It all feels so familiar to Shouto, somehow.

The lingering scent of flames and ash in the air, the crackle of smoke in the distance. The resounding ache in his head, dulling his senses. Even the way his body is being cradled in some kind of intangible, impossible field of pressure. He 's been here before, he thinks, maybe in a dream perhaps. His eyes blink slowly, blood dripping down his face and irritating his lashes. Why is there blood on his face?

Oh, that 's right. He 'd been hit in the head.