Among them were Hawks, President of the HPSC; 'Eraser Head', Aizawa Shota; Best Jeanist; and a few trusted researchers and government officials. Even they were never told the full story.
Her body had been restored through Rewind. It was supposed to be a miracle, but the entire procedure was classified under the nation’s top security level. The records existed only as a few sealed documents—closed again the moment they were read.
Meanwhile, the world soon noticed her absence. The media asked questions but quickly fell silent. The Government and the HPSC Bureau drew a perfect line of control. Hawks gave the reporters a single statement: “She’s on long-term leave. For rehabilitation and recovery.”
Those words became the official statement. Soon after, they hardened into truth. Citizens believed she was simply resting. Journalists stopped digging. Containment was absolute. The word Rewind never once appeared in any official record.
For a while, speculation ran wild. “A power struggle within the Commission,” some whispered. Others guessed, “An attempt to cover up bodily damage,” or even “Unofficial detainment.” Rumors spread, then withered away as months passed. People chose the version that was easiest to believe. And so, Rewind became not a fact, but a legend. The young girl was protected. The hero’s return remained an unfulfilled dream—quietly pulsing beneath the city that once cheered her name.
[HPSC Press Room]
One month before Mirko’s return, the Hero Public Safety Commission convened a large-scale press conference. The official purpose was to announce the imminent return of Edge Shot, who had spent the past eight years undergoing treatment in the United States.
When Hawks, President of the HPSC, took the podium, a few government officials and Best Jeanist stood beside him. The man in the tailored blue denim suit stood as if order itself were stitched into him. A high collar covered his jawline; his golden hair was combed back in fine threads.
Flashes ignited as Hawks lifted the mic, a relaxed smile on his face. “Edge Shot has completed eight years of recovery and is preparing to return to duty. And…” He paused, scanning the crowd below the stage. “Another hero will be coming back.”
The room stirred in an instant. Hawks raised his head and spoke clearly.
“Mirko will return—not as 'Bunny the Weapon', but as the 'Rabbit Hero'.”
The sound of camera shutters exploded like gunfire. No one had expected that name. Not the civilians, not the reporters—not even the pros. The secrecy had been airtight.
Hawks glanced down at his notes, then continued calmly. “Through the combined efforts of Quirk research and advanced medical technology, Mirko’s body has been restored. However, the procedure requires a long recovery period, and due to confirmed side effects, it cannot be commercialized.”
Questions came like a storm. “Can the technology be applied to other heroes?” “Which institution conducted the restoration?”
Hawks pressed the commotion down with a disarming smile. “For now, it will be administered only to a limited number of heavily injured heroes, under medical supervision. Further details will remain classified.”
Then, Best Jeanist took the mic. His voice was low and evenly spun—each word carrying the quiet strain of pulled thread. “I’m overseeing her rehabilitation training. Mirko’s condition is excellent. Her strength, reflexes, and agility have all returned to their prime. And she continues to seek proof—as the Rabbit Hero we all know.”
The air softened. Jeanist’s words were measured, but heavy with long-held respect—the kind only comrades-in-arms could share. Hawks gave a small nod. “Her official return is scheduled in thirty days.”
As the podium cleared, reporters surged forward, and Commission staff began dismantling the hall. After that day, the only name left in the official records was Project Return. The true name—Rewind—remained sealed. Only a handful knew it, and they needed no words—only a glance—to confirm the truth. And between those glances, the silence felt heavier than truth itself.
[That Night — U.A. Faculty Office]
Outside the window, autumn rain fell in a quiet rhythm. Only a single desk lamp was lit, casting its glow over scattered files, cold coffee, and fatigue. Hawks and Best Jeanist stepped in, closing the door behind them. Aizawa sat with one arm propped on the desk, waiting.
By the end of the long day, the air in the room felt heavy enough to sink. “The whole country’s in an uproar,” Aizawa muttered.
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Jeanist gave a short laugh, holding up his phone. “So is my inbox. Mount Lady keeps complaining—‘I’m the No.3 Hero! How could you not tell me?’”
Hawks shrugged. “She called you too? I changed my number already. Otherwise, I’d have a bonfire in my pocket by now.”
A faint laugh passed among them, then faded just as quickly. Aizawa’s expression stayed firm. “I’ve said this dozens of times already,” he said quietly. “No one can know about Eri—or about Rewind. Not even the heroes who fought beside her. We keep the circle as small as humanly possible.”
“Understood.” Hawks’ answer was short and steady.
Jeanist folded his arms. “As of now, the only heroes aware of the truth are us three—and Edge Shot. We were comrades in the Sky Fortress battle, after all.”
Hawks closed his eyes for a moment. “He was genuinely happy when he heard. Spent eight years rebuilding himself, yet still smiled like it was his own victory.”
Jeanist nodded slowly. “When I met him in the States, he said being in fiber form for so long had made his technique more delicate than ever.” A soft exhale escaped him. “…Both Mirko and Edge Shot have paid more than enough.”
The weight in his voice carried quiet grief. "Too young—both had given up too much." The world had moved on, but the cost still breathed in every silence between them.
Back during the Sky Fortress incident, Edge Shot had pierced his own body into Bakugo’s chest, reshaping himself as Zenith to restart the boy’s heart. That decision cost him his human form, and the years that followed were devoted solely to recovery. Beside him, Mirko fought on. Even with prosthetics, even bleeding, she never once took a step back. She lost her right arm in that same battle—and still, she kept running until the very end.
Silence settled. Then Hawks spoke again, voice softer. “How’s Eri doing?”
“She’s been studying music under Jiro and even performs small street shows now. Since healing that injured hero a few days ago, she’s seemed… lighter.” A rare smile flickered across Aizawa’s face. He then turned to Jeanist and asked, “…And what about Mirko?”
Jeanist drew a slow breath. “At first… her timeline was unstable. During the first training session, she said, ‘No one’s stopping me from joining the next final battle.’” His gaze unfocused, drifting back to memory.
After the Paranormal Liberation War, he had trained beside her—her body pieced together with steel and resolve. She laughed even as metal met flesh, showed no sign of pain. Instead, she flexed her new prosthetic arm and leg, grinning wide. “These things’ll be the ones to kick All For One’s disgusting face in.” That laugh had been equal parts fury and courage—a sound that refused to yield. And again, she said it: “Nobody is keeping me out of the next fight.”
Jeanist closed his eyes. He knew it wasn’t bravado—it was a vow, born from a wound too deep to hide. “But now,” he said quietly, “she’s different. Both body and spirit—completely back to her prime. Stronger than the numbers in any report could capture.”
Hawks nodded. “She mentioned mild headaches, brief moments of dizziness, sometimes feeling heavy. Nothing severe, but…”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t something that fades in a day or a week. Eight years were rewound. We don’t know when the side effects will hit. We prepare for the worst.”
Hawks drew a breath and looked up. “I’ll protect them—Eri, and Rumi. No matter what happens.”
Jeanist gave a slow nod. Outside, the rain kept tapping at the window. No reports were filed, no minutes recorded—but long after the rain stopped, their promise still echoed in the dark.
[The next day, inside the HPSC’s isolated training chamber]
Blue indicator lights flickered along the walls, tracing the edges of the sterile room. In the cold air, a single white spotlight marked the center of the floor.
Mirko adjusted the tight fabric of her training suit. She bent one leg, lowering her stance. The ground trembled faintly as the force gathered in her toes spread through the metal beneath her.
“Begin test.” Hawks’ calm voice came through the comms.
For a heartbeat, the world held still. In the next instant, her body shot upward. Air split open in her wake, leaving behind a trail of white.
“Luna Fall!”
A thunderous impact followed, shaking the shock-absorption pads. In the observation booth, technicians leaned toward their monitors at once. “Reaction speed—exceeding recorded prime levels! Muscle output still increasing—no plateau detected!”
Mirko exhaled sharply. Her sweat-soaked rabbit ears twitched; droplets slid from her forehead to the floor. Behind her, the short, cotton-white tail gave a sharp, involuntary twitch—shaking off the last of the impact's tension.
“What’s with those faces? I’m just warming up.”
Her laugh was the same as ever—strong, unrestrained. Then Hawks’ voice returned over the speakers. “That’s enough for today, Rumi. You’ve proven your point.”
She waved a hand lightly toward the booth. “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow, President.”
One by one, the lights dimmed. Only her breathing and the fading heat remained. Moonlight filtered through the high window, catching on the beads of sweat that glittered silver. Mirko lifted her head slowly, closing her eyes. Faces flickered through her mind—Jeanist, Edge Shot, Mt. Lady, Kamui Woods. And above all… Edge Shot.
“Edge Shot’ll be back soon, too.”
She thought of him often—the comrade who fought beside her in the skies over U.A., who stood back up even after losing parts of himself, who never hid his scars but wielded them as resolve. Between them had always been the purest kind of kinship, one born of battle and survival.
She breathed out softly. He’d run again—just as she had. “Just a little longer…” Her hand curled into a fist. “We’ll all run together again soon.”
Her gaze turned to the wall. Her hero costume hung there, still and silent. A sleeveless white leotard; the distinct yellow crescent moon emblazoned across the chest. Bulletproof fabric meant to hug every curve. Thick white fur trimming gleamed faintly along the neck. Below it hung the dark purple thigh-high boots, A purple utility belt with a hefty buckle hung neatly alongside, pouches secured and waiting.
She stood before it for a moment. The suit—once torn, burned, repaired—was no longer just a costume. It was a record stitched together with wounds and vows.
Her eyes traced the fur lining slowly. Her ears shifted, as if reading the air’s direction. Muscles tensed—waiting for that instant of release.
“…Feels like I’m finally back where I belong.”
Now she was ready to run again. With her arms and legs restored, with her comrades under the same sky.
Under the moonlight, her rabbit ears swayed gently. Her fluffy tail bristled slightly against the cold air Her shadow stretched long across the wall poised, like the heartbeat of a rabbit about to leap once more