Chapter Text
Himiko Toga died twice.
The first time was loud—screaming sirens, collapsing buildings, blood soaking into dirt already ruined by too many battles. News footage looped endlessly: the final war, the villains defeated, the cost too high to count. Her name appeared on the casualty list with clinical detachment.
HIMIKO TOGA — CONFIRMED DECEASED.
The second time was quieter.
It happened every time Ochako Uraraka woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
Ochako learned to live with ghosts.
They followed her through the rebuilt streets, lingered in the hollowed-out spaces where cities had once stood. Memorials cropped up everywhere—walls of names etched into stone, offerings of flowers that wilted faster than anyone could replace them. The war ended, but the world didn’t know how to move forward without tripping over its own grief.
Ochako became a pro hero because that was what she’d trained for. What she was supposed to do.
She smiled for cameras. She reassured civilians. She floated rubble away from disaster sites with gentle precision. She saved people.
And at night, she dreamed of bloodstained smiles and hands reaching out—not to hurt, but to hold.
Himiko Toga haunted her dreams the most.
It was stupid. Irrational. Inappropriate.
She knew that.
Himiko had been a villain. A murderer. Someone who had hurt people Ochako cared about. Someone who should have been nothing more than a cautionary tale, a reminder of what happened when the world failed someone too many times.
But Ochako remembered the way Himiko had looked at her during the war—not with madness, not with hunger, but with something achingly raw.
I just wanted to live how I wanted, Himiko had said.
I wanted to love.
Ochako carried that confession like a second heart in her chest.
They never recovered Himiko’s body.
That fact haunted the edges of official reports, buried beneath words like assumed and probable. The battlefield had been chaos—explosions, collapsing terrain, overlapping Quirks tearing reality apart. Plenty of people were declared dead without remains.
Ochako told herself it didn’t matter.
Dead was dead.
And yet.
Months passed.
Reconstruction began.
The Hero Public Safety Commission rebranded itself with softer language and louder promises. Counseling programs were introduced for survivors—heroes and civilians alike. Villain rehabilitation initiatives were announced with careful optimism and heavy security.
Ochako attended the funerals she was invited to. She stood beside Izuku and Tsuyu and watched Bakugo stare down at the ground with fury he never voiced. She cried for the people she lost.
She didn’t cry for Himiko.
Not where anyone could see.
The first crack in the story came on an ordinary afternoon.
Ochako was at a Commission briefing, half-listening as officials droned on about resource allocation. She was tired—bone-deep exhaustion that sleep never touched.
A familiar voice cut through the haze.
“—rehabilitation facility transfer approved under Level Seven confidentiality.”
Ochako’s head snapped up.
That classification was rare. Reserved for cases involving extreme public backlash risk. Former high-level villains. Individuals whose survival alone could destabilize public trust.
Her fingers curled slowly into her palm.
The official continued, oblivious. “Subject will remain under medical and psychological observation. No public disclosure at this time.”
Ochako raised her hand.
The room paused.
“Yes, Uravity?” the official asked.
Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Who’s the subject?”
A beat of hesitation.
“I’m afraid that information is restricted.”
Ochako didn’t push. She nodded and let the meeting continue, but her heart refused to settle.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
She started noticing things after that.
Whispers that stopped when she entered a room. Files she wasn’t cleared to access. A subtle tightening in Aizawa’s expression when rehabilitation came up.
Finally, she confronted Tsuyu.
They sat on the dorm roof, legs dangling over the edge, the city lights flickering below.
“Something’s wrong,” Ochako said quietly. “You feel it too, right?”
Tsuyu didn’t answer immediately. Her throat bobbed when she swallowed.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, Ochako,” she said carefully.
That wasn’t a denial.
Ochako’s breath hitched. “You know something.”
Tsuyu closed her eyes.
“Ribbit… some things are being handled outside our involvement.”
Ochako stood abruptly. “Tsuyu.”
Her friend looked up at her then, eyes shining with worry.
“If I tell you,” Tsuyu said softly, “you won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
Ochako’s voice shook. “I already can’t.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, Tsuyu spoke.
“She’s alive.”
The world tilted.
Ochako grabbed the railing to keep herself upright. “Who?”
Tsuyu didn’t need to say the name.
“Himiko Toga survived the war,” Tsuyu continued. “Barely. She was found days later—severely injured, unconscious. The decision was made to suppress the information.”
Ochako’s chest burned. “Why?”
“Because if the public knew,” Tsuyu said, “they’d demand her execution. Or worse.”
Ochako laughed weakly, tears blurring her vision. “And instead?”
“She’s in a rehabilitation facility,” Tsuyu said. “Psych evals. Therapy. Medical care. They’re… trying something new.”
Ochako sank to her knees.
Alive.
Himiko was alive.
Relief and horror tangled painfully inside her.
“Can I see her?” she whispered.
Tsuyu hesitated.
“…Not officially.”
It took weeks of paperwork, quiet arguments, and one very tense meeting with Aizawa before permission was granted.
Limited visitation. Supervised. No physical contact.
Ochako agreed to everything without hesitation.
The facility didn’t look like a prison.
That was the first thing that struck her.
It was quiet. Clean. Sunlight filtered through reinforced windows. Security was present, but subtle—no iron bars, no glaring spotlights.
A counselor escorted her down a long hallway.
“She’s… cooperative,” the counselor said. “Most days. Progress isn’t linear.”
Ochako’s hands trembled.
They stopped outside a room.
“Remember,” the counselor warned gently, “she’s been through significant trauma. Please don’t overwhelm her.”
The door opened.
Himiko Toga sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest.
Her hair was shorter now, uneven as if cut without care. Pale scars traced her arms and neck. She wore simple clothes—soft fabric, muted colors.
She looked smaller.
Older.
When she turned, her golden eyes widened.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Himiko smiled.
It wasn’t the sharp, manic grin the world remembered.
It was soft.
Disbelieving.
“Ochako,” Himiko whispered.
Ochako forgot how to breathe.
“You’re real,” Himiko said, voice trembling. “I thought… maybe I made you up.”
Tears spilled freely down Ochako’s face.
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m really here.”
Himiko pressed her hand against the glass separating them.
Ochako mirrored the gesture.
The barrier was cold.
Unyielding.
But Himiko laughed softly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You came back for me,” she said.
Ochako shook her head. “I never left.”
And for the first time since the war ended, the ghosts loosened their grip.