Chapter Text
Arc I - The End
Chapter 1
While the City Breathes
The doors to the intensive care unit were white, too white, their surface unmarked except for a thin metal seam down the middle, and a narrow glass panel reinforced with wire. They opened and closed without ceremony. No sound announced them - just a soft hiss, the sigh of compressed air, and then motion resumed.
Izuku stood in front of them.
He had been standing there for so long that the floor beneath his shoes no longer felt like a surface. It was something abstract, an idea rather than a place. His weight was evenly distributed, arms loose at his sides, shoulders squared in a way that suggested composure if anyone bothered to look. No one did.
The corridor was alive with movement.
Nurses passed him briskly, shoes whispering against polished tile. A gurney rattled by metal frame clicking softly with each uneven joint. Someone laughed - a quick, surprised sound, immediately swallowed by the space. Overhead, fluorescent lights hummed, relentless and steady, as though determined to prove that nothing had changed.
Izuku did not move.
His gaze stayed fixed on the doors, unblinking. He did not lean against the wall. He did not sit. He did not check his phone. His body had chosen a position and refused to abandon it, as if motion itself might fracture something that had already gone thin and brittle inside him.
Time did not pass here in minutes. It passed in sensations.
The smell of antiseptic burned faintly in his nose. Not unpleasant, exactly - just sharp, insistent. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped at regular intervals. A voice came over the intercom, calm and practiced, calling for a doctor by name.
Izuku registered these things without responding to them.
This was not denial. Denial implied resistance, a refusal to accept what was happening. What Izuku felt was something flatter, heavier. A disconnect so complete that his thoughts drifted a fraction of a second behind reality, like a shadow lagging behind its object. If he stayed still enough, perhaps the world would settle back into place around him.
The ICU doors opened.
A nurse exited, adjusting her gloves as she walked. Her expression was neutral, professional. She did not look at Izuku. The doors closed again.
He kept staring.
*****
Outside the hospital, the city breathed.
Traffic lights changed from red to green. Engines idled, then surged forward. A busker on a street corner plucked at a guitar, his case open at his feet, coins clinking faintly when someone dropped a few in passing.
Cafés were full.
Steam rose from cups carried to tables. Chairs scraped against pavement. Conversations overlapped - complaints about work, gossip about mutual friends, arguments about nothing that mattered and everything that did. Somewhere, a barista called out a name incorrectly and laughed when corrected.
In a small market two streets away, vendors shouted prices over the heads of the crowd. Hands brushed hands as people passed too close, apologies murmured automatically. A child tugged at their mother’s sleeve, pointing insistently at something bright and unnecessary.
Laughter broke out near a crosswalk - loud, unrestrained. A group of high school students spilled onto the sidewalk, uniforms half-disheveled, voices bouncing off storefronts. One of them shoved another playfully. Someone complained about homework. Someone else talked about weekend plans, about a movie they wanted to see, about a place they wanted to go.
Life moved forward without pause.
None of it slowed. None of it bent.
The city did not know what was happening behind the sealed doors of an intensive care unit, and even if it did, it would not have stopped. It had schedules to keep, systems to maintain, people to carry from one hour to the next.
Inside the hospital, Izuku stood very still.
*****
Footsteps approached from behind him - uneven, too quick, then stopping abruptly. Masaru Bakugou paced the corridor like an animal trapped in too small a cage. He took three steps one way, then turned sharply and went back, hands raking through hair that had already been disheveled beyond repair. His jacket hung open, forgotten. He kept glancing toward the doors, then away, as though looking directly at them might force them to open.
Mitsuki Bakugou sat in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall. Her posture was folded inward, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She did not sob. Tears slid silently down her cheeks, darkening the fabric of her sleeve when she wiped at them with the back of her hand. Her eyes stayed fixed on a point somewhere near the floor.
Neither of them spoke at first. Izuku was aware of them in the way one is aware of furniture - present, occupying space, but distant. He did not turn. He did not acknowledge them. His attention remained locked on the doors. Masaru stopped pacing.
“Izuku,” he said, voice rough. “You-“
The words died before they could find shape. Izuku did not respond. Masaru swallowed and dragged a hand down his face. He resumed pacing, steps quicker now, sharper, as though motion itself was the only thing keeping him upright.
Mitsuki finally looked up. Her gaze landed on Izuku’s back. For a moment, something like recognition flickered across her face - not relief, not comfort, but acknowledgment. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Whatever she had wanted to say had nowhere to go.
Izuku stood between them and the doors, unmoving. Already, somewhere deep beneath conscious thought, blame had begun its slow, inevitable spiral. It coiled tightly around a single point in time and refused to loosen its grip.
He was late.
*****
The sound came back to him in fragments.
Footsteps - too many, too fast. The sharp clatter of metal as equipment was wheeled into place. Voices overlapping, clipped and urgent, stripped of anything but function.
Izuku remembered the moment he had arrived at the hospital earlier that day, breath still ragged from running, chest burning. He remembered the automatic doors sliding open and the immediate sense that something was wrong - not because anyone told him, but because the air itself felt charged, heavy with motion.
They were already there.
Doctors and nurses surrounded the bed, hands moving with practiced precision. Someone called out vitals. Someone else responded without looking up. The rhythm of the room was frantic but controlled, a choreography learned through repetition and necessity.
“Continuous seizures,” a voice said.
The words cut through everything else, sharp and final. Izuku did not remember who said it. He only remembered the tone - factual, urgent, stripped of emotion. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who had already assessed the situation and found it dire.
He had not seen Katsuki clearly.
There was a body on the bed, restrained by necessity, not cruelty. There were glimpses - a clenched hand, the sharp line of a jaw, hair darkened with sweat. Electrodes dotted skin. Tubing snaked across the sheets. The smell hit him then - antiseptic layered over something metallic and human. Sweat. Blood. Fear, maybe, though that might have been his own.
Someone intercepted him before he could get closer.
“Sir, you can’t-“
“I’m with him,” Izuku had said automatically, the words tearing out of his throat. “I’m-I’m family.” It had not mattered. They were already too deep into crisis mode. Already counting seconds. Already fighting a body that refused to settle, a brain firing uncontrollably despite everything being done to stop it.
Izuku stood uselessly at the edge of the chaos, hands clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. He was half an hour too late. There was no space left for him in that room - not physically, and not in time.
*****
The memory fractured further back, splintering into movement and pain. The meeting had run longer than expected. The city had bottlenecked, traffic snarling without warning. His phone buzzed with missed calls he hadn’t heard over the hum of conversation, the low murmur of voices in a room that now felt impossibly far away.
By the time he checked his screen, there were too many notifications to count. His chest had tightened then, instinct screaming louder than reason. He had left the car where it stood, hazard lights blinking uselessly, and started running.
The pavement blurred beneath his feet.
Ten kilometers was an abstract number when measured on a map. In reality, it was lungs screaming for air, legs shaking with exertion, sweat stinging his eyes. It was the sharp, rhythmic pain of impact traveling up through bone with every step. It was the taste of blood where he had bitten his tongue without realizing it.
He ran because movement felt like control. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a desperate, irrational belief had taken hold: that if he was fast enough, if he did not stop, if he did not slow down, he could still arrive in time to change the outcome.
Speed as salvation. He did not stop until the hospital rose in front of him, glass and concrete reflecting a sky that looked far too calm for what was happening beneath it.
He had been late anyway.
*****
Elsewhere in the city, systems continued to function. In a government building not far from the hospital, a session was in progress. The chamber was full, voices measured and controlled, microphones capturing each word for record and review. Papers were shuffled. A digital clock counted down allotted speaking time.
Izuku’s father stood at a podium, posture straight, expression composed. He spoke clearly about social infrastructure, about funding gaps, about the long-term consequences of neglecting vulnerable populations. His tone was calm, persuasive. He gestured lightly for emphasis.
There was no sign, on his face or in his voice, that his son was standing frozen in a hospital corridor, waiting for a door to open. Questions were asked. Answers were given. Notes were taken. The meeting moved on.
Across the city, in the upper floors of Bakugou Fashion’s headquarters, a different kind of urgency filled the air. Models walked the length of a polished floor, fabric flowing with each measured step. Designers hovered at the edges, calling out adjustments, pinching seams, frowning thoughtfully. Assistants darted back and forth, tablets in hand, relaying instructions.
“Again,” someone said. “With more confidence.”
Music pulsed softly through the space. Lights shifted. Cameras clicked. Katsuki’s name was spoken in passing - a reference to a design choice, a legacy line, a future collection. Not with grief. Not with finality. Just as a fact, a brand, an influence.
The machine ran smoothly.
It did not know it had lost him.
*****
The ICU doors opened.
This time, it was not a nurse who stepped out. The doctor paused just beyond the threshold, one hand still resting against the doorframe. He did not rush. He did not linger. His face was tired in a way that went beyond the end of a long shift - the weariness of someone who had given everything available to him and come away empty-handed. Masaru stopped pacing instantly. Mitsuki rose to her feet, the motion unsteady. She gripped the back of the chair for balance.
Izuku did not move.
The doctor looked at all three of them, gaze lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Izuku. Recognition flickered there - not surprise, but familiarity. He knew them. He knew Katsuki’s history. He knew how hard this fight had been.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
His voice was even, professional, carefully controlled. Not cold. Never cold. But precise. “We did everything we could,” he continued. “He experienced refractory status epilepticus. Despite aggressive intervention - medication, airway support, continuous monitoring - the seizures could not be controlled.” The words flowed smoothly, practiced but sincere. This was not the first time he had delivered news like this. He wished, fervently, that it were the last.
“There was significant neurological compromise,” he said gently. “His heart stopped shortly after. We were unable to resuscitate him.” Mitsuki made a sound then - small, broken. She covered her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. Masaru stared at the doctor, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped beneath his skin. “How long?” he asked hoarsely. The doctor answered without hesitation. “It was quick.”
It was a kindness. A measured one.
Izuku heard the words. They did not reach him.
Sound receded, as though someone had turned down the volume on the world. The corridor seemed to stretch, distance warping, edges blurring. He was vaguely aware of Mitsuki collapsing back into her chair, of Masaru stepping forward, of the doctor saying something else - about arrangements, about time, about next steps.
None of it anchored.
The only thing that mattered had already happened.
*****
Izuku remained standing. The ICU doors were closed again, they no longer mattered. The world did not shatter. There was no dramatic collapse, no scream tearing from his throat. Instead, something inside him went eerily quiet, like a room after all the furniture has been removed.
He thought, distantly, of the city outside.
Of traffic lights changing.
Of coffee cooling on café tables.
Of children laughing.
The world was breathing.
Living.
And Katsuki wasn’t.
Izuku stood there, motionless, as time fractured around him, this moment fixing itself permanently in place, the point from which every future memory would recoil and return. The doors did not open again, and the city kept going.