“At the party… I was talking with Mt. Lady.”
Her voice turned faint, as if slipping backward in time.
“That’s when I heard it. ‘…Why are you still whole...’ — that voice.”
She lowered her head, then slowly turned it, her eyes darting around as if searching for an invisible enemy.
“When I looked around, startled… the Big Three were there—laughing together, like nothing had ever happened.”
Her tone fell, quiet and hollow.
“The voice came again—clearer this time.”
‘?We fought together… so why— so why are YOU the ones left whole?'
A long, weightless silence followed. Only the faint drift of tea’s scent and the soft rustle of vines brushing against each other filled the space between them.
“For a whole week after that, nothing else happened. I told myself it was just fatigue. That I was imagining things.”
Mirko traced the rim of her teacup with her fingertips, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But that evening, I saw Deku and Bakugo on the news.”
Her voice trembled as if the memory itself hurt.
“They were defeating villains, pulling civilians from the rubble… The world was cheering. Bright lights, smiling faces. They looked so... clean.”
“…And then, I heard it again. This time, closer.”
Her eyes went still, frozen on empty air.
‘If that kid hadn’t let himself get dragged away... if he had been where he was supposed to be..'
Her voice wavered, then another tone crept in, twisting her words. It was as if someone else were speaking through her throat.
‘If Bakugo hadn’t fallen first... if his heart hadn’t failed... you wouldn’t have been torn apart to cover for them.’
Mirko’s voice sank low.
“I tried to deny it—to tell myself it wasn’t their fault, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Her breath hitched sharply, as if invisible hands were tightening around her throat.
“But… the voice kept whispering.”
She buried her face in her hands. Cold sweat clung to her fingertips.
“To pull myself together, I threw handfuls of cold water over my face—again and again. …But then—”
Her voice cut out. Her lips stiffened, her shoulders giving a faint tremor.
“I looked up at the mirror, water dripping from my chin.”
Her voice cracked open.
“And there... standing right behind my shoulder...”
The moment the name left her lips, the air froze still. The faint scent of tea vanished, replaced instantly by the choking smell of dust. The vines along the wall quivered as if in fear.
“…Shigaraki was watching me.”
Shiozaki held her breath, listening without breathing.
“It was him... exactly as he looked that day at the Coffin in the Sky.”
Mirko’s voice sank lower, trembling with the weight of the memory.
“That wild mess of white hair... veins crawling through those bloodshot eyes...”
She gripped her own arms, her knuckles turning white.
"His skin... dry. Gray. Cracking like old plaster on a corpse. Not a drop of water on him."
The air curdled cold. Even the chill brushing Shiozaki's cheek sank deeper—heavy, like sinking underwater.
“...When I turned around... his lips peeled back into that wide, distorted grin. And slowly raised his finger at me…”
Mirko lifted her own arm, the muscles beneath her wrist tensing hard.
“The warmth of my skin vanished. I felt it again. The heavy, cold grind of metal."
Her breathing grew shallow and ragged.
“And he said…”
‘Do you really think you won? Weren’t you lying in your own blood—broken, like a discarded puppet?’
The tremor in her voice spread through the air, rippling like glass about to shatter.
“I still see that face whenever I close my eyes.”
Her rabbit ears trembled; the air itself seemed to tear around her.
“I squeezed my eyes shut and kept whispering to myself. ‘He isn’t real… he’s just a hallucination I created.’ That’s what I kept telling myself—again, and again, and again.”
She dug her trembling fingertips into her knees.
“I shut my eyes tight, drew in a deep breath—then opened. And...”
Mirko’s gaze hung somewhere in the empty air.
“I saw them… my comrades, smiling as if the war had never happened. They were laughing together, raising their glasses—so peacefully it hurt.”
Her breath wavered.
“And then—”
A low, scraping voice crawled through the air. A brittle tremor rippled across the room.
“‘You were the one ripped apart, weren’t you?’”
When the words ended, the air shivered faintly. Even its texture changed. The gentle scent of tea vanished, replaced by the dry, choking smell of dust and decay.
And from the cracks in the walls and ceiling, a low, rasping laugh seeped through.
Shiozaki flinched before she could stop herself. A cold shiver crept from her fingertips up her spine. The vines coiled tightly, as if shielding her from something unseen. A shaky breath escaped her.
'If the mere echo is this suffocating…'
Her fingers trembled faintly.
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'Then what kind of hell has she been walking in alone?'
Before her eyes, Mirko still looked caught in that air from the past. The light had left her face, and her white ears barely stirred. Shiozaki steadied her breath, watching the trembling settle—like a quiet prayer.
“Whose faces… did you see?”
Her voice came low, barely more than a breath. Mirko’s lips trembled before finally opening.
“…Nejire. Tamaki.”
Her breath caught between the names, as if each one was a stone in her throat.
“Kuroiro, Komori, Pony, Monoma, Kendo, Tetsutetsu.”
Her eyes drifted through the empty space, seeing ghosts of laughter.
“The people I love. The ones I threw my body away to protect. They were all smiling… so brightly.”
Mirko let out an unsteady breath and lowered her head. Her rabbit ears drooped faintly.
“But that brightness… it burned me.”
Her fingers tightened until they turned white.
“I was jealous,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the truth. “I was so jealous it made me sick... and I was terrified that this feeling would turn into hate.”
Shiozaki remained silent. She lowered her eyes. It felt like a prayer—quiet, steady—as if she wished that the confession before her might become healing, not another wound.
"I loathed myself... for daring to resent them."
The moment the words left her, the air in the room stilled again.
“Lately… every time I see them, I hear those voices again. Whispering in my ear… spitting curses.”
Her nails scraped against her skin as if trying to tear the voices out.
“I kept denying it—but the voices never stopped.”
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Then Shiozaki spoke. Her voice was quiet, yet it cut through the darkness like a blade of light.
“To harbor hatred... is not a sin.”
The words settled softly into the air—not as comfort, nor command, but as simple, undeniable truth.
“Heroes are human too.”
Her tone held gentle weight.
“They can harbor resentment, and sometimes that resentment turns inward, piercing the heart that holds it.”
She drew in a slow breath, her gaze lowered once more. A single vine unfolded from her fingertips, swaying as if with the rhythm of her words.
“That is not a sin,” she said. “It’s a wound—one that just hasn’t healed yet.”
Her voice continued, unwavering, tender.
“Even that dark voice you hear… is merely the shadow of the love you bear for them.”
Mirko lifted her head slowly. Shiozaki’s eyes met hers—steady and luminous.
“If you hadn’t cherished them so deeply, those feelings would never have taken root.”
A soft silence followed. The edges of Mirko’s eyes trembled faintly. Within that trembling, something long suppressed began to break open—quietly, at last.
“Everyone bleeds when they’re wounded. Even heroes… are no exception.”
Shiozaki’s voice filled the room like soft light. The vines swayed slowly, releasing a tranquil scent that drifted between them.
“That wound—it’s still yours. Jealousy, resentment… do not cast them aside.”
Her tone was quiet, yet each word landed with gentle conviction.
“They’re not flaws or sins. They’re proof that you’re alive.”
Her eyes met Mirko’s—serene, unwavering.
“They remind you that you’re still human.”
The words lingered softly in the air.
“Love… is a vine that binds us.”
Her voice fell low, carrying the calm weight of a prayer.
“To care for someone,” she murmured, “is to let them take root in your heart. And if they were comrades-in-arms… those roots grow deep enough to shake your very soul when they tremble.”
She paused, drawing in a slow, steady breath.
“We do not suffer because we are broken—but simply because we are human.”
A brief hush settled between them. The soft scent rose again, warm and sweet, wrapping gently around them both.
“All the jealousy and bitterness you felt… They’re not shameful marks.”
Shiozaki looked deeply into Mirko’s eyes.
“They are the scars of how fiercely you loved. They are the price of your survival.”
As her words ebbed away, Mirko’s breath trembled faintly—as if something long submerged had finally begun to breathe again.
Shiozaki reached out her hand. The vines in her hair unwound in silence, drifting close to Mirko’s trembling hand. They did not touch, but a living warmth hung softly between them.
“You’ve lost so much in that war.”
Her voice came soft and low, like a quiet breath of wind.
“Not only your body… but your heart, too. Now it’s time to face those wounds.”
Her tone flowed gently through the room.
“You don’t have to hide them. The darkness you feel—it isn’t yours alone.”
Mirko’s gaze lifted slowly. In her eyes, heavy fatigue and trembling began to ease, little by little. Shiozaki’s eyes met hers—steady and calm, like light touching still water.
The air filled again with gentle fragrance. The vines quivered faintly, as if to wrap softly around her hand. For a moment, warmth shimmered between them—as though a fragment of a collapsing heart had drawn a quiet breath again.
Mirko lowered her eyes, her voice a whisper.
“But… those voices that curse the ones I fought beside… they mean that somewhere inside, I feel the same way. Don’t I?”
Shiozaki shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice stayed low, but unwavering.
“You can’t believe those voices are your heart.”
Her gaze did not waver.
“They’re echoes born from wounds—pain that hasn’t yet found its place, lingering as a trembling aftertone.”
She folded her hands gently.
“Don’t mistake that echo for yourself. It’s a part of you—but not all of you.”
Her words settled softly into the air, her gaze resting on Mirko like quiet light.
“When the body heals, pain lingers for a while. The heart is the same. In its recovery, scars remain—sometimes as sorrow, sometimes as voices that shake us.”
Shiozaki folded her hands slowly. The vines wove between her fingers, forming the shape of clasped hands in prayer.
“But that only means the wound inside you hasn’t fully healed yet. The pain you feel now… might simply be what’s natural.”
Her words settled into the air, and Mirko’s faint breath followed—as if emotions long submerged were beginning to wake.
“I thought it was only natural… that I was supposed to be fine—because I’m a hero.”
Shiozaki’s voice flowed on, gentle yet unshaken.
“When anyone is wounded, it hurts all the same. Being a hero doesn’t make you an exception to that.”
The vines swayed slowly, a soft scent drifting through the air again. Her words weren’t comfort—they were permission. And they settled quietly on Mirko’s tense shoulders.
“…My pain. My wounds… I didn’t realize they ran that deep.”
Mirko bowed her head.
“Back then, I never thought about it. I just believed I was doing what any hero should. Even when I lost my arms and legs, I smiled as if nothing had happened. But now that my body’s whole again—”
Her voice trailed into silence. Shiozaki closed her eyes briefly, then answered softly.
“Wounds don’t linger only on the body. They remain in the heart… and in time itself.”
Her tone was calm, but deep—reverent.
“Your body may have been restored, but your heart lived through every moment of it.”
Her gaze turned toward Mirko.
“Now, with your body rewound and your memories tangled together, the pain buried deep within you… has finally come to the surface.”
“The body was restored,” Mirko murmured, her voice low and drifting, “but the heart… stayed the same.”
Shiozaki inclined her head softly.
“Yes. The heart can’t move backward through time.”
Her eyes trembled gently.
“What was rewound was only the shape of the wound—not its weight.”
Mirko drew a slow breath.
“So that’s why… it still aches.”
Shiozaki nodded with a faint smile.
“To feel pain means you’re still alive.”
Her words lingered softly in the air, like fragrance. Rumi’s shoulders quivered faintly. Within that trembling, time that had long been frozen began to move again—just a little.
“…Can I ever overcome the pain inside me?”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“The confusion from the rewind… and the remnants of Shigaraki woven into my nerves—they keep rising… deeper, louder.”
She inhaled deeply.
“Just recently, I almost lost myself. I nearly killed a villain… and I hurt Kendo.”
Her hands clenched tightly over her knees.
“Villains—I can fight them, and it’s over. But this… I don’t even know where it is. I can’t strike it, and I can’t run from it.”
Shiozaki closed her eyes, then slowly raised her head again.
“That’s why you won’t have to face it alone.”
Her gaze met Mirko’s—clear and unwavering.
“Kendo. Komori. Pony…”
She spoke each name with gentle certainty.
“You have countless comrades—myself included.”
Her voice grew firmer, though still soft.
“People who will stand beside you—to keep you from falling.”
Her words drifted through the air like the faint scent of tea. Rumi’s eyes quivered—just barely. Within that trembling, pain began to breathe again—breathing with the names of those she’d once fought for.
Shiozaki watched her quietly.
“All of us know. That Mirko was always the one who stood at the front—fighting for us.”
For a moment, a thin trail of incense smoke drifted between them. Through that pale haze, Shiozaki’s eyes shone faintly.
“What you showed us wasn’t just fighting.”
Her voice deepened, carrying warmth and conviction.
“In the terror of All For One and Shigaraki—when so many had lost hope—every battle you fought, every kick you struck, became our light.”
She drew in a calm breath and continued, her tone steady and sure.
“And because of you—we were able to win.”
Her words lingered in the air, while the vines swayed slowly, wrapping the silence between them in gentle warmth.
“Just as you were our hope back then…”
Shiozaki lowered her head slightly, smiling softly.
“Now it’s our turn—to become your hope.”
The air in the room softened.
The tension that had held Mirko’s shoulders stiff began to ease. She exhaled slowly, a quiet breath slipping through parted lips. For the first time, she could feel the faint warmth of the incense.
Shiozaki watched her, then spoke softly.
“That’s enough for today.”
She gathered the teacups with careful fingers.
“For now, your memories and emotions are still tangled. You’ll need time to sort through them—little by little.”
The vines moved lazily toward the window. As sunlight filtered through the curtains, the room grew warm.
“I’ll bring you a tea to calm your body and mind.”
Her voice fell gentle and low.
“Rest, slowly.”
She rose quietly.
When the door closed, only the scent of tea and the whisper of wind remained.
“…Hope,” Mirko murmured.
A faint smile touched her lips.
The heavy fear that had crushed her chest slowly faded away.
And in its place, something warm rose slowly from deep within.
‘?HOPE?'
The voice split the air—dry, raspy, like crumbling stone.
Every muscle in her body locked.
Mirko turned her head—slowly, her neck creaking with resistance.
In the seat where Shiozaki had been—
Shigaraki Tomura was lounging.