Cold light poured down on Mirko’s body as she lay still under deep anesthesia. All prosthetics had been removed; what remained were lines of scars and the quiet shape of loss.
Eri froze at the sight. Her throat tightened. Pity welled up—and beneath it, a fierce resolve. Even now… I’ll bring her back. She clasped her horn, steadying her breath. Across the room, Hawks stood with folded arms, eyes shadowed. He had lost feathers; she had lost flesh. Different wounds, same void. Is this the price we called sacrifice? He didn’t want to watch—but he did. Aizawa’s hand clenched once, silent tension spreading through the air. The weight of what was coming pressed down on them all.
At the bedside, the three took their places. Eri inhaled, clutching her horn. Her heartbeat filled her ears—thud, thud.
“It’s okay… I can do this.”
Her whisper was barely sound. Then she laid both hands over Mirko’s body. The horn shimmered—light condensed, shortening rapidly. The air itself began to tremble. Radiance spread over Mirko's form: bones, nerves, muscle, skin—rewinding, knitting themselves back together. The film of time flipped in reverse, every fracture sealing smooth. No blood. No cry. Only a stillness too deep for breathing. The light was quiet, and the quiet louder than sound.
When it faded, Eri’s knees buckled. Aizawa caught her arm. “You all right?”
She nodded, voice shaky. “My horn’s almost gone… that was close.”
Hawks stepped forward. On the bed lay Mirko—no longer bound by metal. Her fingers trembled faintly, alive.
“…She’s back.”
The words trembled between awe and fear. As anesthesia lifted, Mirko’s eyelids fluttered. Her hand rose without thought. Smooth skin, unscarred. Fingers flexed—fluid, whole. Her leg moved with muscle and bone, not alloy. Even her ear tip twitched softly, as if it had never been lost.
“…My body… it feels younger!” Her laugh broke through the hush.
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Aizawa stood beside her, arms folded. “Of course. That’s your body from eight years ago.” Dry words, but a faint smile cracked his lips.
Hawks bowed his head, shoulders shaking once. Not laughter—just the release of air too heavy to hold. Mirko rose halfway, stretching both arms. Her fingers counted, curled, opened. She flexed her legs—light steps, steady footing. Her right ear quivered like it remembered.
“This is… my body, right?”
She brushed her arm, eyes wide. In the reflection, she didn’t see Bunny the Weapon. She saw the Rabbit Hero.
The air rippled faintly. Hawks bit his lip and looked away, then back—eyes bright, rimmed red. Eri wiped sweat from her face, horn barely visible. “It worked… it really worked!”
Aizawa exhaled slowly, arms lowering. He tried for indifference, but light caught at the corner of his eye. “…Welcome back.”
Silence deepened around them, soft and reverent.
“Hahaha!” Mirko threw up her arms, muscles alive beneath her skin. She clenched her fists; light danced across the sheen of sweat. “That’s it—this is what I missed!”
She spun once, quick as ever. Her heel struck the ground—thud!—solid, human. Hawks grinned, clapping her shoulder. “Welcome back, Rumi.”
Aizawa’s tone stayed even, but soft. “…You’ve earned this.”
Mirko turned to Eri. The little girl’s eyes were already wet. “It’s all back… everything…”
“Thanks, kid.” Their fists met—light, certain.
Eri laughed through her tears. “I’m just glad you can smile again!”
Mirko’s grin widened. She lifted her arm high, the energy back in her voice. “Tomorrow, I’ll kick some sense at Jaku Hospital!”
“—!”
Hawks and Aizawa flinched in unison. For a beat, neither spoke. Hawks blinked, searching her face. “Rumi… what did you just say?”
She tilted her head, puzzled. “What? The Jaku mission—”
Then she caught the look in their eyes—shock, then quiet alarm. The words hung between them, heavy. Silence stretched.
“Rumi,” Hawks said at last, voice unsteady, “the Jaku battle… that was eight years ago.”
Her smile faltered. “Eight…?”
Confusion flickered across her face. She looked around the room, as if the walls might explain it. Slowly, she pressed a hand to her temple. Her vision blurred; her rabbit ears quivered. A faint ring began to echo in her head, thin and distant—like a thread pulling from somewhere she couldn’t reach.
“Heh.” Mirko let out a breath that was half a laugh. “Guess my memories are a little scrambled… figures.”
For a second, something uncertain flickered in her eyes—but then she shrugged it off, wild grin returning. “Who cares! This is nothing compared to what I got back!”
She raised her arms high, energy crackling through every word. Laughter filled the room again. Joy and relief bloomed, It felt like a victory.
But Aizawa’s gaze lingered, narrow. He spoke under his breath, barely audible.
“…Let’s hope it stays that way.”
The thought pressed against him, cold and unshakable. It wasn’t fear. It was a premonition.
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