It was an unusually quiet week.

Though I supposed "unusually quiet" was better than "unfamiliar," I still found myself out-of-touch with the new schedule and environment.

For one, the new virtual lessons, despite them being as enriching as in-person classes, were lacking an element of depth.

I couldn't pay attention as well as I used to, to say the least.

My eyes often drifted from the screen, coming to rest on a particular spot of my desk -- a small patch of scratches from when I had angrily scribbled out some wrong answer on a homework assignment -- and unfocusing, leaving me in a daze. I found myself replaying certain parts of videos because I had completely tuned the lesson out in my stupor, white noise buzzing in my brain in the place of valuable education.

Was it because I was just out of it? Didn't get enough sleep during the night, or didn't have a good breakfast?

Or perhaps it was because I was preoccupied with other things. Maybe I didn't want to see them for the time being. I didn't want to see Aizawa, or any of the other teachers. I didn't want to hear them, I didn't want to listen to the righteousness that was seemingly present in their tones. It was a big generalization, from what I was aware, to mirror my trauma onto those uninvolved, but I couldn't help it.

Despite the apologies and the heart-to-hearts, it would take more time to recollect myself and be able to properly face the brilliant world again. I convinced myself that after enough time, after enough effort, I would be okay again -- I would be normal again. I could resume the undertaking of my position in the world and have the capacity to deal with any obstacles I would be faced with.

Once faced with day, I would spread my arms and feel warmth soak into my skin as I turned to the Sun. My eyelids would flutter shut and I would melt into the sky -- perfect, pure, comfortable, familiar. Just as my previous life had been.

Just as everything had been in my previous life.

So yes. I would just need more time to recover.

And I would recover.

All for the sake of presenting myself as a functioning gear in the clockwork of society.

__

It was an hour after lunch, and I had Hero Training to do.

Opening my laptop, I took a deep breath, knowing that this class was taught by All Might, and that it wasn't in my best interest to see him again, physically or not. After our last encounter, I don't think I could've gotten the image of his face in that moment out of my head even if I really wanted to.

And believe me, I really wanted to.

But school called, and I couldn't abandon my studies because of something as trivial as a mere "visual memory association." Hero work was important. This was to be expected. Sometimes we needed to push through hardships to reach an important end goal.

So I anxiously awaited a potential face-to-face with the blonde hero while logging into my account and preparing to open the assignment. I swallowed the saliva pooling in my mouth and cautiously clicked the button to my classwork, peering at my computer screen through squinted eyes, silently hoping that his image wouldn't pop up.

And fortunately, it didn't.

A video of Principal Nezu showed on the device instead, to which I breathed a sigh of relief at. Pressing a button to play the clip, I leaned back into my chair and folded my hands on my stomach, attempting to calm down from the adrenaline rush the initial scare had given me.

"Hello (L/N)!" The white mouse was unnervingly energetic when greeting me. "How are you? I hope that the classes are suiting your needs exceptionally. Given the circumstances, it's only fit that UA does its part in aiding one of our students in their recovery period. The ability to guide and the capacity for compassion is a very important value for heroes, after all."

He paused for a moment, as if to think, but continued shortly after.

"We, the faculty and student body, miss you here. Many of your classmates have expressed their concerns for you, and the staff are no exception. Despite our desires, however, you should be sure to come back whenever you're ready. The UA High School will see to it that anything that is required in your recovery will be provided."

He stopped again, staring into the camera with a small, undecipherable smile before carrying on with his monologue.

"Now to get into the contents of the class. Even though we don't have the pleasure of having you at school, it's greatly recommended that you still keep up with your usual training regiment, but fixes can be made if the routine is too strenuous! No torn ligament wants to be torn again, I'd assume. Heroes should always be in tip-top shape, and not being injured, while still being in good health will make for an easier transition for when you do get back to school. I hope you're doing well, and that our lessons are best accommodating your situation! Please let me know if there's anything we can do for you. Until then, goodbye!"

The screen blinked out, leaving me to stare at the afterimages of Principal Nezu's face, clouded by a semi-translucent play button that sat on the tip of his nose.  I sat there for a few moments, head empty, attempting to process all that he had said without his words going in one ear and out the other.

I sighed uncomfortably at the thought of training again. It had been too long since I last stepped foot into the atmosphere of a gym, and I wasn't at all excited for it. Worried that I might be reminded of unpleasant memories, but also concerned that my body would go out of condition, I felt conflicted.

Glancing at the boxing wrap I had sitting on the top of my nightstand, I grimaced, debating with myself about whether I should take the opportunity or not. My insides churned as I considered the thought of training again, uncomfortably shifting in the growing heat pooling in the pits of my organs.

It was clear that my body didn't want me to take part in training.

But I tried to remain optimistic as I forced my mind to lean towards the latter.

Maybe everything would be okay. It couldn't be that bad. My internship had more rigorous regiments. Probably.

Yeah.

Yeah, it did.

Getting up out of my chair, I grabbed a change of clothes, the roll of wrap, and started to get ready for the first session in a long time.

__

Staring at my hand, I clenched and unclenched my fist as I gazed upon the wrap I had bound my palms and knuckles with, unsure of whether to relish in the familiarity of this feeling, or to dread what could happen if I stepped out of my comfort zone.

Turning my head to take a good look at the punching bag that hung in the middle of the garage, I shifted in my seat.

The chain that held up the black leather sack was unmoving, static silver shining underneath the artificial ivory light that illuminated the space. It was old, bruised, used, beat up, soon to be replaced. But it was loyal. It served its purpose.

After the tangent, I got up from my sitting position, finally deciding that admiring the thing wasn't going to help me get back on track, and approached it slowly with light feet and quiet footsteps.

At first, I was unsure of what to do. It seemed as if all my muscle memory from nine years of training like this had faded away within the span of one week. I felt pitiful, weak, useless, in front of the bag, but I raised my fists anyways, with one hand guarding my jaw and the other slightly extended out in front of me, and started.

There wasn't much progress made at the beginning. I touched the leather, gently nudging it with my fist as sweat dripped down my back, streaking across my skin in small zig-zag patterns as I trembled. I didn't know how to approach this, or what would come out of it if I did.

As incessant chatter plagued my conscious, I groaned and took a deep breath, attempting to pick out the only important theme amongst the clutter. 

The least I could do was try.

And in taking this acknowledgement, I built my strength. The smaller, weaker smacks soon filled the mold of larger and more powerful hits. It didn't take long for me to begin striking the bag at my usual strength. It was comfortable. It was familiar.

But soon, just as I was settling back into the scene, something unexpected arose. A certain rage started to build up in my chest -- a rage which let intrusive, fierce conceptions past the gates of my frontal lobe and into the forefronts of my mind.

Wouldn't it be nice to imagine if that bag was Compress?

The upfront thought surprised me as I landed a hook, then a kick onto the punching bag.

After all that he did to you, wouldn't it be nice to have him here? Humanity hanging by a loose thread -- if it isn't already?

I clenched my jaw as my core burned, the thought spurring an assault of incoming convictions.

It's a dog-eat-dog world. Violence is the purest form of gratification in itself. The raw bloodshed of animalistic behavior. It's the pinnacle of justice. And villains need to be brought to justice.

Was this wrong?

So why don't you pretend those villains are in front of you while you can fight back?

Suddenly, the room was still. The tension threaded into my limbs disappeared, along with the grasp regret held on my heart. My eyes widened as I looked down at my arms, trembling and sweaty and raw red, but unhurt and numb to all wordly pain.

A new awakening.

I threw a straight at the bag. The sound of my knuckles against the leather resounded with a bang. A curious smile curled the edges of my lips upwards as I realized how much the noise resembled like a gunshot.

This interest soon turned into a crazed infatuation. My breaths grew labored as I started to pour every ounce of my strength into my punches, sweat lining the entire surface of my skin, emphasizing the redness that began to form underneath in large pools, all for the purpose of hearing, of experiencing that golden moment in which I felt like I had the upper hand. 

For you, Compress, you bastard.

Five hard hits. Two hooks, three straights.

For the stupid blue pearls and the mockery you made of me.

Three strikes.

To the hope that you may never see the light of day again.

Two shots.

And for you, Tomura fucking Shigaraki.

The violent sound of chains smashing against each other echoed through the room as I blew the last cross onto the leather-covered sack and collapsed onto the ground. I sputtered out coughs and heaved hefty breaths, completely worn out from the intensity of the training session. As my blind exhaustion subsided and the adrenaline spike wore away, my muscles were beginning to ache, so I made haste to move and recuperate in the shower before I was only limited to flailing around on the floor, tired and unable to bend my joints.

In the process, I ignored the lingering rage that still scratched at my subconscious.

__

The afternoon had come and gone, and the evening was upon Musutafu.

From my room, I could hear the sizzling of vegetables as my parents prepared dinner, and the muffled talking of radio show hosts as they discussed the latest news. I appreciated how homely it was -- gave me something to latch onto, and served as a reminder that I was still present in reality, even in the midst of my mindless studying.

At some point I was feeling too wearied to continue, so I closed my textbook and exhaled, relieved, then drowsily turned my head to the side to peer outside my bedroom window to observe the happenings of the outside world.

As I watched the clementine Sun disappear behind the black horizon, I wrapped a blanket around myself to trap in some warmth between its woolen layers before the Sun descended into the deep violet pools of night. While doing so, my clammy hands grazed the burning skin of my upper arms. I flinched at the sensation, feeling shivers hurriedly running up my spine and sending jolts of nerve lightning to my head.

Quickly retracting my hands, I managed to salvage some of the delicacy of the scene when calming down and continuing to stare at the declining Sun.

It was slow, nearly unmoving, but captivating nonetheless. Perhaps calming was a better word for it. Or rather, unnaturally pacific -- not as stirring as it had been with its beauty in the past.

There were no fervent emotions brought forth by this sight. Only flat, two-dimensional introspections that resulted in no substance being formed.

My lips pressed together in a firm line as I absentmindedly touched the callouses and rising blisters that lined my palms.

The moment felt different, somehow.