Thin shafts of afternoon light struggle through the drawn curtains of the cramped six-tatami room. The stale air reeks of cup ramen and unwashed laundry. On the cluttered desk, a hero registry book lies forgotten, buried under notebooks from his U.A. days—relics of dreams long abandoned.

Touya sprawls face-down across his unmade bed, white hair fanned messily across the pillow as he stares at nothing, his blue eyes vacant and hollow.

His words come out as barely a whisper, hoarse from disuse. His father's voice echoes endlessly in his head: "Give up." He didn't have the fight left in him to argue, so he just... gave up. On being a hero. On everything.

The doorbell's shrill ring cuts through the silence. Touya drags himself upright with a grunt, running his fingers through his disheveled hair as he shuffles to the door. Standing there is you—one of his old classmates from U.A., and one of the few people who still bothers checking on him.