To everyone around her, she seemed almost serene. She attended public speeches, patrolled the evacuation zones, and never once missed a small rescue call.
The Medical Bureau’s reports showed nothing unusual. Blood pressure, reflex speed, recovery rate—all within standard range.
She said it every time, with that same bright laugh:
“My body and my mind are both perfect.”
At the press briefing outside the Commission’s training hall, she shook off the sweat in her hair and grinned.
“Once this training period’s over, I’ll be back in full swing. Faster than before, longer than before. There’s still so much left to do, right?”
Director Hawks, Best Jeanist, and Aizawa each visited her in turn, yet none of them found anything out of place.
Everyone was relieved. They believed the Rabbit Hero had returned, and that the world could start spinning the way it used to.
But—things did not unfold that way.
Around noon, pale sunlight slipped through the curtain’s edge, cutting across the desk piled with papers. The last wisp of steam rose from a cup of coffee gone cold.
Hawks sat behind the director’s desk. Beside him, Best Jeanist quietly turned a page of the report. The door opened, and Aizawa entered at an unhurried pace.
Jeanist looked up first. “How was she today?”
“She seemed fine,” Aizawa replied shortly. “Body… and mind. At least on the surface.”
Hawks let out a breath that sounded lighter than he felt. “Guess it really was just the migraine, then.”
Jeanist closed the file with a nod.
“That’s natural. It was her first public event since returning. Even if her body’s fully restored, the mind takes its own time to recover.”
Aizawa didn’t answer. He walked toward the window instead. The light filtering through the curtain brushed against his white hair, a strand falling over his one visible eye.
“…I hope you’re right.”
His low, rough voice drifted through the room, and his gaze lingered somewhere far beyond the glass.
That look on her face—something beneath it lingered. Quiet, but wrong.
At that hour, Mirko descended to her basement gym, just as she always did.
The scent of rubber mats, the cold tang of metal bars, the faint whir from the fluorescent lights—familiar air pressed deep into her lungs.
She placed both hands on the mat. The muscles beneath her skin tightened in response. The faint tremor in her palms—warm, pulsing—was proof enough of life itself.
Mirko lowered herself slowly, exhaling as she pushed back up.
“Ha… ha!”
Her arms stayed firm, steady as breath itself. Each contraction, each release—heat rippled through her veins. Joints rolled smooth; blood surged hot beneath her skin.
Once. Twice—
With every repetition, her body awakened. Muscle, nerve, memory—each recalled the past. There was no machine hum, no scrape of metal. Only her breath, and the living sound of bone and sinew striking in harmony, filling the basement air.
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“Good… this is it.”
She rose, lifting a barbell onto her shoulders. The weight pressed into her traps; the chill of steel clung close to her skin. Her palms gripped the knurled pattern hard. Thighs and calves drew taut like wires.
She inhaled—lowered deep, then rose again, slow and steady.
White hair stuck to her shoulders, then slid down with the trail of sweat. Her heart thudded once, harder. Each squat sent a pulse through her frame, a heartbeat made of muscle and will.
She paused, resting her hands on her knees. Sweat traced her jawline—one drop fell with a soft tok onto the mat.
“Push-ups with two arms… squats with two legs…”
She panted between breaths.
“Didn’t think this could feel this good.”
Mirko sat down, wiping her eyes with the back of her arm. A rough, honest laugh escaped her lips. Her whole body ached—muscles burning, steady and bright. Pain bloomed beneath her skin—clean, fierce, familiar.
She had missed this.
She spread her arms wide toward the ceiling.
“I’m back.”
After her shower, Mirko roughly toweled her hair dry and dropped herself onto the living room sofa.
The TV flickered with a live report—Deku and Bakugo, side by side again, subduing villains on the front line. Their movements were sharp, effortless; when the fight ended, they bumped their fists together.
The screen’s glow brushed across Mirko’s face. She realized she was smiling.
“We used to fight together once… still the same,” she murmured.
Her gaze lingered on Deku a moment longer.
After the Final War, he burned away the last embers of One For All. Mirko knew it well—he had spent One For All to save Shigaraki, trading the power that once defined him for mercy.
After years teaching at U.A., he had finally returned—eight years since the war—wearing a suit built by his friends. On screen, he was still the same 'Deku' she remembered.
Mirko exhaled slowly, closing her eyes.
We both gave everything we had—and the fight still took more than we could spare.
Silence settled for a moment.
No regrets—only the hollow space that never quite closed.
She thought back to the day Deku lost his power—and to the moment he returned as a hero again. A person who, like her, had lost everything… and regained it.
The years he spent standing back up again—she could almost see them etched into his face. In him, she saw that same stubborn spark—the will to keep running, even after losing everything.
“Maybe one day, I’ll race him again,” she said, a wry smile breaking the quiet.
Then it happened.
The TV screen rippled for a heartbeat, the image twisting as if under water.
“If that idiot Deku hadn’t gotten dragged off by Toga…”
The voice was too close.
It came from behind her—a low, real whisper, close enough to make her flinch. As if someone were crouched behind the sofa.
Mirko turned her head on instinct. Her eyes swept over the space between the wall and the shadows.
Nothing. Only the TV light trembling against the wall, flickering in uneven waves.
“What the hell…?”
She turned back toward the screen. Bakugo was grumbling in his usual tone.
“Damn Dynamight… because of you, I lost my right arm—”
But then, the voices overlapped. One came from the broadcast—the other brushed past her ear in a low whisper.
Mirko’s eyes snapped open wide; the room tilted for a heartbeat. She shook her head hard, snatching up the remote and turning up the volume.
But the louder the sound grew, the louder the whisper became. The sound didn’t come from the TV. It breathed from right behind her—close enough to prickle the skin of her neck.
The remote slipped from her hand and hit the floor. The sharp crack of plastic echoed through the room.
“Wh–what… why me…” Her voice cracked.
“No. It wasn’t their fault.”
She lifted both arms, mumbling to herself.
“My arms, my legs… they’re fine now. Everything’s back…”
She drew in a shaky breath, forcing the words out.
“It’s all in the past."
She whispered again, as if repetition could make it true. But before the words could leave her lips—
“You’re the only one who broke.”
“You’re the only one who rotted.”
“Do you really think that’s fair?”
The dry, familiar voice rang in her ears, whispering from both sides at once—left and right, overlapping like a taunt.
Her fingers trembled as she clutched her temples. Breath quickened. The light from the TV bled across her face—pale, like ash.
Mirko burst into the bathroom and gripped the sink. Her fingertips trembled as she turned the faucet.
Cold water burst out, rough and fast. She scooped it up and splashed her face. Once, twice—the icy water struck her cheeks, her chin, her eyelids.
The chill bit deep into her skin, sharp as glass. Her breath hitched, short and uneven. Still, she didn’t stop. Again. And again.
The freezing water hit her face, over and over, until her skin went numb.
“I’m fine… I’m fine…”
Her voice shook. The dripping faucet was the only sound.
Then, it hit her.
“You don’t look fine to me.”
?The air split open at the sound
?Mirko’s head snapped up.? Someone else stood in her reflection.
Small crimson irises stared back at her, set in eyes torn and raw. Fingers, pale and brittle, skin split open like cracked plaster, flakes of gray dust falling from each motion. His long hair was a faded gray-white, dry as ash.
And from the twisted corner of his mouth, a faint, broken grin seeped through.
Mirko turned slowly, and the name formed in her mind like a wound reopening.
Shigaraki Tomura.