U.A. was silent.
Not the calm kind.
The heavy, smothering silence that follows a scream. The kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle and the back of your neck itch, like the world is holding its breath for something worse.
The aftermath of the attack bled through every hallway, every classroom, every heart.
The forest perimeter had been sealed.
Cementoss rebuilt the shattered trees into a temporary barricade. Drones patrolled the treetops. Sensor grids, reinforced and recalibrated, created layers of invisible walls.
But none of it erased what had happened.
Yujiro Hanama had fought five enemy operatives.
And lived.
Inside the infirmary, Yujiro sat on the edge of a reinforced cot. His torso was wrapped in layers of gauze, his left arm secured in a sling, and cooling packs lined his shoulder. Recovery Girl had done everything short of miracle work, and still, he looked like someone who had wrestled with death and won through sheer defiance.
Aizawa stood across the room, watching him quietly.
"You broke two ribs, tore a ligament, and nearly lost your arm to that entropy wave," he said.
Yujiro didn't look up. "Next time, I won't let it land."
Aizawa sighed. "You should've called for backup. You knew they were targeting you."
"I wasn't sure who they were after. But I couldn't risk them hurting anyone else. Not again."
"Even so—"
"I don't wait to be told to protect people."
Aizawa stepped forward. "That mentality may get you killed."
Yujiro's gaze lifted, sharp and hard. "Or it might save someone like Toma."
A long silence hung between them.
Aizawa finally looked away. "Just don't expect your body to keep up with that guilt forever."
Back in Dorm A, the atmosphere was split in two—admiration and fear.
The students huddled in corners, their voices lowered, glancing toward the upper floors where Yujiro was being treated.
"He fought five guys alone," Kaminari said. "Actual villains. With quirks. And they didn't kill him."
Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck. "They could've. But he didn't flinch. That's… manly. But terrifying."
"He's a target," Iida said, voice edged. "And that makes us targets. This can't be ignored. U.A. must increase supervision or isolate him."
"That's harsh," Uraraka whispered. "He saved people."
"And he'll save more," Midoriya added, stepping into the circle. "He took that fight alone so the rest of us wouldn't have to. That's not danger. That's sacrifice."
Bakugo, leaning against the wall, scoffed. "You're all looking at this the wrong way. He's not a hero. Not yet. He's a loaded gun. And the only thing scarier than a gun is the moment it doesn't care where it points."
When Yujiro returned to class the next morning, the room fell quiet the moment he stepped in.
He wore the standard uniform with the sleeves rolled up. Bandages peeked beneath the collar. His eyes, sharp and quiet, scanned the room once.
No one greeted him.
He walked to his desk. Sat down.
Only Midoriya leaned over.
"Glad you're okay."
Yujiro nodded once.
"Iida thinks you're too dangerous to keep here," Midoriya added cautiously.
"Iida's not wrong," Yujiro replied. "But danger depends on direction."
He glanced toward Bakugo.
Bakugo smirked. "Try it."
Yujiro didn't blink. "I don't start fights. I end them."
In the teachers' war room, a long meeting was underway.
All Might stood at the end of the table, arms crossed tightly, his face hard.
"I propose we do nothing," he said simply.
Nezu blinked. "Nothing?"
"He belongs here. Taking him out of 1-A is exactly what our enemies want. It isolates him. Weakens his ties. They want him alone so they can strike."
Aizawa nodded. "He's learning to trust people. Barely. Removing him now might undo that entirely."
Midnight leaned in. "But if these attacks escalate, and he's the epicenter, how do we protect the others?"
All Might's voice lowered. "We don't separate him. We strengthen the class around him. We train everyone harder. If war is coming, we prepare all of them."
Nezu tapped his paw on the table. "Agreed. But we must monitor him more closely. I'll assign specific eyes—subtle ones."
Meanwhile, in a secure cell buried beneath U.A., the helmet of one of Null's agents sat in a containment box. Energy signatures still flickered across its surface.
Powerful. Dangerous. Experimental.
Hatsume Mei stood in the lab, arms folded, eyes wide.
"This wasn't built for mobility," she said to Principal Power Loader. "It was built for tracking. It's tuned to a single biological signature."
"Yujiro," Power Loader said grimly.
That evening, Yujiro returned to the training gym.
His ribs ached. His arm stung. But pain wasn't a reason to rest.
He punched the reinforced dummy.
Again.
And again.
Each hit echoed like thunder in the quiet room.
Midoriya entered after some time, holding his notebook.
"You know," he said, "you don't have to fight the world alone."
Yujiro didn't stop. "I'm not. I just don't want to need anyone to survive."
"That's fair," Midoriya admitted. "But strength isn't just in how hard you hit. It's in how much you trust someone to catch you when you fall."
Yujiro finally paused. Breathing hard.
"I trusted someone once," he said softly. "He died."
Midoriya stepped closer. "So did I. And I still fight. Not because I forgot. But because they'd want me to keep standing."
Yujiro looked at him. Really looked at him.
And for the first time, he said it aloud:
"Toma."
Midoriya nodded. "Then let's make sure no one else becomes just a name."
That night, Yujiro visited the forest alone again.
He stood before the crater. The place where blood and fire had marked the beginning of this new war.
A breeze stirred the leaves.
And in it, he heard something like a whisper.
Not words.
Just memory.
He closed his eyes.
And knelt.
"I'm not afraid," he said.
A pause.
"I'm ready."