RG POV:

I have known Inko Midoriya for a very long time.

Long enough to know when to argue with her.
Long enough to know when not to.

The boy is unconscious now—finally, properly so—and that's the only reason my hands stop moving long enough for me to take a breath. Head trauma stabilized, bleeding controlled, concussion confirmed. I used my quirk sparingly. Carefully. Too much and I'd burn through what little stamina his body has to spare.

Quirkless children don't get margins for error.

I smooth the blanket over him and mutter, "Honestly, Izuku, one day you'll give me a heart attack."

As if summoned by his name alone, my phone starts vibrating on the desk.

Of course.

I don't even need to look.

"Inko," I say as I answer. "Before you ask—yes, he's alive."

A sharp inhale on the other end. Then controlled silence. She always was good at that.

"...How bad," she asks.

"Concussion. Head wound. Significant blood loss, but he's stable," I reply. "He'll recover."

Another breath. Slower. Grounded.

"Where is he."

"UA."

A pause.

"...Chiyo," she says calmly, "that is not a hospital."

I wince.

"No," I admit. "But today was... unusual."

"You're avoiding details," she says flatly.

"Yes," I say just as flatly. "Because if I give you details, there will be a fresh funeral today—and I would prefer it not be mine."

Silence.

Then a soft, dangerous chuckle.

"...Fair," Inko says.

I close my eyes for a second.

This woman.

She is my best friend. My confidant. The only person who calls me Chiyo without getting bitten verbally. And she is also one of the most terrifying civilians I have ever met—not because of power, but because she knows exactly how fragile people are.

Including me.

"I'm coming to get him," she says.

"Not today," I answer.

"I expected that."

She pauses, then asks quietly, "Did he call you Granny?"

I glance at the boy, bandaged and pale, mouth slightly open as he breathes.

"...Yes," I admit.

Inko laughs. Soft. Fond.

"He does that when he's scared," she says. "Or hurt."

My chest tightens.

"He told me once," Inko continues, "that Granny Chiyo makes pain behave."

I snort despite myself. "Rude little gremlin."

"You adore him."

"I do," I say immediately. Then, after a beat, "And he's going to kill me one day."

She hums. "Runs in the family."

I shake my head, moving closer to Izuku to check his vitals again. Still stable. Still fighting, even in sleep.

"You trained him well," I say.

There's no denial this time.

"I trained him to survive without a quirk," Inko replies. "Because the world doesn't forgive children like him."

"I know," I say softly.

She was my peer once. Brilliant. Surgical precision without a healing quirk—only weak telekinesis, barely enough to move instruments hands-free. But her diagnostics? Top tier. Her knowledge? Better than most pros I've worked with.

She chose civilian life.

The world chose violence anyway.

"...Chiyo," Inko says gently. "Is he in danger now?"

I look through the glass at Aizawa standing rigid in the hall, at Nezu watching like this is already a pivot point in history.

"Yes," I answer honestly.

Another pause.

"...Then protect him," she says.

Not a request.

A trust.

"I will," I promise.

The call ends.

I pocket the phone and turn back to the bed just as Izuku stirs, brow furrowing.

"...Granny?" he mumbles.

I lean closer, brushing hair from his forehead. "I'm here, Izuku."

He relaxes instantly.

Good. Still responsive.

Still alive.

I straighten and glance toward the door, where the adults who will soon realize how dangerous this child's mind is are waiting.

Best friend or not, even I'm a little scared of Inko Midoriya.

And I have the distinct feeling—

So should they be.