Barely three days had passed since the first wave of war, but for Katsuki Bakugo, time had frozen in an endless explosion.

He walked through the halls of U.A. like a ghost dressed as a hero. His costume—stained with dry sweat, dirt, and memories he couldn't wash away—creaked with every step. Outside, the storm wouldn't let up; rain battered the windows with a rage that made it seem like even the sky couldn't forgive what had happened.

The city was still in ruins. The news still counted the dead. And in the hallways... their names were still whispered. The ones who never came back. The ones he couldn't save. The ones who, for some fucked-up reason, had to find someone to blame—and they chose the healer.

Bakugo had heard the rumors. Whispers, hushed voices. "If her quirk is to heal... then why didn't she save them?""What was she doing while they were dying?""Why is she still alive?"

And even though his stomach twisted every time he heard it, what hurt the most was her silence. The way she never defended herself, never spoke back. Sometimes he wondered if she actually believed she had failed.

He passed by the infirmary and saw her: sitting with Recovery Girl, tending to the wounded. Not just those who bled... but the ones who couldn't fall asleep without screaming. Kaminari, Mina... even Aoyama, who couldn't stop crying.

She smiled. But Bakugo caught it. That smile... wasn't real. He wasn't as damn stupid as the other extras—he could see it, just like Midoriya did. He had heard her cry. Alone, in the halls. In her room. In battle, he had seen her with a dislocated shoulder, blood running down her chin, healing with trembling hands. Never stopping. Never giving in. Until he fucking saw her collapse. And still, they blamed her.