Izuku Midoriya leaned against a jagged piece of rebar, his breath coming in ragged, whistling hitches. His costume was less a uniform now and more a collection of scorched rags. Every inch of his body screamed, a choir of pain led by the throbbing ache in his arms.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Not from fear—he had moved past fear hours ago—but from the sheer strain of holding back the collapse of society.

"I know," Bakugo replied, looking at the horizon where the sun was beginning to bleed over the skyline. "But the world looks different today, doesn't it?"

"We aren't done," Izuku whispered, his eyes glowing with the fading embers of One For All.

The voice was gravelly, cracking under the weight of exhaustion. Bakugo stood a few yards away, his orange-and-black gauntlets cracked and useless. For once, there was no shouting. No "Extra." Just two boys standing in the wreckage of a world that expected them to be gods.

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