Darkcreasa sat stiffly in her seat, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. It was clean, too clean, unlike the places she had grown used to. The League sat beside her, each one carefully restrained but not in chains. They were being watched—carefully monitored—but something about this was different. It wasn't prison anymore.
It was UA.
Aizawa stood before them, his expression unreadable, arms crossed. He didn't look pleased, nor did he look particularly troubled by their presence. He simply looked as he always did—apathetic, logical, calculating.
"You are here because, despite everything, the system has decided you may still have use," Aizawa began, his tone steady. "Not as villains. Not as prisoners. But as people who may, one day, contribute to society instead of destroying it."
Darkcreasa could feel the tension in the room. Dabi scoffed, leaning back in his chair, his lips curving into a smirk.
"That supposed to mean we're students now?" he asked, voice laced with mockery. "Got desks and textbooks waiting for us too?"
Aizawa didn't react to the sarcasm. He simply held his gaze. "No. You're not students. You're individuals under rehabilitation. That means you will learn, but you are not part of the hero course."
Toga tilted her head curiously, swinging her feet under the chair. "Ooooh, so what? We get homework or something?"
Shigaraki's fingers twitched against the table, but he said nothing, simply watching, waiting.
"You'll be trained, evaluated, monitored," Aizawa continued. "Your actions will determine whether this is nothing more than wasted effort."
Darkcreasa spoke for the first time. "What if we don't want to change?"
Aizawa's gaze shifted to her, holding firm. "Then you will never leave this place."
The silence that followed his words was suffocating.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "This isn't about forcing you into hero work. No one expects you to pick up a cape and fight criminals. But the path you were on led to destruction—for yourselves and others. If you're too far gone, if there's truly nothing left in you but resentment, then yes, you will stay here. But if there is even one reason you may want something else, this program will find it."
Dabi rolled his eyes. "Touching speech."
Aizawa ignored him.
Darkcreasa inhaled slowly, sitting back. She wasn't naive enough to believe this was an act of kindness. This wasn't mercy—it was an experiment.
An attempt.
Still, as she looked around the bright walls of UA, at the heroes who walked past the doors, at the place built on growth rather than destruction…
She wondered.
Maybe, just maybe, something about this could change them.
Or maybe, it would just prove that nothing ever could.
_______
The atmosphere inside UA was tense. It had been days since Aizawa had addressed them, outlining their placement, their so-called rehabilitation. Darkcreasa could still feel the lingering skepticism among her fellow League members. They were here, but none of them trusted it. None of them truly believed in change.
And now, they would be seen by the very students who had spent their lives preparing to fight people like them.
Aizawa led them down the hallway, his expression unreadable. The League followed, each step measured, each breath weighted with the knowledge that the eyes of hero society were about to be locked onto them. The doors to the classroom opened.
Inside, Class 1-A turned toward them, reactions instant and unmistakable.
The doors opened like the past had come back to finish what it started.
Inside, Class 1-A turned—some halfway through breakfast, others still yawning, but the air snapped sharp the moment they saw them.
Shock.
Disgust.
Memory.
Fear.
Darkcreasa felt it immediately. Not just in expressions—but in posture. How chairs shifted. How silence bloomed.
She scanned the faces.
Midoriya—rigid, pupils dilated, eyes pinging between the League and Aizawa like he was reliving every nightmare he'd catalogued.
Iida—back straight, protocol screaming in his bones, jaw tight as his morality wrestled with diplomacy.
Todoroki—cold eyes, distance already blooming between him and Dabi. No anger. Just… absence.
And Bakugo—
Tensed like a weapon without a target.
His stance was defensive—but not for himself.
His gaze flicked once toward Denki.
Denki hadn't spoken. Hadn't moved.
He sat frozen at the far edge of the room, hoodie sleeves tugged down, jaw set in an expression Jiro had seen too many times after nightmares.
His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets.
And Bakugo noticed.
Every twitch. Every silent panic response.
He stepped slightly in front of Denki without fully blocking him. Just enough.
"Explain," Bakugo snapped at Aizawa, already dangerous.
"You bring villains into our space and expect us to what—watch them decorate the halls?"
"They aren't villains anymore," Aizawa said calmly. "They are under active rehabilitation. This is not up for debate."
Denki flinched at a voice.
Dabi's.
"Nice setup," Dabi purred, eyes locked on Bakugo. "You guarding your charge again?"
Bakugo's eyes burned.
"Try me."
Jiro shifted closer to Denki, her hand curling gently around his wrist beneath the table.
He didn't respond. Not at first.
Because across the room—perched with a lazy smirk and a pair of gleaming blades—was Toga.
And the knives did it.
Not her voice. Not her teasing.
Just the glint of steel. Curved. Familiar. Wrong
They weren't the same blades that had cut him down.
No one in this room knew what had happened.
But trauma didn't wait for context.
It just reacted.
Denki's fingers tensed under Jiro's palm, breath shallow.
His pulse spiked.
She was here.
And his mind flashed.
Not to faces.
To impact.
Toga tilted her head, eyes lighting up with curiosity, not cruelty. "Oooooh, that's Kaminari-kun~ You short-circuited mid-sparring once, right? Cute."
The word hit wrong.
Denki stood. Too fast.
A scrape of chair legs.
A sharp inhale.
Bakugo was there instantly.
Shoulders squared. Body angled. Shield raised.
Like muscle memory.
"No," he said, voice grounded. "You don't get to talk to him."
Toga blinked, surprised—but smiled through it. She didn't press further.
Aizawa's voice broke through the tension. "Enough."
Across the room, Shigaraki hadn't moved.
But his gaze stayed on Denki.
Not aggressive. Not curious.
Just… fixed.
Like he was watching something unfold beneath the skin.
Denki felt it.
A weight.
A sense.
Like something about him had been recognized.
Not identified—just felt.
Jiro's grip tightened slightly.
Bakugo didn't ease back.
Because in that moment, everyone saw a classroom.
But Bakugo saw a memory.
And Shigaraki?
He saw a fracture.
Midoriya finally spoke. "Why now?"
Aizawa didn't flinch. "Because the system decided it was worth trying."
The League stood on one side.
Class 1-A on the other.
Denki's pulse refused to settle.
Because this wasn't just history walking in.
This was his trauma wearing boots and walking past his desk.
Darkcreasa watched it all—how Bakugo's stance never relaxed. How Jiro's hand never let go. How Denki wore his hoodie like armor that couldn't stop ghosts.
She didn't speak.
Because this was more than tension.
This was the aftershock of destruction.
And the war—the real war—wasn't about heroes and villains anymore.
It was about healing while the villains watched.
Denki's breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat—
and it stayed there.
Like a hand wrapped tight around his windpipe, refusing release.
Not choking. Not screaming.
Just pressure.
Silent and merciless.
He couldn't get it out.
Not a gasp. Not a sob.
Not even the smallest sound that might break the illusion of composure.
The glint of knives—not hers, but sharp enough to summon everything he'd buried.
Steel in a smile.
Edges that didn't belong in a classroom.
Then the gaze.
Shigaraki.
Still. Quiet. Staring like he knew something crawled beneath Denki's skin.
Denki's heart jackhammered.
His hoodie felt too tight.
The classroom was shrinking.
Walls pressing in like interrogation rooms.
The fluorescent lighting buzzed too loud.
The breathing around him too human.
Too real.
His skin prickled.
Palms damp.
Fingers twitching inside his pockets where he'd shoved them to forget they ever bled.
His ears rang—
Like his Quirk was firing off inside his skull, overloaded and misfiring.
Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart.
The classroom tilted, and Denki bolted.
No explanation.
No words.
Just the sound of his shoes scraping tile—
A burst of motion—
A heart unraveling down the hallway like static on fire.
Out the door, through the hallways that blurred at the edges, past student chatter and startled glances. His feet hit pavement like thunder.
His body ran before his mind could catch up.
Because this feeling—this quiet terror—it wasn't new.
It was the alley.
It was Jiro's scream.
It was watching her arms thrash as she was pulled into darkness and not getting there in time.
It was the blade that followed, sinking deep, robbing him of breath and blood and everything he thought made him a hero.
Don't fall apart.
Don't fall apart.
Not here. Not in front of them.
He pushed through the courtyard, past benches and hedges until—
His knees buckled.
He slammed into a tree, shoulder-first, chest heaving, palms digging into bark like it could hold him together.
The world spun.
I thought I was healed.
I thought the nightmares were fading.
I thought—
"Denki!"
Jiro's voice.
Sharp. Familiar.
And then—footsteps.
Sero skidding to a halt beside him, crouched low with panic all over his face.
Mina wasn't far behind, hands reaching, voice soft but urgent.
Kirishima's palm clamped around Denki's arm to steady him.
Bakugo—
Bakugo didn't speak.
He just stood, planted like a wall between Denki and anything coming next.
Jiro dropped to her knees.
"Hey—Denks—look at me." Her hands framed his face gently, her forehead resting against his. "You're okay. You're here. No one's taking you again."
Denki's breath rattled in his chest. His fingers twitched. One hand tried to cover the other—but Jiro saw.
She touched his hands. Let him feel her pulse.
"We've got you," she whispered.
Sero nodded. "Always."
Kirishima's grip didn't loosen. Mina's hand stayed curled on his back.
And Bakugo?
His eyes never left the path behind them.
Because if anyone came too close—
If anyone dared trigger this again—
He'd burn the world before letting Denki collapse a second time.
Denki sagged into them slowly, breath hitching, arms shaking.
But this time, he didn't fall alone.