𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 | 𝟔𝟏

The wind tangled her hair as the car cruised down the highway, windows down, music too loud. The sun hung low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and lavender. Rio—or Rye, as they called her—was wedged in the backseat between two of her friends, her knees knocking against a cooler full of soda cans and water balloons.

"You're seriously telling me nacho cheese is better than white cheddar?" Mark groaned from the passenger seat.

"Rye, back me up!" Kenzie called over the music, elbowing her.

She laughed, that rare kind of laugh that bubbles up and spills everywhere. "You're all heathens. Popcorn isn't that deep."

Her phone buzzed in her lap. A message from her mom: "Dad says don't forget the helium tank! Also—purple streamers, not blue. You KNOW he'll notice."

And then, from her dad: "No pressure, but if you mess up the balloons, the birthday boy may file for emancipation."

She snorted. Her heart swelled. "Gang, when you grab the streamers remember to make sure they're obscenely purple, kid decided to hate on blue this year."

"Yes ma'am," mark salutes. "What the Mini-king wants the mini-king gets." 

Rye rolled her eyes but her smile didn't fade. "Stop calling him mini-king, it's like you want to grow his ego."

They'd goofed off so much at the convenience store, but managed to grab everything and head back in the car before the thirty minute mark. 

They pulled into the driveway of her childhood home, already half-covered in banners and string lights. The front yard was chaos in the best way—two of her cousins were trying to inflate the bounce house, someone was arguing with her dad about sprinkler placement, and her mom was carrying a tray of cupcakes shaped like little dinosaurs.

"You're in charge of the banner!" her mom yelled to her.

"Aye aye, general," Rye called back, tossing her hair into a messy ponytail and grabbing the duct tape.

Inside, someone nearly dropped the piñata. They broke the inflation pump. There was a frosting mishap no one would admit to.

It was the best kind of mess.

When he'd arrived after soccer practice, they led him out of the car—her little brother, blindfolded and bouncing with excitement.

"One more step... okay, ready?" she whispered.

He nodded eagerly.

"Three... two... one!"

"SURPRISE!!"

The blindfold came off and he stood frozen, eyes wide as planets. Then—

"Rye!!" he shrieked, launching into her arms in excitement. 

She laughed, catching him easily. "You like it?"

"This is the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!"

She spun him in a circle, his giggles ringing out like bells as his legs swayed in circles.

In that moment, nothing hurt. There were no other worlds, no villain attacks, no isolation or suspicion. Just balloons, friends, frosting, and the little boy who made her feel whole.

That night, after the party, she sat on the porch swing with him tucked under her arm. He was half-asleep, a marshmallow clinging to his shirt.

"Did you have fun?" she asked.

"Mmhmm."

A pause.

"Do you have to go back to college?" 

She snorted, "Yea I do."

"But whyyy? You complain about it to Mark and Jesse all the time."

Rye rolled her eyes, "well yea, but I wanna get a good job so I can take you to Disney world every year."

"Hey!" He pouted. "I thought you said three times a year."

"You're so right, silly me." She admitted. " How about to make it up to you, in a few weeks, say three...I take you to that new amusement park that opened last month. I'll eat your ice cream and make you sit in the splash zone for the water rides—"

"NOOO, Rye, we talked about this," He laughed, and she ruffled his hair.

"You know, I think you might just be the best brother I've ever had."

Her brothers eyebrows furrowed. "I'm the only brother you've ever had."

"Exactly," She smirked, "You proved my point."

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Beep.

Beep.

The steady pulse of the heart monitor echoed through the hospital room like a ticking clock in a quiet cathedral. The lights were low, curtains drawn. Tubes ran from her arms; machines hummed steadily. She hadn't moved in days.

Recovery Girl stood near the bed with arms crossed tightly, lips pressed thin. Beside her, Aizawa sat in silence, elbows on his knees, face half-hidden behind his scarf. His eyes were locked on the girl in the bed—on Rio.

Present Mic leaned against the far wall, uncharacteristically quiet, arms folded, frowning. Nezu was perched at the corner of the room, glancing between her and a clipboard.

"It's not looking good," Recovery Girl whispered, "She hadn't woken up yet. The doctors say she wont make it, that this would be the end of it. That they're unsure of how she's not dead yet. She shouldn't have survived the dose. Her body's too small. Her system—" She stopped herself.

"She's stubborn," Aizawa murmured hoarsely. "She always has been."

A minute passed.

Then another.

And then—barely perceptible at first—her fingers twitched.

Mic straightened. "Did you see that?"

Aizawa was already halfway to his feet. "Again. Look."

Her right hand moved. Just a little. A slow, strained flex. Then again, more deliberate.

Recovery Girl's eyes widened. "...No way."

A monitor picked up the spike. A subtle but steady increase in brain activity. The faintest wrinkle formed between her brows.

"She's in there," Aizawa said quietly, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and breathless hope. "She's still fighting."

Recovery Girl was already calling in staff. "Get a neuro check—now. Tell them she's waking up."

Nezu didn't say a word. He just nodded once, solemnly.

In the midst of the sterile quiet, that tiny movement cracked something open—a door no one thought would move again.

And for the first time in days, they let themselves hope.