The USJ was a battlefield.
Smoke drifted through the shattered dome. Emergency lights from first responders flashed red across broken concrete. Teachers and pro heroes moved through the chaos, rounding up villains and checking for survivors.
Class 1‑A stood together near the entrance — bruised, shaken, and terrified.
And without Aizawa, who had already been rushed away in critical condition, they had no anchor. No guidance. No reassurance.
Just each other.
Kirishima was the first to speak, voice hoarse. "Guys… Takeshi… he— he looked really bad."
Jiro hugged her own arms, trembling. "He wasn't moving. I didn't even see him breathing."
Uraraka wiped her eyes, trying and failing to steady her voice. "He saved us. He saved all of us. He held that thing off all alone… we couldn't do anything."
Midoriya stared at the crater Takeshi had created, hands shaking uncontrollably. "What was that thing he fought…"
Bakugo stood apart from the group, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He didn't even look at them.
He just stared at the bloodstained ground where Takeshi had fallen before All Might carried him away. Nearby, the Nomu's corpse lay covered by Snipe's cape to spare the students from the graphic scene.
Iida rejoined the class moments later, still panting from the sprint to get help. When he saw the others, he froze.
"Where is Takeshi? Did they— did they get him out?"
Midoriya nodded. "All Might took him. Straight to the hospital."
Iida's shoulders sagged with relief — then stiffened with guilt.
"I should have stayed. I should have—"
"No," Tsuyu said firmly. "If you hadn't gone, none of the teachers would've arrived in time."
Iida looked down, glasses fogging. "But Takeshi… he…"
Kirishima stepped forward, voice cracking. "He made his choice. And he was the hero today. He did it for us."
That earned a few weak smiles — but the fear didn't leave their eyes.
They had seen death today. Real death. Real violence. Real sacrifice.
And Takeshi's condition remained unknown.
Snipe approached the group, holstering his smoking revolver. "Kids, listen up. You're safe now. Stay together. Medics will check you over soon."
Midnight arrived next, her usual playful tone gone. "Stay close. Don't wander. We'll get you all home."
But even surrounded by pro heroes, Class 1‑A felt small. Vulnerable. Shaken.
And terrified for their friend.
Part II — The Hospital
The emergency room was chaos.
Doctors shouted orders. Nurses sprinted between rooms. Machines beeped in frantic rhythms.
And on a bench just outside the emergency room sat Toshinori Yagi.
He refused to move. Refused to rest. Refused to wash or be treated.
He just sat and stared at it — his son's drying blood smeared across his palms and fingers.
He had carried his son here. He had felt Takeshi's breaths grow weaker with every step. He had felt the boy's heartbeat flutter like a dying flame.
Now all he could do was wait.
A nurse approached him gently. "Sir… please, we need to treat you. You're injured."
Toshinori didn't look up.
"I'm fine. My son… please… save my son."
The nurse hesitated, then hurried away.
Minutes passed. Then hours. Time had lost meaning.
Then the doors opened.
Recovery Girl entered, leaning on her cane, having come from U.A. to assist if possible.
Toshinori looked up, eyes hollow.
"Is he…?"
She raised a hand. "He's stable."
Toshinori's breath hitched.
Recovery Girl continued, voice firm but gentle.
"He has a punctured lung, multiple broken ribs, internal bleeding, and severe quirk‑induced strain. His body was pushed far beyond its limits."
She paused.
"It was very close."
Toshinori bowed his head, tears dripping onto the tile.
"Please… heal him."
Recovery Girl shook her head.
"He doesn't have the stamina for it yet. But when he does, you know I will."
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I'll do everything I can. He's strong. Stronger than you think."
She turned and entered the operating room.
Toshinori was left alone in the hallway, trembling.
He had never felt so powerless.
Part III — The Arrival
The next morning, Toshinori sat in the waiting room in fresh clothes. It had taken all evening, but eventually he'd been convinced he should be presentable when Takeshi woke up and had gotten himself cleaned up. Though there was still a hint of stubble upon his cheeks.
The hospital doors slid open with a hiss.
A cold gust swept through the lobby, scattering loose papers and making nurses glance up in confusion.
Then the air shifted — a pressure change, a ripple — and Toshinori felt it before he saw her.
A streak of silver cut through the entrance.
She didn't walk in. She didn't run in. She arrived, like a blade being drawn.
Silver hair tied back in a razor‑sharp tail. Long coat snapping behind her like a banner. Eyes bright with fury and fear — the kind only a mother could feel.
The Silver Comet.
Takeshi's mother.
She scanned the room once, her gaze slicing through the chaos like a scalpel. She marched up to the front desk, voice sharp enough to cut steel.
"I'm here for Takeshi. Now."
Before the receptionist could answer, Toshinori called out.
"Comet."
She turned toward him — and for a moment, she didn't recognize him in his weakened form.
"…Do I know you?"
He sighed. "It's Toshinori."
Her eyes widened. She crossed the room in three long strides.
"First," she said, voice trembling with barely contained emotion, "how is my son?"
Then her eyes swept over his frail form — the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the exhaustion.
"And then," she said, stepping closer, "you're going to tell me everything else."
Her tone left no room for argument.
And Toshinori knew:
This conversation was going to hurt.