?Aizawa pushed the door open. The pale light of late autumn washed over the papers piled high, the air thick with the scent of dust.

  ?Hawks leaned back in his chair.

  ?“How was she today?”

  ?Aizawa shrugged off his coat before answering in his usual short tone.

  ?“She seemed fine. But… she’s a bit uneasy. Worried the hallucinations might come back.”

  ?Hawks’ hand froze for a moment. He set his pen down on the report and glanced toward Best Jeanist.

  ?“The test results?”

  ?Jeanist closed the file with quiet precision.

  ?“No abnormalities detected. However, the medical team has proposed one hypothesis.”

  ?He paused, choosing his words carefully.

  ?“They believe that during Mirko’s battle with Shigaraki, trace fragments of his cells may have remained in her body. When Rewind restored her, those remnants may have been revived as well, interacting with her neural network.”

  ?Hawks interlaced his fingers, murmuring under his breath.

  ?“So… Rewind might’ve brought back the remnants of Shigaraki along with her.”

  ?Aizawa fell silent for a moment, rubbing his chin in thought.

  ?“Memory doesn’t only live in the brain. It lingers in the body—down to every cell.”

  ?His voice carried the weariness of someone who had seen too much.

  ?“And if we’re talking about Shigaraki, whose body kept mutating through the Quirk Singularity, then once those cells reactivated… they could easily leave a strong imprint on Mirko.”

  ?Jeanist nodded slightly.

  ?“There’s also another theory—that this isn’t merely a biological response. The cells themselves may be carrying information.”

  ?Hawks frowned. “Information… as in what kind?”

  ?“Memory, appearance, even voice—neurological patterns encoded at a cellular level.”

  ?Jeanist’s voice dropped lower.

  ?“During the Rewind process, those fragments could have revived with that data intact… overlaying themselves onto Mirko’s neural pathways. It wasn’t superstition—it was biology taken too far.”

  ?Aizawa crossed his arms.

  ?“And remember—the point in time she reverted to was right before the Final War, when she was fighting Shigaraki at her limit. If that version of her body and mind reawakened while exposed to his cellular data—her nervous system reacting would make perfect sense.”

  ?Hawks exhaled, the sound thin in the quiet room.

  ?“Then what we’re seeing now… is a collision of what her body remembered and what her mind refused to forget.”

  ?Hawks stopped twirling the pen between his fingers.

  ?“So you’re saying… this isn’t a hallucination, but a reality her body created?”

  ?Jeanist’s reply came quietly, precise as a scalpel.

  ?“Exactly. What she ‘saw’ wasn’t an illusion—it was a residual imprint made tangible through her nervous system.”

  ?He drew in a slow breath before adding,

  ?“That makes it far more dangerous. It isn’t a delusion born in the mind, but a reality growing beneath her skin.”

  ?Hawks’ face hardened.

  ?“Don’t tell me… you’re suggesting Shigaraki could be reborn through Mirko’s body—?”

  ?Aizawa shook his head.

  ?“No. Nothing like that.”

  ?His tone was low, decisive.

  ?“At the end of the day, they’re just cells—without consciousness, without a Quirk to sustain them.”

  ?He turned his gaze toward the window.

  ?“The real problem is what those remnants trigger. If the residue keeps stirring up her trauma—her guilt, her isolation—the line between what’s real and what’s not could collapse.”

  ?His visible eye dimmed.

  ?“In the worst case… Mirko could lose herself entirely—and start acting like Shigaraki.”

  ?Hawks’ hand froze over the papers. Images flickered through his mind: the city crumbling under Shigaraki’s touch, and Mirko’s silhouette superimposed over it.

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  ?He exhaled, quiet but heavy.

  ?“Even if that’s true… there’s no fixing this. We just wait—and hope what’s left of him fades before she does.”

  ?Aizawa shook his head again.

  ?“Don’t count on it.”

  ?His voice was firm, steady.

  ?“Even if the cells die off, the memories won’t. Once the neural pathways learn that reaction, it only takes the smallest trigger to repeat it.”

  ?Jeanist’s expression tightened as he thought aloud.

  ?"Then what she needs isn’t treatment—but the will to adapt."

  ?Hawks lifted his gaze toward the ceiling.

  ?“She’ll have to fight through it herself.”

  ?A brief silence followed.

  ?“…I hate saying that.”

  ?Stillness crept into the room, the kind that pressed against the ribs. Aizawa spoke again, his tone sinking lower.

  ?“And there’s something else.”

  ?He hesitated, closing his eyes as if recalling a memory. When he spoke again, it was slower—weighted.

  ?“The night she told us everything…”

  

  ?A single dining table stood between them—Mirko on one side, Hawks and Aizawa on the other. The lights were dim, their glow low and warm, and the glass of water on the table rippled with a faint tremor.

  ?Mirko spoke first.

  ?“I keep seeing Shigaraki.”

  ?A brief silence followed. Hawks leaned forward almost at once.

  ?“If you want… I can stay with you. Just in case—”

  ?She cut him off with a tired smile and a small shake of her head.

  ?“Thanks,” she said, the word clipped, holding both exhaustion and pride. “But I’d rather be alone.”

  ?Her hand rose slowly to the table. For a moment she studied the back of it, then tapped lightly at the rabbit-ear-shaped ring on her finger.

  ?“This was my choice. Don’t worry too much.”

  ?Hawks’ fingers twitched, then stilled. His throat worked once before he said nothing. He only bowed his head.

  ?Aizawa waited a beat before speaking.

  ?“Rumi… I know it’s not easy, but—what exactly did he say?”

  ?Mirko closed her eyes for a moment, then lifted her head. A bitter smile crossed her face.

  ?“He mocked me,” she said softly. “Said I lost. And asked if my body was really healed.”

  ?Her fingertips trembled; the words left her like a sigh.

  ?“Typical of him,” she added quietly. “Still finding ways to torment me, even dead.”

  ?Her gaze fell to the floor. The end of her sentence wavered and faded.

  ?Aizawa said nothing. He simply sat there, waiting—until her voice dissolved into the air.

  ?In the glass before her, the faint vibration spread outward in ripples. Her hand still rested against it.

  ?Back in the present, Aizawa spoke in a low voice.

  ?“She’s hiding something.”

  ?At that, both Hawks and Jeanist looked up. Aizawa closed his eyes briefly before continuing.

  ?“She almost said more—but stopped herself. It wasn’t hesitation. It was endurance.”

  ?Silence filled the room.

  ?Hawks asked quietly, “Something she couldn’t bring herself to say?”

  ?Aizawa didn’t lift his head.

  ?“Yeah. Whatever Shigaraki left behind in her—it’s touching a wound too deep to name. A trauma even she can’t put into words.”

  ?Outside the window, dust turned slow circles in the pale autumn light—a quiet echo of what none of them could say aloud.

  ?

  ?At that hour, Mirko sat in the middle of her living room. The TV was off; the wind slipping through the window made the silence feel almost alive.

  ?Since that night—the hallucinations and voices had stopped. But life as a hero had not returned.

  ?She slowly unfolded the newspaper. At the bottom of the front page, a small headline caught her eye:

  ?《Rabbit Hero Mirko Delays Return Due to Cold — Next Appearance Undecided.》

  ?A quiet breath slipped out.

  ?“A cold, huh…”

  ?A faint smile touched her lips. She set the paper on her knees. Time passed, soundless, like dust settling in sunlight. Each time the wind stirred the leaves outside, the stillness in the room deepened.

  ?If I didn’t show my face soon, people would start asking questions—hurting Keigo, and the Commission with them.

  ?The thought wouldn’t leave her.

  ?“I can’t just stay like this…”

  ?Her murmur faded into the air, but her body refused to move. Her gaze drifted toward the window. The light outside was already fading.

  ?“I can’t stop. But I can’t move forward either…”

  ?She gave a short, incredulous laugh.

  ?“How did I end up like this?”

  ?Her fingers stiffened slowly over her knees.

  ?Once, she had fought under the name Tiger Bunny, mask on, cutting through blood and dust and the roar of the crowd—felling countless enemies.

  ?Later, as The Rabbit Hero Mirko, she had hunted villains across the nation. At the sound of her name, citizens breathed easier, and villains held their breath.

  ?And finally—Bunny the Weapon. She’d roamed the world, taking down All For One’s remnants one by one.

  ?Back then, she had never once stopped running.

  ?“…Back then, running didn’t scare me.”

  ?Her eyes lowered. Her next words came barely above a whisper.

  ?“Now even my own shadow frightens me.”

  ?“I fought hordes of villains with prosthetic arms and legs…”

  ?Mirko bowed her head. She raised both arms slowly and studied them. Light traced the curve of her fingers. The muscles beneath her skin moved smooth and whole.

  ?“And now that I’ve got my real body back… I can’t do a damn thing.”

  ??A short laugh escaped her—but it died almost instantly, leaving the room untouched by even its echo.

  ?Just as the silence settled again—

  ?Clack—

  ?A sharp metallic sound came from the front door.

  ?Mirko froze where she sat. Her heart beat a second too late.

  ?“…Damn it. Jumping at things like this now?”

  ?She muttered under her breath, lowering her head. A long sigh slipped out.

  ?Closing her eyes, she took a slow breath in, then out, steadying herself. After a moment, she rose and walked carefully toward the entrance.

  ?Inside the mailbox sat a single thin envelope. On the front, in neat handwriting, was written:

  

  ?To: Mirko

  ?Mirko’s eyes widened slightly.

  ?“…Eri?”

  ?Her fingertips brushed over the paper. The name left her lips softly, and with it came a tide of memory she couldn’t hold back.

  ?That earnest gaze, pleading to help heal her body. The moment after Rewind, when Eri’s eyes shimmered with tears and she raised her fist to meet Mirko’s.

  ?Mirko lifted the envelope slowly. For a long time, she said nothing, simply staring at the white paper in her hands.

  ?Carefully, she tore it open. The faint sound of paper brushing against her fingers spread through the still room.

  ?Inside was a single sheet of pale-blue stationery, neatly folded.

  ?She steadied her breath and began to read.

  

  ?Dear Mirko,

  ?I was so surprised to hear you caught a cold! Please don’t push yourself. I’m praying for you to get well soon.

  ?These days I’m preparing to enter U.A. I want to become a hero who can help lots of people. I’m still not there yet, but little by little, I’m getting better every day.

  ?Lately I’ve been learning music from Jiro. Not long ago, I even did my first street performance! People stopped to listen and clapped for me. It made me so happy.

  ?Please come watch someday, okay? But secretly! I want to stand on that stage with my own strength.

  ?P.S.

  Deku comes by sometimes, too. He talks about you a lot.

  He says, “She’s still running. Someday, I want to run beside her.”

  ?—Eri

  ?When Mirko finished reading, she lifted a hand to her lips. Her mouth trembled faintly.

  ?“…Secretly, huh.”

  ?A small laugh escaped her, but it faded almost at once.

  ?She laid the letter on her knees and traced the words gently with her fingertips.

  ?I want to become a hero who can help lots of people.

  ?Her eyes lingered on that line. For a long moment, she couldn’t speak at all.

  ?The room was silent—except for the faint sound of her breathing, steadying, as if relearning how to begin again.