Shota notices the subtle twitch of fingers, a shallow inhale, before the boy's eyes flutter open. They blink once, twice, as if unsure whether the world they've returned to is real. There's a numb, distant quality to his gaze, a tentative, fragile awareness that slowly scans the room, taking in the soft glow of the infirmary lights, the neat rows of beds, the muted shadows cast by medical equipment. His pupils dilate slightly, a quiet uncertainty in their depth, and Shota feels the pull of protective instinct tighten around his chest.
Todoroki's lips part slightly, a shallow exhale escaping as his gaze drifts, lingering for a moment on the empty space beside him where Bakugou lays, still unconscious. The boy's expression is unreadable at first, frozen somewhere between confusion and cautious curiosity, the aftermath of trauma painting lines across his young features. It takes a long, tense beat before his attention shifts to Shota, eyes finally locking with his own, seeking… something. Reassurance? Answers? Or perhaps just acknowledgment that he's not entirely alone in the cold aftermath of what's happened.
Then, without warning, Todoroki's eyes flood with tears. They pool so quickly that for a moment Shota thinks the boy won't blink at all, that he'll just drown in them. But then his head tips back against the pillow, a hollow thud against the stiff infirmary sheets. His lips move, cracked and pale, forming words so faint that Shota has to lean in, straining to catch them.
"Not supposed to be here. Not supposed to be here. Not… supposed…"
The words tumble out in a broken loop, half-whisper, half-gasp, repeated like a mantra clutched in desperation. The sound claws at Shota's chest, each repetition more disjointed than the last, like a record skipping. It makes no sense. And yet the weight of it—the conviction in the boy's hoarse voice—sets every nerve on edge.
Todoroki's hand jerks upward suddenly, trembling so badly the motion looks like it might tear his own arm from its socket. He curls his fingers into the mess of his hair and yanks, hard, dragging his fist down until a tuft of mismatched red and white strands rips free. They scatter across the white sheets like discarded threads of fire and snow. Shota winces at the sharpness of the act, at the self-inflicted pain layered over ribs that must already be screaming.
"Woah! Hey—hey, Todoroki." Shota jolts into action, voice rough but steady as he grips the boy's wrist, not hard enough to restrain, just enough to anchor. "Calm down. It's okay. You're okay. Bakugou is okay. Everything's going to be fine, do you hear me?" His tone edges between command and plea, sharp enough to cut through but softened to keep the boy from splintering further.
Recovery Girl shifts from her chair, her small form already moving to intervene, lips pressed in a thin line as if to scold him for letting this go on so long. She raises her cane, clearly intent on forcing his injuries into submission now that he's awake. But Shota shakes his head sharply, intercepting her with a glance. Not yet. Not until he has what he needs.
He turns back, steadying his voice. "Todoroki," he says, deliberate, leaning low enough that their gazes lock, so the boy can't mistake his focus. "I need to ask you something. It's important, and it can't wait. Do you understand?"
For a heartbeat, Todoroki just stares, pupils wide and glassy, like he's seeing through Shota instead of at him. Shota's throat tightens, worried the boy's mind is too far gone into shock to process the words. But then—slowly, haltingly—Todoroki swallows, Adam's apple bobbing with effort, and dips his chin in the smallest of nods.
Shota doesn't waste the opening. "Did something happen between you and Bakugou?" His voice is quieter now, but sharper too, each syllable cutting clean through the air. "Did he… hurt you?"
The question hangs there, heavy as stone, a demand for truth balanced on a fragile boy's trembling lips.
It isn't the question the boy had been bracing for—that much is obvious from the way his whole expression shifts, confusion slowly clouding the distant glaze in his eyes. The words hang between them for a beat before sinking in. His brows pinch faintly, his lips part like he's about to speak but no sound comes out.
He scarcely graces it with a response at all at first, staring at Shota as though the man had grown a second head, as though the question itself is an absurdity too big to compute. His voice, when it finally emerges, is rough-edged and faint, but clear in its bewilderment.
"What? Why would you ask me that?"
There's nothing performative in his tone—no guardedness, no evasive hedging, only naked confusion that spills out unfiltered. It hits Shota like a small, quiet wave of relief, loosening the tension between his shoulders by a fraction. Based on this reaction, Bakugou isn't the one who left those marks. Whatever went down on that bridge, it wasn't that.
But the relief is fleeting. It still leaves an ocean of unanswered questions, and the bruises on Todoroki's wrists aren't fading just because Shota wants them to. He steels himself, softening his voice without losing the urgency.
"I know things are hard right now," Shota says, leaning forward, careful to keep his tone level. "I know there's a lot going on in your head. But I need to understand what happened out there. I need to know how you got those bruises on your wrists. Can you walk me through it?"
Todoroki's eyes flicker—shifting from Shota's face to somewhere lower, somewhere inward. They drop at last to his own wrists, to the mottled marks marring the pale skin there. His gaze lingers on them as if seeing them for the first time, as though the reality of them has only just landed. His breathing goes shallow, uneven.
All at once, the tears spill over, cascading down his cheeks unchecked. His hands, still trembling, drift back up to his head, fingers tangling into his hair like claws. He grips harder this time, yanking with a desperate edge, harsher than before, like he's trying to hold himself together or tear something loose. The movement makes the IV line taped to his hand tremble, makes the bruises stand out darker in the sterile light.
Shota's gut twists at the sight. The boy is unraveling right in front of him, and each small motion feels like a plea without words.
"I… I did something bad." The boy's voice fractures like glass, so thin and brittle that it barely rises above a whisper. It shakes as it leaves his throat, trembling on every syllable.
Shota's heart clenches. He keeps his tone even, gentle, the way he does when coaxing a frightened animal out of a corner. "Are you talking about what happened with Kirishima? It's okay, Todoroki. We're going to figure that out, alright? It's going to be alright."
"No! No, no, no!" The words burst out louder, raw and frantic. The boy's chest heaves under the blankets, the hospital gown trembling with each shallow breath. On the monitor beside him, the steady green blip of his heart rate begins to spike wildly, the machine issuing a shrill warning. Numbers climb on the screen—too high, too unstable.
Shota is moving before he realizes it, chair scraping faintly against the tile as he rises. His hands find Todoroki's, fingers looping gently but firmly around the boy's wrists. He guides them away from his hair before more strands can be torn free, trying to keep his voice low and even. "Easy, kid. Breathe. You're safe. You're okay."
But the touch doesn't seem to soothe him. If anything, it makes the panic fracture outward like cracks in glass. Todoroki jerks violently against Shota's hold, eyes wide and glassy, muscles trembling with effort. His lips move around broken fragments, voice a ragged thread of sound.
"...Killed him… bad… killed him—"
The words tumble out disjointed, jagged and slurred, like pieces of a puzzle thrown across the floor. They're barely intelligible, but each repetition lands heavier in Shota's chest. He can feel his stomach sinking, his pulse thudding dully in his ears.
"What? No!" Shota leans closer, firming his grip just enough to keep Todoroki from hurting himself, his voice sharpening with urgency but never losing its steadiness. "You didn't kill Kirishima, okay? He's fine. He's just fine, I promise you, Todoroki. Everything is going to be okay."
"Not him…"
The words slip out softer, but they cut deeper. Todoroki turns his face away, refusing to meet Shota's eyes, his shoulders still jerking weakly against the hold on his wrists. There's shame in the angle of his neck, the way his jaw trembles. Whatever he's trying to say sits heavy on his tongue, as though speaking it aloud might make it real.
The heart monitor continues its erratic song, the sterile light of the infirmary flickering faintly overhead, and for a moment Shota can feel the weight of the entire night pressing down on his spine.
"What? Kid…" Shota's voice comes out rougher than he intended, the edge scraping over his vocal cords like grit. He swallows hard, trying to pull himself back into control, but the gentleness that had colored his tone earlier is fraying at the seams. It's hard to hold steady in the face of so many unknowns, so much panic roiling between them like a living thing. "I need you to tell me what happened."
Todoroki's eyes are still fixed somewhere beyond him—past Shota, past the walls of the infirmary, somewhere deep inside himself. His voice emerges halting, a frayed thread that keeps threatening to snap. "There was… a man…"
The words are so faint Shota almost doesn't catch them. For a moment, he thinks Todoroki won't continue at all, that he'll retreat fully behind whatever wall he's built. But then, with a small, deliberate motion, the boy's trembling subsides. He finally stops jerking against Shota's grip, his shoulders sagging as though the fight has drained out of him.
Shota takes the opportunity to loosen his hold, palms hovering in the air for a second longer before he lets go completely. Todoroki lowers his arms slowly to his lap, wrists pale where Shota's fingers had been, the angry marks marring his skin stark against the white hospital gown.
"I…" Todoroki's throat moves around the word like it's glass, his lips trembling with the effort. "I killed him."
The confession splinters in the air between them, sharp and soft at once. He chokes on the final syllable, as though speaking it aloud is cutting him open from the inside. The shame rolls off him so thickly Shota can almost taste it. It clogs the space between them like tar, heavy and suffocating, coating his own tongue, his own lungs.
For a heartbeat, Shota can't form words. The air around him seems to freeze, everything inside him going still and cold. His eyes flick back and forth—first to the bruises encircling Todoroki's wrists, then back to the boy's face. That face is a ruin of exhaustion and guilt: wide eyes rimmed red, lips pressed together to keep more words from spilling out, jaw trembling like it's on the verge of breaking.
"This…" Shota starts, but the word catches. He clears his throat and tries again, softer but firmer. "This man, did he give you these bruises?"
His gaze drops deliberately to the marks, then back up to meet Todoroki's unfocused eyes. He leans in slightly, voice low, steady, the way you might speak to someone on a ledge. "I promise you, you're not in trouble, okay? Just… be honest with me, kid. Please. I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."
There's a tremor in the plea that he hates himself for, a vulnerability he rarely lets show. But the kid in front of him looks like he's shattering piece by piece, and Shota knows he doesn't have the luxury of distance right now.
"He…" Todoroki's voice falters, the words sticking in his throat as if they've lodged there like shards of ice. He forces them out anyway, ragged and broken. "He said... He tried... I… I didn't know what to do!"
The admission tears free of him like something splintering inside, and with it, the dam breaks. Tears spill hot and unrelenting down his cheeks, catching on his jaw, soaking into the collar of the infirmary gown. His shoulders cave inward, as if the shame is too heavy to bear upright. And yet, beneath the sobs, there's a visible shift—something loosening, a sliver of weight sliding off his back now that the words are out in the open. A fragile relief, raw and dangerous, but a release all the same.
His head lolls slightly to the side, exhaustion beginning to drag him under even as the tears keep coming. He looks moments away from slipping unconscious again, and Shota can tell it's not just from the hypothermia or the fractures—it's the toll of speaking aloud what he's carried in silence all night.
Recovery Girl doesn't wait any longer. With a rustle of her coat, she steps forward, lips pursed, expression softened by age but not by inaction. She moves with brisk, unfaltering efficiency, as though she's been silently timing this moment, waiting for Shota's interrogation to break enough ground.
Shota doesn't stop her. He could, but there's no reason. He's gotten what he came for—enough to point him toward the truth, enough to know where the danger lies. And Todoroki… Todoroki looks like he might collapse in on himself if pressed any further. The boy deserves a reprieve, however short.
Recovery Girl bends over him, murmuring something too soft for Shota to catch as she presses her lips to his forehead. The healing glow spreads, faint but unmistakable, knitting unseen threads beneath the skin. Todoroki's lashes flutter once, twice, before falling shut for good. His chest rises and falls in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.
The infirmary grows quiet again, the kind of quiet that should be calming. The ticking clock on the wall, the distant hum of the building's vents, even the faint squeak of Recovery Girl's shoes as she steps back—all of it paints the picture of calm.
But Shota feels none of it. His chest is tight, his throat dry. The air feels heavier, not lighter, weighed down by everything Todoroki had confessed. That single conversation had stripped the veneer off something festering underneath.
Once again, instead of answers, all he has are more questions. More responsibilities. His workload hasn't just doubled—it's tripled, maybe worse. One student dangling by a thread, another concealing truths he doesn't fully understand, and the shadow of something larger, something dangerous, looming behind it all.
He leans back against the wall, rubbing the heel of his palm across tired eyes, and lets out a long, low breath.
Yeah, anyone who thinks teaching is easy—anyone who imagines it's nothing more than standing in front of a classroom and giving lessons—they don't have the faintest goddamned clue what they're talking about.
This isn't teaching. This is war. His kids are on the frontlines.
And right now… he can't tell if the enemy is outside, or something far worse. Something far more… internal.