Jiro had never been afraid of silence. She lived in sound—vibrations, frequencies, the pulse of the world beneath her fingertips. Silence was just another rhythm, another part of the melody. But this?
This silence was wrong. It wasn't quiet. It was empty.
Denki wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing right. And that stupid, cocky grin—the one he gave her before collapsing—was gone.
Jiro's fingers trembled against his hoodie, gripping it like a lifeline, like if she just held on tighter, she could pull him back.
"Denki, wake up." No response.
"You promised, idiot." Her voice cracked.
Mina was pressing down on his wound, her hands slick with blood, her breath uneven as she muttered, "Come on, Kaminari—hang in there."
Sero was shredding his jacket into makeshift bandages, his usual lazy smirk nowhere to be found.
Kirishima was kneeling beside them, his fists clenched, his face set with determination and dread.
And Bakugo—Bakugo was on his comms, barking orders, growling for backup to get here faster, his usual frustration coiled into something sharp and urgent.
But Jiro? She wasn't moving. She was staring at Denki, her pulse hammering against her ribs, her throat tight, her breath refusing to steady.
He had saved her.
And now, he was slipping away.
Her stomach twisted. Her heartbeat slammed in her ears.
No.
Not him.
Not now.
Jiro's hands clenched against his hoodie, her jaw tightening as she shook him harder.
"Denki, you're not allowed to do this."
Still, no response.
Mina let out a shaky exhale, pressing harder against the wound. "We're losing time."
Jiro's breath hitched.
No. She wasn't losing him. Not like this. Not after everything.
She leaned closer—closer than she ever had before—her forehead pressing against his, her breath uneven against his skin.
"You idiot," she whispered, voice breaking. "I need you."
For a second. A fraction of a moment. She thought she felt him twitch. A spark. A flicker.
Faint. Barely there.
Denki Kaminari was still fighting.
And Jiro was going to drag him back no matter what. Jiro refused to let go.
Even when the medics arrived, even when they hauled Denki onto the truck, even when Mina gently touched her shoulder and whispered, "Jiro—you have to move—"
She didn't.
She stayed right where she was—on the truck, kneeling beside him, gripping his hoodie so tightly her fingers ached.
Denki was too still.
Too silent.
The moment his body had given out, something inside Jiro had cracked—split right down the middle, leaving behind nothing but fear and stubborn determination.
The medics worked fast—pressure on the wound, oxygen, monitors beeping, voices throwing rapid-fire medical terminology—but Jiro barely heard them.
All she heard was the quiet hum beneath her fingertips.
The static.
The faint pulse of something electric, something barely hanging on.
"Denki," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You have to wake up."
No response.
The truck jerked forward, speeding toward the hospital, bouncing against the uneven roads—but Jiro didn't move.
She just held on tighter.
The beeping from the monitors was too slow.
His breathing was too shallow.
Everything felt wrong.
One of the medics glanced at her. "We're stabilizing him, but—"
"But nothing," Jiro snapped, her voice sharp, her pulse pounding in her ears. "He's going to make it."
The medic hesitated—probably expecting her to break down, to step back, to let them work without her hovering over him like a lifeline.
She didn't step back.
She didn't break.
Instead, she leaned in, forehead pressing against his, her breath uneven against his skin.
"You can't just leave me now, idiot."
Her voice was hoarse, filled with something raw and fragile.
Denki didn't react.
But Jiro swore—swore—that somewhere, deep beneath the suffocating silence, his electricity still flickered.
Weak.
Fading.
But still there.
Still fighting.
And as the truck sped through the city, as the medics worked, as her fingers trembled against his hoodie—
Jiro refused to let go.
(Bakugo POV)
Bakugo hated hospitals.
Hated medical trucks.
Hated the sharp scent of antiseptic, the too-bright fluorescent lights, the steady beep of monitors that never seemed to shut up.
But right now?
Right now, Bakugo hated none of that as much as he hated seeing Kaminari like this.
Slumped against the medical bed, face pale, uniform soaked in blood, his usual buzzing energy reduced to nothing but weak static.
Jiro hadn't let go of him once.
She was still kneeling beside him, gripping his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him here, whispering desperate words that Bakugo refused to listen too closely to—because if he did, he might actually lose it.
The truck lurched forward.
The medics barked updates.
Mina kept shifting in her seat, restless, eyes darting between Denki and the approaching hospital, her fingers twitching like she wanted to do more but couldn't.
Sero hadn't spoken in five minutes.
Kirishima kept clenching and unclenching his fists.
And Bakugo?
Bakugo kept watching that damn heart monitor, every slow beep pounding through his skull.
Not fast enough.
Not stable enough.
Bakugo clenched his jaw.
Everything about this was wrong.
Denki wasn't supposed to be quiet.
Denki was supposed to be annoying, throwing out dumb comments, laughing too loudly, lighting up the damn room.
Not this.
Not barely breathing, barely here, barely holding on.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.
"Move faster," he snapped toward the medics.
One of them glared. "We're doing everything we can—"
"Not fast enough!"
Jiro didn't react to his anger.
She was too focused on Denki.
Too locked onto his shallow breathing, too desperate for something—anything—that meant he was coming back.
Bakugo scowled, crossing his arms.
Kaminari was going to make it.
He had to.
Because Bakugo refused to accept anything else.
And as the truck sped toward the hospital, its tires screeching against the pavement, Bakugo watched Denki, waiting for him to wake up, to move, to do something.
Because if he didn't—
Bakugo was going to break something.