Enough

The gym was eerily silent as Y/N slipped through the heavy doors, her footsteps echoing softly off the walls. It was exactly what she’d hoped for—solitude. She wasn’t in the mood for lunch, much less for company, and this quiet space offered a temporary refuge from both. Dropping her bag by the lockers, she lowered herself onto the cool floor and leaned back, letting the cold metal soothe her tense shoulders.  

Her stomach churned, though not from hunger. It was something deeper, a restlessness she couldn’t quite name. Closing her eyes, she tried to push the unease aside, focusing on her breathing. In and out. Steady. Controlled.  

Until a cold hand wrapped around the back of her neck.  

Her entire body tensed as her eyes snapped open. Panic shot through her veins like lightning, her mind scrambling for answers. *How?* Her senses were always sharp, honed from years of survival. She was trained to detect threats before they came close. And yet, someone had managed to slip past her defenses without so much as a whisper.  

“I missed you, little cannibal,” a raspy voice murmured from behind, sending an icy chill down her spine.  

Her heart stopped, and then it hit her: the scent. Acrid and sour, unmistakably the stench of decay. She had smelled it before—lingering at the hunting sites, clinging to the bodies she had stumbled upon over the years. She’d always assumed it was just the natural odor of death, but now, with the source so close, the realization slammed into her.  

Someone had been watching her back then.  

Before she could react, the figure yanked her backward, spinning her around to face him. Her breath hitched as she locked eyes with him—bloodshot red irises, cracked lips curled into a sinister grin, and pale skin that looked like it had never seen the sun. His grip on her neck wasn’t crushing, but it was firm, unyielding.  

“Ah,” he breathed, tilting his head to study her face. “I was wondering when you’d start putting the pieces together. The smell, the bodies… You didn’t think you were the only predator out there, did you?”  

He leaned closer, his free hand brushing her shoulder. The moment his fingers made contact, her sleeve crumbled into dust, the fabric disintegrating as if it had aged a hundred years in an instant. She recoiled instinctively, but his grip on her neck tightened just enough to keep her in place.  

“What the hell do you want?” she demanded, masking the fear lacing her voice with a sharp edge of defiance.  

“What do I want?” he repeated, his grin widening as if she’d just told a joke. “Oh, Y/N… this isn’t about what I want. It’s about what I owe you.” His tone dropped into something darker, something almost reverent. “You saved me once. All those years ago.”  

Her mind raced, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Saved him? She didn’t remember saving anyone. She’d spent most of her life surviving, not playing hero.  

As if sensing her confusion, he chuckled—a low, gravelly sound that made her skin crawl. “Oh, you don’t remember, do you? Typical. You were always so focused on what was right in front of you. But I never forgot.”  

He leaned in until his face was inches from hers. She could see the cracked skin on his lips, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “I left you gifts,” he said, his voice softening into a mockery of tenderness. “Did you like them? All those bodies?”  

Her stomach lurched.  

“Each one was a thank you,” he continued, his grip on her neck loosening slightly. “A little token of my gratitude for saving my life. I thought you’d understand. You were so clever, so hungry.” His fingers trailed down her arm, decaying more of her shirt as he went. The bare skin left behind tingled with a faint, sickly warmth, like a wound trying to heal.  

She gritted her teeth, glaring up at him. “You’re insane.”  

“Maybe,” he said, his grin never faltering. “But you don’t get to judge me, little cannibal. Not when you and I are so much alike.”  

The words struck her like a physical blow, but she didn’t let it show. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she forced herself to meet his gaze head-on, her voice cold and steady. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working.”  

He laughed again, a sharp, rasping sound that echoed through the empty gym. “Oh, I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m just reminding you where you belong.”  

The gym lights flickered, casting his shadow long and distorted across the floor. Alarms began to blare in the distance, their shrill wails piercing the tense silence.  

He leaned back slightly, his bloodshot eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach churn. “Seems like our little reunion’s been cut short,” he mused, his tone dripping with amusement.  

His fingers moved to her face, decaying the tips of his glove as he brushed them against her cheek. The sensation was strange—not painful, but wrong, like her skin was being marked by something unnatural.  

“You’re mine now,” he said, his voice low and possessive. “My little cannibal.”  

She tried to pull away, but before she could so much as move, he reached for her ear. His hand closed around the small feather earring she always wore—a gift from Hawks.  

“No,” she whispered, her heart sinking.  

With a cruel smirk, he crushed it between his fingers, letting the delicate feather crumble into dust.  

“There,” he said, brushing his hands off as if he’d just done her a favor. “That thing was ugly anyway.”  

Rage bubbled up inside her, sharp and hot, but before she could lash out, he was gone.  

The alarms blared louder, the gym lights flickering wildly as she stumbled forward, her hands trembling. The smell of decay lingered in the air, a sickening reminder of his presence.  

Her fingers brushed her now-empty earlobe, and a wave of anger surged through her. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.  

The alarm’s shrill wail echoed in Y/N’s ears, each second stretching longer than the last as she stumbled through the dimly lit hallways. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps, her chest tight with panic. Her hand instinctively brushed the burn-like marks on her neck, her fingers trembling as they grazed the strange, decaying touch left behind by the man. She could feel it—those marks weren’t healing. Her body, usually swift to recover, was sluggish now, as if the decay had rooted itself deeper than she could fathom.  

It burned faintly, a constant reminder of his presence. His touch. His claim over her.

Her stomach churned, not from hunger, but from the visceral realization of what needed to happen next. She would have to feed. She could already feel the gnawing emptiness building inside her, that deep hunger she had always kept under control. Without sustenance, the wounds wouldn’t heal, and she couldn’t afford to show any weakness—not here, not now. Not with *him* still out there, watching, waiting.  

A wave of nausea washed over her at the thought, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to move.  

The hallway was mostly deserted now, the chaotic blare of the alarm scattering students and faculty to different parts of the school. She needed to cover the evidence—hide what had happened. There was no choice. The damage was too obvious, too undeniable.  

Her eyes darted around, scanning for a place where she could regroup. The girls’ locker room at the end of the hall caught her eye, and without another thought, she made a beeline for it. Her footsteps were quick but unsteady, her body moving on instinct.  

The door creaked open, and the noise of the alarm was somewhat muted once she stepped inside. The quiet was a temporary relief, but the urgency didn’t leave her. She couldn’t afford to let anyone notice the decay marks or her pale, drawn features.  

She rushed to the lockers, her fingers fumbling at the locks as she yanked them open. Jackets, gym clothes, anything she could use to cover herself. Her shirt had been destroyed—the fabric disintegrated under his touch, leaving only remnants of the material hanging uselessly from her body. The burn marks, the decay, and the damage to her neck and collarbone were too glaring to ignore. She needed something, anything to hide it.  

Her gaze fell to the mirror mounted on the far wall, and for a brief moment, she hesitated. Her reflection was the last thing she wanted to see right now, but she couldn’t ignore it forever.  

Stepping closer to the mirror, her breath caught in her throat.  

The sight of herself hit her like a punch to the gut. The decay marks trailed across her neck and shoulders, jagged and dark like veins of burnt charcoal. But it wasn’t just the marks on her neck. The real shock was her face. Beneath her left eye, the faint outlines of his fingertips remained, dark and cracked like her skin had been scorched. The marks weren’t deep, but they were unmistakable, and they stood out starkly against her otherwise smooth complexion.  

Her hand shot to her cheek, her fingers trembling as they traced the outlines of the seared skin. The panic inside her grew, and for a moment, she felt the crushing weight of helplessness. There was no way to hide this—no scarf, no jacket, no trick of the light that would cover it up entirely. The marks on her face were too distinct. Too damning.  

Her chest tightened, and her breath quickened. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see this. She couldn’t afford to let anyone ask questions. But what could she say? What could she possibly explain?  

It’s nothing. Just a scratch. 

That lie wouldn’t work. There was no way to hide this without drawing attention to herself. Her mind raced, trying to think of a way to cover it up. A scarf might work for her neck, but it wouldn’t do anything for her face.  

Gripping the edge of the sink, she steadied herself, forcing her breath to slow. Think. She had to think. First, she needed to cover as much as possible. Then, she would figure out the rest.  

Y/N turned back to the lockers, moving more quickly now. Her movements were frantic as she searched through the rows of clothing, her fingers brushing over different fabrics, rejecting them one by one. Finally, her hand landed on a plain black gym hoodie, oversized and baggy. It was exactly what she needed.  

Pulling it over her head, she winced as the fabric brushed against the decayed marks on her skin. The sensation made her stomach twist, but she forced herself to ignore it. The hoodie would cover her neck, her shoulders. It was enough.  

She stood in front of the mirror again, examining herself. The hoodie helped, but her face was still exposed. The marks on her cheek were still there, faint but undeniable.  

Her mind circled back to the one solution she didn’t want to consider.  

She had to feed.  

The thought made her stomach turn, but it was the only way to heal. She couldn’t risk the wounds getting worse, couldn’t risk appearing weak. Not when the threat still loomed.  

Gritting her teeth, Y/N tugged the hood up, pulling it low over her face. It didn’t hide everything, but it was better than nothing. Her heart pounded as she took one last look in the mirror. The marks on her face would be hard to explain. They were too recent, too fresh. But she would figure it out. She had to.  

With a deep breath, she turned toward the door and walked out of the locker room, her steps quick and determined. The alarm was still blaring, but it no longer fazed her. She needed to get out of sight, out of the way, before anyone noticed the marks, before anyone asked questions.  

She needed to eat. And she needed to do it soon.

Y/N’s footsteps were almost silent, but the blaring alarm ringing through the halls of U.A. drowned out the sound of her hurried pace. She kept her head down, her hood pulled low, trying to conceal the jagged marks on her neck and shoulder. The baggy hoodie hung around her frame like a protective shroud, but even it couldn’t shield her from the growing panic gnawing at her chest. She felt the weight of it—the feeling that at any moment, someone could see her, question her, ask what was wrong.

What could she even say? How could she explain the strange decay marks left on her skin? Or the unsettling voice that had echoed in her mind, calling her “my little cannibal”? 

The thought of confronting anyone—her teachers, her classmates—was unbearable. She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t face the questions they’d ask or the truth she wasn’t ready to admit. So, she kept moving, pushing herself forward despite the tightness in her chest and the unease that seemed to follow her every step. 

Her mind raced, tangled with the memory of the encounter, but one thing was certain: she couldn’t go back to class, not like this. Not with the marks still fresh on her skin, not with his words still ringing in her ears. 

She reached the stairwell at the end of the hall, her fingers brushing the cold metal railing as she descended. The clamor of the alarm outside seemed to fade slightly, replaced by the sound of her breathing, shallow and uneven. She clenched her fists tightly, nails digging into her palms, trying to focus. She couldn’t allow herself to spiral, not now. 

Downstairs, the first-floor hallway was mostly empty, the chaos of the alarm scattering everyone to different parts of the building. She peeked out through the stairwell door, looking for any sign of students or staff. The courtyard outside was bustling with activity, as expected, but there was a small side exit she had her eye on. A maintenance door near the gym that led to the back of the school. It was the perfect escape, and she had to take it.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she moved quietly through the hallways, sticking close to the walls and avoiding open spaces. Every step felt like a risk, every shadow seeming to hold some hidden threat. She didn’t know who could be watching her, or if anyone had noticed her slipping away. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and the anxiety was making her skin prickle with the fear that someone would catch a glimpse of her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the maintenance door. She glanced back, half-expecting someone to be there, but the hallway remained empty. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and slipped outside.

The cool air hit her face, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to pause and take in the stillness. The back of the school was deserted, a quiet oasis away from the chaos inside. The alarm, though still blaring, was muffled out here, and the distant sounds of students and staff didn’t seem so overwhelming. 

She pulled the hood tighter around her face, casting her features into shadow, and started walking quickly, her steps quickening as she moved away from the school grounds. She couldn’t stop now. She had a plan—a simple one: get home, hide the marks, figure out how to deal with everything later. The last thing she needed was anyone finding out what had happened to her. 

But by the time she reached her small apartment, the adrenaline that had carried her was starting to wane. She fumbled with her keys, her hands trembling, trying to fit the right one into the lock. The door creaked open, and the familiar scent of her apartment greeted her—stale air mixed with a faint smell of incense and coffee. 

Y/N stepped inside, but the comfort of her space was fleeting. The tightness in her chest didn’t let up. She was still burning, still haunted by the touch of his hand, the voice that seemed to follow her wherever she went. She sank onto the couch, letting her hood fall back, but it wasn’t the relief she’d been hoping for. She was too unsettled to relax.

That’s when it hit her.

Her bag. Her phone. They were still at U.A.

A cold wave of dread washed over her as the realization set in. In her rush to leave, she’d completely forgotten about her belongings. Her phone was still there—her lifeline, her connection to the outside world. Her notes and assignments. Worse still, her absence would be noticed. Her classmates would see her bag sitting unattended, and someone would inevitably come looking for her.

She cursed under her breath, her hands shaking as she clutched her knees. There was no way she could go back now—not with the marks on her body still raw and visible, not with the strange sensation of decay still lingering on her skin. She would have to deal with it tomorrow, when she was stronger, when she had a better grip on the situation.

For now, she couldn’t afford to leave again. She had to keep her distance. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing her like this.

Her gaze drifted to the darkened window, her reflection faint in the glass. She barely recognized herself. The faint decay marks on her face caught the light, and for a moment, she was reminded of the grotesque touch of his fingers. The way his grip had felt, like it was leaving its imprint on her very soul. His voice echoed in her mind, a mocking, taunting whisper.

“I missed you, little cannibal.”

Y/N shuddered involuntarily, her body tensing. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the couch, trying to block the memory from her mind. But the truth was, she couldn’t shake it. Not when the marks on her skin refused to heal, not when his presence lingered in the back of her mind like a haunting shadow.  

The hunger inside her gnawed at her stomach, the need to feed becoming undeniable. She could feel the absence of sustenance, the weakness in her limbs that would only grow stronger if she ignored it. 

She had to eat. It was the only way to heal.

There was no other choice.

Her body burned, and the hunger only intensified. Yet, she remained still, her fingers gripping the fabric of her hoodie, knowing that tomorrow would be another day she would have to face. But for now, she had to hold on. She couldn’t let the darkness consume her completely—not yet.

Not until she was ready to face the consequences of what had happened to her.

Hawks paced nervously in his apartment, his phone clenched tightly in his hand. With every passing second, his frustration grew as the screen lit up with repeated calls to Y/N, all of which went unanswered. His heart sank with each call that went straight to voicemail. Something was wrong, he could feel it deep in his chest. 

Where are you? His thoughts spun, his fingers tapping anxiously against the glass. He had never felt this unsettled before. This wasn’t like Y/N—not to ignore his calls, not to vanish without a word. Something was off. His gut tightened with anxiety, a cold sense of dread creeping up his spine. 

He tried calling again, his breath caught in his throat as the phone went to voicemail once more. His mind raced, darker thoughts creeping in. The strange feeling he’d had earlier—a faint, almost imperceptible sensation of one of his feathers disintegrating—kept repeating in his mind. It had been a weird, unsettling experience. A feather, something so integral to him, just fading away like it never existed. He had never felt it before. 

The connection he shared with Y/N was strong. It always had been. So why was he feeling this way now? 

Something’s happened. 

The panic in his chest escalated. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking back to the phone screen. He should’ve been there. He should’ve sensed it sooner. Damn it, Y/N. Please pick up. He redialed again, his voice strained as he hit the button, the panic clear in his tone.

No answer.

His mind cleared, no longer racing with hypothetical scenarios. His instincts were sharp now, focused. Something had happened, and he needed to find her. 

Without another thought, Hawks grabbed his jacket, his wings instinctively unfurling behind him, the tips of his feathers twitching with agitation. His heart pounded as he stepped toward the window. He didn’t bother to grab anything else. 

He leaped into the air, soaring into the night sky, his wings cutting through the air with purpose. U.A. High was his destination, and he was moving fast, propelled by the need to find her, to make sure she was safe. 

I’ll find you, Y/N. Just hold on.

The wind whipped past his face as he pushed himself harder, faster, his wings beating urgently in the cool night air. His focus was singular—nothing else mattered. U.A. loomed ahead, a shadow against the dark sky. Every instinct he had told him to get there quickly, before anything worse could happen.

His chest tightened as he soared through the night, praying that he wasn’t too late.

The faculty room at U.A. College was thick with tension as the teachers and staff gathered around the large conference table. Their eyes were locked on the screen in front of them, where the footage displayed was enough to make their blood run cold. The video feed had been heavily damaged, but the few remaining frames told a chilling story. 

The image showed a man—shrouded in shadow—sneaking up behind Y/N. The footage was grainy and fragmented, but the intent was unmistakable. The man swiftly grabbed her by the neck, and the video cut out abruptly, leaving only silence. The screen flickered as the rest of the footage was lost to static and corruption. The image of the man’s hand wrapped tightly around Y/N’s neck haunted them all, and the disintegration of the barrier only added to the mounting dread. 

Principal Nezu was the first to speak, his usually composed demeanor laced with an edge of seriousness. “I refuse to believe this is the work of an ordinary reporter,” he said, his voice calm but filled with an undercurrent of urgency. His sharp eyes scanned the room, seeking any other possible explanations. “This is something far more dangerous. This was no simple break-in. Whoever did this has a specific target in mind.”

Aizawa stood at the back of the room, his expression unreadable as he watched the screen flicker and die. He had been quiet throughout the meeting, but the weight of the situation was becoming impossible to ignore. In his hand, he clutched Y/N’s bag, the strap slung over his shoulder as a reminder of what was at stake. The contents of the bag—books, notes—were untouched, giving no hint as to what had happened to her. He also carried a small bag containing the ashes he had collected from the gym, a disturbing piece of evidence that hinted at something far worse than an ordinary attack.

“Y/N is the only student unaccounted for,” Aizawa’s voice broke through the tension, low and grim. He cast a hard glance at Nezu and the others. “I can’t get ahold of her. Based on what we’ve seen with the barrier and the state of the gym, it’s clear that something happened to her.”

Yagi’s brow furrowed in concern. His typically easy-going demeanor had been replaced with a grave look, the worry for Y/N visible in his eyes. “Should we send someone to her apartment immediately?” His voice was calm but thick with anxiety. Yagi had always had a soft spot for his students, and Y/N was no exception. Her intelligence and drive had made a lasting impression, and the thought of something happening to her unsettled him deeply.

Aizawa nodded, his face hardening as he processed the gravity of the situation. “I’ll swing by her place right after this meeting. But we need to think bigger. This wasn’t some random break-in. Whoever did this is sending a message, and it could be far more serious than we’re prepared for.”

Nezu’s ears twitched as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in thought. “But why Y/N? What is her connection to all of this? If they wanted to make a statement, it could have been anyone. Why her?” His voice carried a hint of confusion as he turned his gaze to the others in the room.

Aizawa’s eyes flickered briefly to the bag in his hand, the unsettling reminder of the missing student. He clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. But we need to find her, and fast. Whatever’s happening here, we need to get ahead of it.”

Yagi, always the first to take action, didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you, Aizawa. If something’s happened to her, we need to be prepared for anything.”

Aizawa shot him a glance, silently weighing the offer. He didn’t like the idea of dragging others into something so personal, but Yagi’s willingness to help was undeniable. “Alright. We’ll go together.”

The faculty members exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the situation pressing down on them all. This wasn’t just about a missing student—it was about something far darker. Whoever had infiltrated U.A. had done so with purpose, and the ramifications were too far-reaching to ignore.

As the meeting broke up, the air remained heavy with anxiety and uncertainty. The staff members filed out of the room, but Aizawa and Yagi lingered for a moment, exchanging a brief but meaningful look. They didn’t need to say much. The silence spoke volumes. 

They had a mission, and time was running out.

Without another word, Aizawa and Yagi made their way out of the faculty room. They had one destination in mind—Y/N’s apartment. They hoped to find some answers, but with the stakes higher than ever, they knew that every minute counted. Whatever had happened to Y/N was only the beginning. 

The clock was ticking, and they couldn’t afford to waste any more time. The situation was spiraling out of control, and all they could do was pray they weren’t too late.

Y/N stood in her dimly lit kitchen, the low, soft glow of the overhead light casting long shadows across the room. The silence felt oppressive, wrapping around her as she clutched the small container of organs in her trembling hands. The raw meat still dripped with fresh blood, staining her fingers as she held it up to her mouth. She had done this countless times before, the routine a lifeline. The same desperate need coursing through her veins each time—eat to heal, to restore her strength, to stop the rot that had taken hold of her body.

But this time was different. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to swallow the food down, to feel the familiar warmth seep into her stomach and flow through her veins. She had done this so many times, each instance easing the pain, the wounds, the decay. Her body had always responded—quickly, gratefully—as though the nourishment was what it had been waiting for. It was what kept her alive.

But not this time.

Her hands shook harder as she set the food aside, trying to steady herself against the countertop. She swallowed, but it felt like she was forcing herself to choke down something that no longer belonged inside her. The meat didn’t taste like it used to. There was no relief, no sudden sense of comfort or regeneration. Her wounds, the deep, jagged marks left by the man’s touch, refused to close. They continued to burn and throb, but no matter how much she consumed, they only seemed to grow worse.

Her breathing became shallow, her chest tight as she surveyed the damage. The burns on her skin—the marks on her neck, her arms, her chest—hadn’t healed. The skin around them was raw, angry red, still oozing with infection. They weren’t fading. They weren’t healing. They were spreading.

With a sudden, sharp breath, Y/N staggered toward the sink, her hands shaking violently. The blood that had dripped down her chin now smeared her shirt, soaking through the fabric and staining her skin. Her once-white shirt was now a chaotic mess of red streaks, an unintentional map of her suffering. The blood clung to her skin as if mocking her, a cruel reminder that she couldn’t heal, that no matter how hard she tried, her body wasn’t responding.

Her gaze was fixed on the reflection in the sink—a bloodied, hollow version of herself staring back. Her face was streaked with blood, the jagged lines across her skin mirroring the chaos inside her mind. She could smell it, the thick, metallic scent of blood that hung in the air, clinging to her like an unwanted memory. But no matter how much she stared at it, no matter how long she wiped at her face with the back of her hand, the blood refused to come off. It stained everything. Her hands, her shirt, her face—it was all soaked in it, and yet there was no comfort to be found in the mess. It wasn’t the blood she needed. It wasn’t enough. 

“Why isn’t it working?” Y/N whispered to herself, her voice hoarse and cracking with the effort of holding back the panic that was steadily rising in her chest. Her words felt foreign, as if she had spoken them a thousand times before, but the answer would never come. She had said it to herself again and again, each time expecting a different outcome, hoping for a different result.

But this time, there was no healing. No relief.

Her thoughts were a swirl of confusion and fear as she stumbled away from the sink, trying to steady herself. The weight of the blood on her hands, the weight of the failure pressing down on her chest, made it hard to breathe. The air felt thick, suffocating. Her head spun, and her vision blurred, the dizziness rising like a tidal wave that threatened to pull her under. She gripped the edge of the countertop, her knuckles going white from the force as she fought to stay upright.

Nothing was working.

The food, the blood—it didn’t matter. She could feel it sitting in her stomach, unmoving, cold. It wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. She wasn’t healing. She wasn’t getting better. It was as if her body had turned against her, rejecting the very thing that had kept her alive for so long. 

Tears welled in her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. She wiped them away angrily, smearing more blood across her already ruined face. The weight of her failure crushed her, a heavy, suffocating pressure that she couldn’t shake off. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the crushing realization that her own body was betraying her.

Was this how it ended?

She could feel the cold creeping through her limbs, seeping into her very bones. The decay that had started as small, manageable wounds was now spreading—spreading in ways she couldn’t control. The dark marks on her neck, the burns on her skin, the ever-growing coldness within her—they were signs that something was terribly wrong. The decay wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t slowing down.

The fear that had been lurking in the back of her mind now gripped her heart, squeezing it in a vice. What would happen if these wounds didn’t heal? What if they kept spreading, devouring her from the inside out? Would she eventually fall apart, piece by piece? Would the decay consume her whole?

She clutched the counter harder, her fingers aching from the force. Her head swam, the dizziness overtaking her as she sank down, kneeling on the cold kitchen floor. She barely noticed the cold as her hands moved to her chest, pressing against the burning marks, hoping to feel something—anything—that could give her a sign, a flicker of hope. But there was nothing.

Her breathing came in ragged gasps now, her chest rising and falling with the panic she could no longer control. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting the wave of hopelessness that threatened to drown her.

Would she survive this? Would she ever heal?

Her thoughts flashed to the others—Aizawa, Hawks, the people at U.A. who would eventually notice her absence. They would come looking for her, wouldn’t they? But would it be too late? Would they find her broken, unrecognizable? What if she was already too far gone by the time they arrived? What if she couldn’t hold on long enough for someone to save her?

The thought filled her with an emptiness she couldn’t shake. She wasn’t sure how long she had been kneeling there, but it didn’t matter. The darkness was closing in around her. The blood. The wounds. The cold. Nothing was working. She wasn’t healing.

And in that moment, Y/N knew something she couldn’t deny: She was running out of time.