Jiro's fingers were numb.
She had been gripping Denki's hoodie for so long, with so much force, that the fabric had started to crease beneath her clenched fists.
The truck screeched to a halt.
Doors swung open.
Medics swarmed.
Jiro didn't move.
Didn't breathe right.
Didn't let go.
"Miss, we need to move him—"
No.
She wasn't letting go.
"Miss—"
Someone touched her shoulder. Mina.
"Jiro, come on—"
No.
She refused to step away, refused to let them take him without her, refused to let distance be the last thing between them.
Denki was too still.
His breathing was too weak.
He should be talking, making some dumb joke, saying something stupidly reassuring.
Not this.
Jiro exhaled sharply, forcing her knees to work, forcing herself to move—but only so she could stay beside him.
The gurney rolled forward.
She followed.
The entire time, she kept her hand locked around his, ignoring the blood, ignoring the tremble in her own limbs, ignoring the way her throat felt too tight.
"Denki, you're gonna be fine."
He didn't react.
The medics moved faster.
Jiro tightened her grip.
"You promised, idiot."
Still no response.
Still nothing.
She hated this.
Hated how quiet he was.
Hated how fragile he looked, how drained, how unlike himself.
Hated that, for the first time, she didn't know if he was going to wake up.
The hospital doors slammed open.
Voices barked orders, beeping monitors filled the air, the scent of antiseptic invaded her lungs.
And Jiro—
Jiro did the only thing she could.
She held onto him, refusing to let go.
Refusing to let Denki slip away completely.
Jiro was not leaving.
She heard the medics say it—how they needed space, how they needed to work without distractions.
She felt Mina's hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm, pulling her back.
She saw Kirishima step forward, eyes soft but serious, asking her to move.
Bakugo growled, something about needing to let the pros do their damn job.
Sero sighed.
And still—
Jiro didn't move.
Didn't loosen her grip.
Didn't let go.
"Jiro," Mina murmured, voice hesitant, careful, like she knew—knew—how fragile this moment was for her.
Jiro didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Didn't let go.
Denki's body was too still, his breathing too weak, and Jiro's mind was screaming—because if she let go now, if she stepped back, if she let them take him away, what if—
What if she never saw him alive again?
Her stomach twisted.
Her breath hitched.
No.
She couldn't do it.
Couldn't let go.
Couldn't risk it.
"You have to move now," one of the nurses said, voice firm but gentle.
Jiro clenched her jaw.
"No."
The nurse sighed, but her hands didn't stop—adjusting monitors, checking vitals, working through rapid-fire procedures that Jiro barely processed.
Someone touched her arm.
Bakugo.
"Dammit, Earphone Jack—move."
She flinched, glaring. "Shut up."
Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "He's not gonna die just because you step away—"
Jiro froze.
The words cut—deep, sharp, too real, too terrifying.
Because that was exactly what she was afraid of.
Denki was here.
Barely.
And Jiro wasn't risking a damn thing.
Mina shifted beside her, her voice soft. "Jiro… we'll be right here."
Jiro shook her head.
No.
No no no no.
She did not move.
Did not let go.
Did not step back.
And she wouldn't—not until he opened his eyes.
Until he breathed right.
Until she knew he was staying.
And so—despite the medical urgency, despite the reality that she had no control over this—Jiro did the only thing she could.
She held on.
And refused to let go.
(Aizawa POV)
Aizawa had faced countless battles.
Had stood against villains, watched cities burn, seen heroes rise and fall.
Had learned—long ago—that no matter how much he trained them, no matter how much he protected them, there would always be moments like this.
Moments where his students were broken, bleeding, barely holding on.
Moments where he wasn't there in time.
Moments where he failed them.
The hospital hallway stretched before him, too bright, too sterile, too cold.
Voices murmured—nurses rushing between rooms, doctors barking orders, his own students huddled in tense silence, waiting.
Waiting for Kaminari to survive.
Waiting for him to wake up.
Waiting for Aizawa to tell them everything was going to be fine.
But Aizawa?
Aizawa didn't know if it was going to be fine.
Not this time.
Not when the sight of bloodied uniforms and hollow eyes dragged him backward, back to a time when he was the one sitting in that waiting room, waiting for a friend who never made it out.
Back when failure had meant loss, and loss had meant permanent silence.
He clenched his jaw.
That was then.
This was now.
He wouldn't let it happen again.
Not to them.
Not to Kaminari.
Aizawa stepped forward—toward Jiro, toward Mina, Sero, Kirishima, Bakugo—all of them worn-down and shaken.
His voice was steady, even as something inside him threatened to break.
"Status?"
Bakugo gritted his teeth. "Still alive. Barely."
Jiro didn't look up, her hands still curled around bloodstained fabric, her face a mask of something too raw to name.
Mina sniffled, eyes red. "The doctors said—"
Aizawa didn't want to hear the word "if."
Didn't want uncertainty.
Didn't want hesitation.
He needed Kaminari to pull through.
Because he couldn't lose another one.
Not again.
Not ever.
Aizawa had seen too much.
Too much blood.
Too many broken bodies.
Too many students—too many kids—sitting in hospital hallways, waiting for an answer they didn't want to hear.
And now, it was happening again.
Denki was barely holding on.
Jiro was refusing to let go.
And Aizawa—Aizawa was watching everything repeat itself.
The scent of antiseptic, the fluorescent lights, the beeping monitors—none of it was new.
It was familiar.
Suffocating.
A nightmare playing out all over again.
"Jiro."
She didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't loosen her grip on Kaminari's hoodie.
Aizawa stepped closer.
Doctors were waiting—trying to work, trying to stabilize the kid before his body gave out completely.
"You have to let them do their job."
Still, Jiro didn't react.
Her fingers tightened.
Her shoulders shook.
And Aizawa saw himself.
Saw a younger version of his own stubborn refusal, his own inability to step back, his own grief frozen in place—watching as the person he was supposed to save slipped through his fingers.
Oboro.
The memory hit like a blade straight to the gut.
Blood pooling beneath rubble.
The choking scent of dust and burnt concrete.
Eyes—bright, fearless—fading into nothing.
Aizawa clenched his jaw.
He had failed then.
He wouldn't fail now.
"Jiro," he said again, softer this time, but no less firm.
She barely breathed.
"I know what this feels like."
Silence.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Then—finally—she looked at him.
Her face was pale, tight with fear, eyes glassy but furious—because she didn't trust that letting go wouldn't mean losing him.
"If you don't step back, they can't help him."
Her breath hitched.
Aizawa didn't blink.
Didn't look away.
He had been here before.
Had seen the worst possible outcome.
Had lost before.
Had sworn—sworn—to protect his students better than he protected his own friends.
Jiro trembled.
Then—slowly, painfully—her fingers loosened.
Just enough.
The doctors moved immediately, stabilizing Kaminari, shifting the monitors, adjusting treatments.
But Jiro—Jiro didn't move.
Didn't step back completely.
Just watched.
Just waited.
Just held onto hope, even when it hurt.
And Aizawa—
Aizawa stayed with her.
Because he knew.
Because he understood.
Because Kaminari was still fighting—and this time, this time, Aizawa refused to let history repeat itself.