was, what the current was like, if there were rocks at the bottom! Skilled or not, you shouldn't have—"
"He would have died!"
Bakugou's voice snaps like a gunshot, cutting Shota off so sharply the rest of his reprimand dies on his tongue. The car seems to go still in the wake of it, like all the oxygen has been pulled out. Bakugou's shoulders rise and fall once, hard, and his eyes burn, but not with defiance now—with something fiercer, something that makes his voice rougher when he adds, softer but no less raw, "I couldn't just stand there."
For a heartbeat, no one says anything. Even the sound of the tires seems to fade. Shota studies him in the mirror—wet hair plastered to his forehead, blanket wrapped tight like armor, jaw clenched. He looks so young, and yet so much older than he should all at once.
Shota can't bring himself to say anything more. The words die in his throat as he glances at Bakugou, hunched in the seat beside him, drenched, shivering slightly beneath the blanket. The boy's expression is taut, exhausted, and stubborn all at once, a mixture of pride and defiance that Shota knows too well. He wants to scold him—to lecture him about risk, recklessness, common sense—but he can't. Not when Bakugou's eyes, sharp yet haunted, meet his, silently daring him to cross that line. And approving? That's impossible too. Shota's gut twists with frustration, worry, and reluctant respect all at once.
The rest of the ride passes in silence—it's charged, heavy enough to press against his chest. Every so often, Shota's fingers twitch near the wheel, as if the urge to speak, to explain, to reprimand might escape despite him. But he holds back. Each glance in the rearview mirror is met with Bakugou's steady stare, unflinching, and he falters.
When they finally reach the campus, the familiar lights and buildings do little to ease the tension. Shota doesn't pause to admire the return, doesn't let himself take the moment. He knows exactly what needs to happen next. Without a word, he gestures sharply toward the dorms.
"Midoriya. Uraraka. Go back to the dorms." His tone is clipped, leaving no room for argument. He doesn't have the luxury to escort them himself, doesn't have the energy to fret about whether they make it safely or not. They hesitate for only a moment before nodding, quickly slinging their hero gear over their shoulders and moving out of the car, leaving Shota with only Bakugou.
The boy shifts, lifting his head as if to follow them. Shota's hand clamps down firmly on his shoulder, the pressure deliberate, commanding attention. His gaze meets Bakugou's, stern, unyielding.
"Not you," he says simply, his voice a low, unshakable authority. "You're going to the infirmary. Now."
Bakugou's jaw tightens, and he opens his mouth as if to argue, but the firmness in Shota's grip and the weight of exhaustion in his tone leaves no space for protest. The boy lets out a frustrated huff, shoulders slumping just slightly, but he doesn't resist as Shota redirects him toward the entrance of the infirmary. The blanket slides slightly in the process, and Shota adjusts it over his shoulders, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary—not for warmth, but as a grounding gesture, a silent reassurance that he's not leaving him to face this alone.
Shota exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders tightening and easing all at once. The ride is over. The fight isn't. But at least, for now, Bakugou and Todoroki are where they need to be, under watchful eyes and on the path to recovery.
Recovery Girl guides Bakugou carefully onto one of the infirmary beds, her hands gentle but firm as she adjusts his position. The blanket from earlier slips slightly, and she tucks it snugly around him, making sure his broken clavicle isn't strained. Her gloved fingers press lightly along the injury, checking alignment and the tension in his muscles. Each touch is precise, professional, yet there's an underlying warmth to it—a silent assurance.
Bakugou barely reacts. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes don't leave Todoroki, who lies on the bed opposite him. Wrapped in heavy blankets, Todoroki's chest rises and falls in steady, slow rhythm. He almost looks… peaceful, like the weight of the world has been lifted, if only temporarily. Bakugou's shoulders, still rigid, begin to ease slightly as he watches him, the tension in his jaw loosening a fraction.
Chiyo moves with practiced efficiency, applying her quirk to Bakugou's shoulder and collarbone. The white-hot healing energy radiates warmth against the chill in the room. He lets out a soft, involuntary hiss as the pain recedes, though his expression remains stubbornly impassive. His eyes flick once to her, almost in acknowledgement, but quickly return to Todoroki, as if tracking the boy's breathing is the only thing keeping him anchored.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to drain from him. The blanket seems heavier now, the pillow softer than it should be, and the fatigue presses down in waves he can no longer fight. His head tips to the side, resting against the pillow with a quiet thud, and the tension in his hands unclenches just enough for a single finger to brush against the edge of the blanket.
Almost instantly, his eyes slide shut. The rise and fall of his chest slows, his shoulders sag, and Bakugou succumbs fully to exhaustion. The room is silent save for the faint hum of medical equipment and the two boys' steady breathing. For the first time in hours, everything is completely still, at rest.
Almost immediately, Chiyo turns her attention to him, the motion of her head precise and sharp, leaving no room for argument. She doesn't smile. She doesn't linger. Her presence alone carries authority, and the crisp click of her heels against the infirmary floor signals that it's time to move.
"Bakugou should be fine to leave as soon as he wakes up," she states, her voice clipped but calm, almost clinical. "His injuries were minor."
The moment the door clicks shut behind him, Chiyo doesn't pause. She launches straight into a litany of observations, the efficiency of her words leaving little room for misinterpretation.
"Todoroki should make a full recovery as well, given time. He suffered a moderate case of hypothermia, and the oxygen content in his blood was dangerously low, but nothing his body can't recover from." She glances briefly toward the ceiling, as though scanning the night for answers, then continues. "He also suffered several fractures from the fall. Unfortunately, I was unable to heal those completely due to his severe exhaustion."
Shota swallows, digesting the words in a lump in his throat. His mind reels, picturing the boy lying on the stretcher, pale and fragile, so unlike the controlled, composed figure he usually presents. Chiyo's eyes sweep over him, sharp and unyielding, as if reading his thoughts even before he can articulate them.
"I should be able to heal him fully once he's had rest," she continues, her tone still calm, almost neutral, yet tinged with a weight that makes Shota straighten instinctively. "But that isn't my main concern right now."
Her gaze sharpens, and Shota feels the room suddenly contract around him. "While examining him, we noticed some… unusual bruising around his wrists. Handprints, by the looks of it."
The words land like stones in his chest. Chiyo's eyes meet his, serious, unflinching.
"Did Bakugou mention anything that might explain this? A fight, perhaps?"
Shota swallows again, a dry, rasping sound that seems far too loud in the quiet hallway. His mind flashes back to Bakugou's voice on the phone—the hesitation, the almost imperceptible falter when he said Todoroki had fallen. That pause, that subtle avoidance, now carries a heavier weight. The undeniable feeling that Bakugou had been holding something back gnaws at him, leaving an icy pit in his stomach.
He wants to shake the boys awake, to demand an explanation, but the words feel too heavy. Too uncertain. The handprints Chiyo mentioned, the hesitation in Bakugou's voice, the severity of Todoroki's injuries—they form a knot of worry and suspicion in his chest. And somewhere beneath it all, a quiet, pressing fear whispers: he might have missed something. Something crucial.
Right now, there's no one to ask. No answers to get. So instead, he waits.
Shota lingers near the infirmary, the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above the only sound aside from the occasional shuffle of tired feet. Most of the staff are packing up, murmuring brief goodbyes, zipping bags, checking charts one last time before heading home. Many had been called in on short notice to help, some still in their pajamas beneath lab coats, dark circles hanging heavy under their eyes. The exhaustion in the room clings to him like a damp blanket, the scent of antiseptic and faint traces of cold water lingering in the air.
Chiyo stays as well. She sits nearby, her posture relaxed but alert, hands folded neatly in her lap. They sit together in a quiet, almost companionable silence, the kind that doesn't require words, each immersed in their own thoughts yet aware of the other's presence. Shota finds it… comforting, in a way. A small anchor in the storm of adrenaline and worry that's been his constant companion for hours.
Surprisingly, it isn't Bakugou who wakes first.
It's Todoroki.