Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The knife hits the cutting board in rhythm.
Not violently. Not like him.
Just clean. Precise. Repetitive.

It’s 5:17 a.m.

Bakugo doesn’t check the time—he never does—he’s been up for hours. Or maybe minutes. It blurs together lately. Sleep comes in half-hour bursts, if at all.

The common dorm kitchen is dim, bathed in the low amber light of a corner lamp someone forgot to switch off. He doesn’t bother turning the overheads on. The dark feels better. Easier on his head.

No buzz.

His hands move on muscle memory: scallions, peppers, eggs. His prep is surgical, like he’s performing an autopsy on breakfast. The vegetables didn’t do anything to deserve this, but they get diced like they did.

And then — they’ll burn.

Burn.

Burn.

Burned—

The fridge hisses shut behind him.
He doesn’t flinch, but his shoulders tense.

He hadn’t heard anyone come in.

A rustle. Socks on linoleum.
No words. No dumb jokes. No fake cheer.

Whoever it is, they sit down at the counter without a sound.

Bakugo doesn’t look up.

Silence. He can deal with silence.

The pan sizzles. He adds oil. Crackles fill the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does the other person.

Ten seconds pass.
Then twenty.
Then—

“…You always up this early?”

The voice is quiet. Not curious—more like cautious. Like they’re trying not to spook a cornered animal.

Bakugo snorts, barely audible.

“I don’t sleep,” he mutters. Then, sharper, “Why the hell are you here?”

The other person shrugs. Their profile is barely visible in the glow—just enough to see a twitch of a smirk, or maybe concern pretending not to be concern.

“Couldn’t sleep either.”

Of course they couldn’t. No one’s sleeping lately. Not really.

He dumps the eggs in the pan like they insulted him. The silence comes back, thicker now. Not uncomfortable. Not comfortable either. Just… there.

Eventually, he slides a plate across the counter without looking up.

“Eat it or don’t. I’m not makin’ more.”

And that’s it. No thank yous. No dramatic revelations. Just eggs, oil, and two people who can’t sleep.

Somehow, that’s enough.

Tokoyami takes the plate without a word.

No blessing. No unnecessary noises.

Bakugo likes that.

He slides back to the stove, refills the pan. He hadn’t planned to make more, but now it feels weird not to. His hands move on instinct again—less sharp now, more fluid. Like the edge in him’s dulled just a little.

Behind him, the quiet clink of fork against ceramic.

He doesn’t look back, but the sound lands strangely in his ears. Domestic. Like something that’s supposed to belong to someone else’s life.

“…This is very good,” Tokoyami says, tone low and even, like he’s reporting a battlefield update.

Bakugo scoffs.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“No,” Tokoyami continues, as if Bakugo hadn’t interrupted. “I mean it. Balanced seasoning. Stable structure. A commendable meal.”

Bakugo stares at the stove a second too long before flipping the eggs. He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. But there’s something in the way Tokoyami said it—neutral, analytical, like he’s grading a mission report—that makes it almost tolerable.

“Tch. It’s just food.”

“And yet,” Tokoyami muses, “you cook like you’re preparing for judgment.”

Bakugo stiffens.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Tokoyami lifts one shoulder in a faint shrug.

“Nothing offensive. Just an observation. Precision like yours doesn’t come from boredom. Or obligation.”

He says it lightly. But it lands hard.

Bakugo turns off the stove.

“Don’t start psychoanalyzing me, birdbrain.”

Dark Shadow stirs from his collar at the nickname, letting out a sleepy, vaguely offended growl.

“It’s 5:25 in the morning,” Dark Shadow mutters. “Do we have to be roasted right now?”

“You’re not even cooked,” Bakugo mutters, but it’s half-hearted.

He sets the second plate down. Doesn’t meet Tokoyami’s eyes.

A pause.

Then a low, rumbling chuckle—dry and brief—escapes the other boy’s throat.

It’s not mocking.

Just… surprised.

Like even Tokoyami didn’t expect this morning to be anything but solitude.

They eat in silence for a while. It stretches, settles, eases.

Then:

“You come down here a lot?” Tokoyami asks, not prying, just curious.

Bakugo shrugs.

“Only when I can’t deal with the walls.”

Tokoyami hums. Doesn’t press.

Then:

“We’re alike, in that way.”

Bakugo snorts. “The fuck we are.”

“Mm. Perhaps not on the surface. But we both know what it’s like—being haunted by what we couldn’t stop.”

That hits too close.

Bakugo’s grip tightens around his chopsticks.

But before the silence can snap back into sharpness, Tokoyami shifts.

“I come here when the dark gets loud,” he adds softly, almost apologetically. “Cooking helps, I imagine. Creation as a counter to destruction.”

“That’s… dramatic,” Bakugo mutters, but the words don’t have bite.

“I am dramatic,” Tokoyami says, voice dry. “You’re angry. We cope differently.”

Bakugo blinks. That might be the first time anyone’s ever said that without trying to fix it.

They finish the meal.

Well—Tokoyami finishes the meal.

Bakugo just sits there, elbows on the counter, hand still loosely curled around his chopsticks like he might start eating again.

He doesn’t.

The eggs go cold on his plate, untouched since that first mechanical bite.

Across from him, Tokoyami chews in silence, wisely saying nothing. He’s perceptive like that — knows when the air’s too sharp to cut with words.

Bakugo stares at the plate. His jaw’s tight. His leg bounces once, twice, then goes still again.

He’s present. But not here.

Like his body stayed in the dorm kitchen, but the rest of him — the part that used to inhale a full breakfast in two minutes flat — didn’t show up.

Didn’t wake up.

Didn’t make it back.

When Tokoyami stands to rinse his plate, he pauses.

“Kitchen duty today?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bakugo grunts.

“I’ll help.”

“I don’t need fucking help.”

Tokoyami glances back.

“I didn’t say you did.”

And he’s gone.

Bakugo stands there, alone again—but it doesn’t feel as sharp now. Just quiet.

And for once, that doesn’t feel like a punishment.

…

The kitchen smells like rice steaming and onions turning golden.

It’s not even 7:00 a.m., but Bakugo’s already sweating under the collar of his U.A. issue apron. He’s been at it since before the sun cracked the clouds. By the time the rest of Class 1-A starts dragging their feet into the dining hall, everything’s under control. Of course it is.

Bakugo runs a tight ship—even if the ship is a bunch of half-conscious teenagers and a rice cooker that wheezes like it’s on its last legs.

He’s stirring miso when Tokoyami reappears, slipping into the kitchen like a shadow taking shape. No greetings. Just presence.

Bakugo doesn’t glance up.

“Thought you’d ghosted.”

“You said I could help,” Tokoyami says simply.

He washes his hands without being asked. Dons a spare apron without comment. He doesn’t need directions. He just starts peeling ginger with slow, practiced strokes, like he’s done this before.

Bakugo doesn’t ask where.
He doesn’t want to know.
He doesn’t want to share.

But it’s easier having someone else there. Someone who doesn’t talk too much. Someone who doesn’t need anything from him.

They work in near-silence. Chopping, stirring, plating. It becomes a rhythm, like training drills, like sparring. Efficient. Sharp. Clean.

Behind them, voices start to grow louder. Chairs scrape. Footsteps thud. Someone laughs—probably Mina. Someone else groans. Sato mutters something about protein intake. The world starts waking up.

Tokoyami doesn’t flinch at the noise, but he glances sideways.

“You handle chaos well.”

“It’s not chaos,” Bakugo mutters, checking the donburi portions. “It’s breakfast.”

“Still,” Tokoyami says, “it’s strange to see you here. Feeding people.”

Bakugo pauses.

“It’s a job.”

“Even so. Feels like there’s something behind it.”

Bakugo frowns.

“You think too fucking much.”

“I do,” Tokoyami agrees. “But I’m rarely wrong.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer. He’s too busy fixing the way Ashido tried to stack the bowls—crooked, mismatched, one chipped. He swaps them out without a word, lines them up like soldiers.

“You like control,” Tokoyami adds after a beat.

Silence.

Tokoyami doesn’t stop.

“I like clarity.” he continues. “But not everything can be ordered. Some things are meant to be survived.”

Bakugo freezes for just a moment. The miso ladle stills in his hand.

That sentence. It hits like a low blow with no windup.

He finishes pouring the broth. Doesn’t say anything.

Tokoyami doesn’t push.

Minutes later, they start serving. One by one, their classmates trickle in, muttering sleepy thanks or offering half-jokes Bakugo ignores.

But they’re noticing. Not in a loud way—there are no dramatic gasps or tearful declarations. Just little looks. Jirou raising an eyebrow at the neatly folded napkins. Kirishima beaming too hard at his plate. Midoriya pausing a moment longer than necessary when Bakugo hands him his tray, like he wants to say something but decides against it.

Bakugo pretends not to see any of it.

By 8:00 a.m., the chaos has settled into routine. The kitchen is wrecked. Plates are piled high. The rice cooker has given up completely.

Tokoyami rinses a pan in silence.

“You’re good at this,” he says after a long stretch. “Better than you think.”

Bakugo doesn’t respond.

He just stares at the steam curling from the sink, something unreadable in his eyes.

The last plate clinks into the drying rack.
The faucet squeals as Tokoyami shuts it off.

Bakugo dries his hands on a towel with short, aggressive motions. He’s already thinking about first period—Advanced Heroics. Combat drills. Loud, fast, predictable. Better than this slow, weird quiet that keeps sneaking up on him.

He unties the apron, folds it in half, and tosses it on the counter. Tokoyami does the same, his movements slower, more deliberate, like he’s wrapping up a ritual instead of a chore.

The kitchen is empty again. The others have filtered out to brush teeth, grab notebooks, argue over whose turn it is to do trash duty.

Bakugo stays for another beat.

Just one.

Then he moves.

“You better not be following me to class too,” he mutters as he walks out.

Tokoyami falls into step beside him, utterly unbothered.

“You make it sound like you’re being hunted.”

Bakugo huffs.

“Feels like it.”

The hallway’s quiet this early. Sunlight slips in through the high dorm windows, spilling across the tile in warm strips. Bakugo doesn’t look at it. His eyes are straight ahead.

Tokoyami, on the other hand, walks like he has time. Like the shadows don’t chase him unless he calls them.

They reach the stairwell. Bakugo starts climbing two steps at a time.

“You always this calm in the mornings?”

“Not always,” Tokoyami says. “But today’s quiet. I don’t fight the calm when it comes.”

Bakugo rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. For once.

They hit the second floor landing. Someone’s arguing down the hall—probably Kaminari and Mineta about locker space again.

Bakugo slows a little.

“Tch. Back to normal.”

“Whatever normal means” Tokoyami says as he was walking towards his room.

“Hey.”

Tokoyami pauses.

Bakugo doesn’t look at him.

“Don’t burn the rice next time.”

“Noted.”

He keeps climbing, faster now, back to his room on the fourth.

Bakugo’s hand hovers over the knob. Disappears inside.

The door clicks shut behind him.

But it doesn’t slam.

Bakugo leans against it for a second—shoulders tight, breathing shallow.

The room’s quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and distant chatter drifting up from below.

He doesn’t bother turning on the light.

The morning sun filters through the blinds, casting thin stripes across his bed and the scattered clothes on the floor.

He moves to the dresser, ripping open a drawer and pulling out his hero costume gloves.

The fabric feels rough against his fingers.

He flexes his hands, feels the familiar sting of the material biting into his skin.

Good.

His eyes flicker to the cracked mirror by the window.

He couldn’t see it—no visible mark, no dislocated shoulder—but he still felt it deep beneath the surface.

He ignores it.

Strips off the shirt and tugs on his school uniform instead, movements sharp, automatic.

He double-checks the gauntlets strapped on his forearms, tightening the fasteners until his knuckles whiten.

Movement feels like control.

Bakugo sits on the edge of the bed, breathing steady but shallow.

No explosive outbursts.

No shouting.

Just cold focus.

His phone buzzes on the desk.

A message from Kirishima: “Ready for class? Let’s wreck some training drills today!”

A twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. Just the shadow of one.
“Don’t fucking slow me down.” He replied.

He stands, grabs his bag, and heads for the door.

One last glance at the quiet room.

Then he steps into the hallway.
The fourth floor smells faintly of sweat, laundry detergent, and stale air.

He pulls his bag tighter over his shoulder, boots thudding hard on the linoleum.

The halls are almost empty. Just a few other students dragging themselves awake, nodding briefly as they pass.

His mind races ahead to the training grounds—fighting, pushing limits, testing himself.

He doesn’t want to think about the kitchen. Or the quiet moments with birdbrain.

They were distractions.

Nothing more.

He reaches the stairwell and heads down three flights.

The air grows warmer, louder with each floor.

By the time he hits the first, the buzz of chatter and footsteps hits full force.

Class 1-A is already gathering near the door.

Kirishima spots him and waves with a grin.

“Ready to go, Bakugo?”

Bakugo’s reply is a sharp nod, eyes narrowed.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The others fall into formation, but Bakugo’s focus is razor-thin.

Today, no mistakes. No half-measures.

The explosion inside him simmers—controlled, waiting.

And when the bell rings, it’ll be all war.

This is where he belongs.

—————————————————————

There’d been a change in the schedule.

Aizawa had been pulled into some last-minute pro hero meeting—something about security protocols and license review forms.

Whatever it was, it meant he wasn’t here.

Midnight stood at the front of the classroom now, pointer in one hand, flicking through strategy maps with mechanical precision. Her voice was steady and calm, but carried none of Aizawa’s dry edge—none of the gravity.

Bakugo sat with his chin propped on one fist, brow furrowed like he was taking notes.

He wasn’t.

The whiteboard blurred in his vision—arrows and names melting together, lines of defense bleeding into counterattacks he’d memorized days ago.

His eyes stung.
His ears rang, faint but familiar.

That low buzz of phantom memory: metal twisting, boots slamming concrete, his own voice echoing off walls that didn’t answer back.

He blinked hard.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too deep.

The classroom was too bright. Morning light filtered in through narrow blinds, striping the desks in pale gold. The projector hummed. Pens scratched. A chair creaked.

Kaminari was already half-asleep, face smushed into his notebook like a corpse at a crime scene.

Two seats over, Sero wasn’t looking at the board.

Not really.

He had that casual, slouched posture like he was barely awake—but Bakugo could feel the sideways glance. Not invasive. Just aware.

Watching.

Reading.

Bakugo knew. Could feel it like static.

Then: a soft scrape.

A folded square of notebook paper slid across the desk, guided by the tip of a pen. Barely over the invisible line between them.

Bakugo stared at it.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t blink.

Midnight turned toward the whiteboard, gesturing at a movement pattern.

His fingers twitched.

He pulled the note toward himself like it didn’t matter.

Unfolded it.

“You okay, or just bored enough to spontaneously combust?”

Bakugo stared at the words.

A breath caught in his throat. Quiet. Quick. Almost a laugh. Almost.

He picked up his pen.

“Mind your damn business, Tape Face.”

Folds it. Slides it back.

Sero opened it and smiled—lazy, crooked. That one corner of his mouth only kind of smile. Like he knew exactly which wires he was pressing without touching a single one.

He scrawled a reply. Folded. Passed it again.

“If I did that, I’d miss your 100-yard death stare at a dry-erase marker.”

Bakugo exhaled through his nose.

Not a laugh. Not a smirk.

But the air softened. Just a little.

His pen hovered.

Maybe another reply.

Maybe not.

He stared at the paper for too long.

Then—crumple.

Into the pocket. Gone.

No more cracks today.

…

The bell rang.

Desks scraped.

Voices rose. Chairs squealed against the ground.

Students packed up—bags slinging over shoulders, footsteps echoing down the hall.

Sero passed his desk without speaking.

Didn’t look down. Didn’t make a show of it.

Just tapped the edge of Bakugo’s desk as he passed.

Thunk.

Not loud.

Just enough.

A warning. A question. A promise.

Bakugo didn’t look up.

But his hand stayed there.

Fingers resting on the desk edge. Still. Tense. Holding on.

Just one second too long.

…

The rooftop’s warm today.

Not hot. Just that gentle kind of sun where you could fall asleep sitting up—if no one was around to mouth off or throw food.

Bakugo stands in the doorway for a second, tray in hand, squinting at the sunlight like it’s personally daring him to relax.

The others are already out there—Mina and Kaminari bickering over some anime rewatch, Kirishima trying to referee, and Sero stretched across the bench like he owns the sky.

They don’t notice him right away.

Which is weird.

Which is good.

He walks over without announcing himself and drops onto the edge of the concrete bench like he’s been there the whole time.

Kaminari blinks. “Whoa. No stairwell yelling today?”

“Didn’t feel like it,” Bakugo mutters, stabbing a piece of fried tofu like it insulted him.

Mina leans in, eyes wide with mock horror. “Okay, who are you and what did you do with our actual Blasty?”

Kirishima laughs—loud and bright. “Leave him alone. He’s chill today.”

“I’m not fucking chill.”

“See?” Kaminari grins. “Still in there.”

From across the bench, Sero tilts his head without lifting it. “Maybe he’s evolving. Like a grumpy Eevee.”

Bakugo shoots him a look.

“Shut it, Tape-Face.”

Sero just raises a brow—slow, smug. “So you did read my note.”

Bakugo doesn’t respond. Just keeps eating. One bite at a time. Measured. Focused.

He doesn’t explode.

Just… stays.

…

Mina stretches out, feet in Kirishima’s lap, recounting some training mishap involving a runaway bot and a bottle of glue. Kaminari dozes in the sun, mumbling commentary. Sero unwraps a rice ball one-handed, sneaking sideways glances he pretends are casual.

Bakugo eats in silence.

And then—like it slips out—

“Next rotation’s control drills.”

A beat of quiet follows.

He never brings up training unless they’re in it.

Sero sits up slightly. “Yeah? We’re teamed up, right?”

Bakugo nods once, still not looking up.

“I’m bringing ankle weights,” Mina says, stretching again like a cat. “Time to suffer in style.”

Kaminari groans. “Y’all are psychotic. Can’t we just fake injuries and take a nap?”

“Could be real injuries if you half-ass it,” Bakugo mutters.

They laugh.

It’s easy.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is.

Now, he doesn’t feel that phantom fire in his chest—not the recoil from a blast, but the other kind. The kind that creeps in when everything goes quiet.

Sero’s voice cuts through the breeze—soft, casual:

“You cooking again tonight?”

Bakugo’s chopsticks pause.

Just a second.

Was he watching him?

Kaminari, mid-sip, nearly chokes. “Wait—you’ve been cooking?”

“Only when he thinks no one’s watching,” Sero says, grinning. “Midnight miso and existential dread.”

Bakugo glares.

But it’s not sharp.

It’s smoke, not fire.

“Say one more thing and I’ll shove tofu down your damn throat.”

Kirishima beams. “You have been cooking! Dude, that’s so—”

“Don’t say it,” Bakugo snaps, eyes narrowing.

Kirishima raises both hands, mock-surrendering. “Okay, okay. No compliments.”

Mina smirks. “You mean no feelings.”

Bakugo mutters something low and probably illegal.

And goes back to eating.

He stays.

In the sun.
In the noise.
In the mess of voices, elbows and inside jokes.

And no one asks anything more of him.

They just let him be.

Maybe that’s why it’s easy today.

Nothing needs fixing.

Not right now.

…

Lunch ended.

The rooftop quiets. Bags zip. Shoes scuff against concrete as they head downstairs.

Bakugo lingers a moment. Tray half-empty. Sun on his shoulders.

And then he goes too.

The halls are mostly empty.

Voices echo faintly around corners. Classroom doors click shut. Lockers slam.

Bakugo walks alone, hands in his pockets, eyes ahead. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t slouch.

Just walks.

Expression blank.

He turns a corner and pushes into the first-floor bathroom, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Dim.

He moves straight to the sink. Turns on the water. Cold rushes over his fingers. He doesn’t look at his reflection. Not at first.

The faucet hisses. He keeps his gaze on the drain.

Behind him, the door creaks again.

Two voices drift in—older students. Probably second-years. Loud. Careless.

“I mean, think about it. Kid gets kidnapped, right? And then walks out like nothing happened?”

“It’s sketchy.”

“He’s already got the temper. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was traitor.”

“Honestly, he fits in with the League. Always sneering like everyone’s beneath him. Scary.”

The words are tossed like gum wrappers—cheap, thoughtless, and sticky with venom they don’t even mean.

They think it’s clever.

They think it’s edgy.

Bakugo doesn’t move.

Water still runs over his hands.

Then—

Silence.

One of them finally catches his reflection in the mirror.

“Shit—”

Bakugo is already standing beside them.

Not explosive.

Just there.

Still. Coiled. Quiet.

Eyes like lightning waiting for a storm.

They freeze.

No one speaks.

Bakugo dries his hands—slow and deliberate. Every motion louder than their breathing.

He doesn’t say a word.

Not one.

He just walks past them.

Calm. Straight-backed.

Like they’re beneath his time.

Because they are.

They don’t know what happened.

They weren’t there.

Let them talk.

Let them guess.

Let them play hero with their words.

He doesn’t owe them anything.

—————————————————————

The alarm blared. Countdown: five minutes.

They sprinted toward the combat zone.

The rooftop—wide open, exposed—was barely held together by rusted beams and reinforced concrete. Four stories below, the broken frame of the parking garage gaped like a wound. To the west, a collapsed office wing funneled wind and sound like a corridor.

At the center of the rooftop: the control point. A glowing disc, lit like a weak heartbeat. The goal is territory defence.

He hated this part.

Waiting.

Bakugo crouched behind a support beam, one boot braced against exposed rebar. He could smell ozone already. He flexed his hands. His palms were damp—sweat already building. The Quirk charge tickled under his skin, begging to ignite.

But his gauntlets weren’t loaded.

Aizawa’s words echoed again:

“This isn’t about destruction. It’s about control.”

Bakugo clenched his jaw until it hurt.

Sero dropped beside him with a low thud, stretching his shoulders like he was settling into a hammock.

“You look like you’re already planning to murder the sky,” he said, tone light.

Bakugo grunted. “Sky’s not the problem. You are.”

Sero laughed.

“Explosions and tape? C’mon, man. That’s practically synergy.”

Bakugo turned his head slowly, scowl sharp enough to draw blood.

“You touch me with that stupid tape, and I swear—”

Sero raised his hands.

“No unsolicited taping. Got it.”

He shot a line of tape to the ceiling above, readying a launch line.

“They’ll come from the west wall or the garage. Kaminari’s too loud for stealth.”

Bakugo’s fingers twitched.

“You take monkey tail. I’ll handle the walking battery.”

“You think Kaminari’s the bigger threat?” Sero asked, watching him.

“He’s unpredictable when he’s serious,” Bakugo muttered.

Then—

Buzz-zzt.

It wasn’t loud. Not even close.

Just a flicker.

Like static under his skin.

Bakugo’s heart jerked. His spine locked.

That sound.

“Two o’clock,” Sero whispered. “Ojiro’s circling.”

Bakugo glanced.

“Let me guess,” he muttered, voice low. “Pikachu’s charging a sneak attack.”

And then the first hit came.

Ojiro’s tail snapped through the dust, aiming to knock them both off balance.

Bakugo reacted before thinking—a small blast went off at his heels, flaring heat across the rooftop and searing the air past Sero’s face.

“Whoa—” Sero stumbled back, coughing, hair half-singed. “Dude—warn me next time?” he wheezed.

“Keep up,” Bakugo snapped, already vaulting to the next position.

Ojiro capitalized on the chaos. His tail lashed out from beneath a cracked slab of concrete, launching debris like shrapnel toward them.

Sero reacted just in time—he fired a line of tape and yanked Bakugo sideways, both of them narrowly missing a head-on hit.

Bakugo twisted midair, caught his footing with a blast, and snarled, “You serious?! If you weren’t decent at that, I’d blow you up with the rest of them.”

Still dangling from his tape anchor, Sero gave a breathless laugh. “Told you—explosive chemistry!”

“I’m the chemistry, you’re the damn barnacle!” Bakugo snapped, already launching again across the gap. The air flared with heat under his boots.

Sero muttered behind him. “Trauma bonding, my ass.”

The fight picked up speed.

Ojiro launched high. Sero whipped tape around a support beam, intercepting midair. They grappled, clashed, twisted across crumbling platforms. Kaminari’s voice echoed through the debris.

Then again—

A soft buzzing.

“Yo!” he called, bursting through the haze like it was a game. “Nice view up here. Mind if I crash?”

Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Tch—fucking sparklers again.”

He launched.

Steel bent and whined as an explosion carved through the dust.

Kaminari dodged by inches. His arm sparked, static building around his wrist. He grinned.

“You know I’m still your friend, right? This feels personal.”

“It is,” Bakugo growled.

Behind them, Sero grapples upward, twisting midair to intercept Ojiro, who’s flipping across beams toward the point.

The rooftop becomes chaos.

Bakugo darts through smoke, boots detonating in small pops, feints left, then swings right—

But Kaminari tossed something.

A thin net of electricity. Cheap stun tech from the support course.

It clipped Bakugo’s shoulder.

Not enough to knock him down.

But enough to bring it all back.

That same static fucking buzz—

He stumbles. Just for half a second.

Bakugo growls through his teeth, shaking it off. “Don’t hold back.”

“You sure?” Kaminari asks, sparking up again.

Bakugo lunges.

This time, the blast shredded the scaffolding. Kaminari went flying.

He hit the ground hard, skidding across the rooftop. His Quirk flickered—shorted. Fried.

Sero’s voice came over comms, breathless: “Got Ojiro tangled—forty seconds!”

Bakugo stalked forward.

Then—

BZZZT.

Again.

The soft, electric purr. Crawling up the back of his skull like spiders under the skin.

Bakugo’s vision blurred.

The concrete bled into blinding white.
The light burned his eyes.

This wasn’t the rooftop anymore.

He recognized none of it.

He wasn’t here.

Not Kaminari.
Not real.

He moved.

Didn’t think.
Didn’t aim.

Just hit.

Kaminari had just started to sit up, blinking through dust and sweat. “Wait—Bakugo—?”

The first punch landed across his jaw.

A crack of knuckle against bone.

Kaminari’s head snapped sideways. He gasped—eyes wide—but the second punch was already there. And the third—hard. Brutal. Too fast for instinct to block.

Bakugo’s breath came ragged, choking on smoke that wasn’t there. Every nerve screamed danger. His vision flickered at the edges—white walls closing in again. The memory pressed down like hands around his throat.

The sound — that FUCKING sound.

Kaminari reeled, blood blooming across his face. He tried to block, to say something—anything—but Bakugo didn’t see him anymore.

It was just another silhouette in the flash. Another blur behind the red.

This isn’t real. Not real.

“Stop!” Sero’s voice cracked. “Bakugo, stop—!”

Bakugo raised his fist again—

—and Sero tackled him from the side, yanking him off.

They hit the ground hard.

Ojiro’s tail snapped like a whip, wrapping tight around his wrist just before the next blow could crush Kaminari’s temple.

Bakugo gasped, eyes flicking upwards through a haze of adrenaline and panic.
Smoke drifted off his knuckles—dark and fragile.

His lungs burned.
His head pounded.
He couldn’t break loose from the echo inside him.

Fuck.

Kaminari lay sprawled on cracked cement, blood dripping from his nose, lip split, one eye already purpling. Dazed. Still trying to process what just happened.

“…Dude?” he rasped. “What the hell…?”

Bakugo looked terrified. His pupils were blown wide. His shoulders heaved with each broken breath, sweat soaking the edge of his collar.

Ojiro didn’t speak. He kept hold of Bakugo’s wrist, even though it was shaking violently under his grip.

Sero, breathless, just stared — crouched low, arms ready to move again if he had to.

Then.

Footsteps. Sharp.

Aizawa.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t rush.
He just appeared—controlled as ever. The soft stomp of his boots shattered the crowd’s tension.

He swept in—calm, precise, unshakeable.

crouched next to Kaminari, who sat up slowly, pressing the back of his sleeve to his mouth.

“You alright?” Aizawa asked.

Kaminari blinked, dazed. “Yeah… yeah. Just—caught off guard, that’s all.”

Then Aizawa’s gaze shifted to Bakugo, who was still where he fell, hands hanging limp, blood smeared across his knuckles like guilt made visible.

Sero hovered near him, unsure whether to help or stay out of reach.

Ojiro stood a few feet back now, tail tense, eyes flicking between everyone like waiting for the next swing.

The rooftop had gone silent. Like the air forgot how to carry sound.

Aizawa moved again—this time toward Bakugo.

“Bakugo,” he said—firm, clipped. Like a line snapping taut.

Bakugo flinched.

Just once.

Then—he looked up.

And in that single second, Aizawa saw it.

Not just confusion.

But recognition.
Guilt.
Fear.

Bakugo’s throat opened.
No sound came.

His hands twitched once—then froze when he saw the blood.

His breath hitched.
His whole body recoiled, like seeing them really for the first time.

Like it had finally registered.

Aizawa didn’t break eye contact. His voice came low and certain:
“This is over.”

Crack.

“You’re leaving the field. You’re not in trouble, but you are done. We’ll talk later.”

Still no motion.

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t argue.

And that—more than anything—unnerved them all.

So Aizawa stood and turned—face blank, voice sharp.

“Sero,” he said, sharp and to the point. “Walk Kaminari down to Recovery Girl.”

Sero nodded—but didn’t move right away.

He glanced at Kaminari, still sitting on the cracked rooftop, holding pressure to his nose with the heel of his palm.

Still forcing that stupid grin like he hadn’t just been used as a punching bag.

Sero looked back to Aizawa.

“I’m taking them both.”

Aizawa didn’t argue.

Just gave one curt nod, eyes unreadable.

“Get moving.”

Kaminari pushed himself up with a grunt, using a bent railing for balance.

“I’m good,” he mumbled. “I can walk.”

Sero didn’t argue.

He stepped forward. Crouched slowly beside Bakugo.

His voice came soft, not patronizing. “Hey. C’mon, man. We’re going.”

Bakugo’s breath stuttered—too fast, then too shallow.

But somehow, he stood.

It looked like it hurt.

Sero stood between them—Kaminari limping on one side, blinking slowly like his brain was lagging behind his body, Bakugo trembling on the other.

No one spoke. Just moved.

They descended into the stairwell—four flights of wobbling lights and rattling pipes.

Each step was deliberate.
No more running.

But the silence throbbed like a wound.

When they passed a broken lamp and its sharp buzz rang down the corridor, Bakugo flinched—shoulder colliding with the wall. His gauntlet scraped concrete with a screech.

He clenched his teeth and didn’t stop walking.

Because this was fallout.

And this—was what came after.

…

Recovery Girl’s door was cracked open. The antiseptic sting of gauze and mint hung faint in the air.

Sero pushed through without knocking.

She looked up from her desk, mouth already turning down in a frown.

“What happened?”

“Training incident,” Sero said smoothly.
“Kaminari took a hit. Bakugo’s… not bleeding. But he needs to sit down.”

Bakugo twitched beside him.

Recovery Girl’s gaze flicked from one to the other, narrowing.

“Get on the beds. Both of you. I’ll decide who’s hurt worse after I look.”

Kaminari gave a weak, lopsided smile.

“I vote me. I got my bell rung and punched in the face. Peak productivity.”

Bakugo sat like he didn’t remember how.

He didn’t take off the gauntlets. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even react when Recovery Girl muttered about his heart rate being “unnaturally high.”

…

Sero stayed.

He didn’t leave when Recovery Girl patched Kaminari’s lip or shooed Bakugo into a chair with a water bottle. He just found a spot on the windowsill and stayed there, humming quietly under his breath, like it was all background noise.

Bakugo sat stiff and silent, eyes fixed on the floor. His hands rested in his lap, smoke stains around the fingers.

Kaminari leaned back on the bed, ice pack pressed to his jaw.

“Hey,” he said after a long pause. “Kacchan.”

Bakugo didn’t look at him.

Kaminari’s voice didn’t waver.

“I know that wasn’t really about me.”

Silence.

“Still hurt, though.”

Bakugo’s jaw twitched. His fingers curled in just slightly.

Sero finally spoke, voice casual, like they were all just talking shit in the dorm lounge.

“That net probably wasn’t the best idea, dude.”

Kaminari winced.

“Yeah. I figured that out mid-electrocution.”

Another long beat of silence.

“I thought it was a joke,” Kaminari added. “You know. ‘Static cling, but make it combat.’”

Bakugo finally said something.
Low. Not angry. Almost hoarse.

“Don’t say it like it was funny.”

Kaminari’s grin dropped. He nodded.

“Alright. Wasn’t funny.”

Sero shifted on the sill, tossing something underhanded toward Bakugo.

Bakugo caught it without thinking.

A wrapped granola bar. Crushed at the edges.

“Eat that before you hurl or pass out,” Sero said. “Your blood sugar’s shot.”

Bakugo stared at it like it was a grenade.

But he didn’t throw it back.

Recovery Girl returned, checked Kaminari’s eye one last time, then turned to Bakugo.

“You’ll be fine. You’re not concussed. But your Quirk strain is too high, and your nervous system’s spiking from something other than adrenaline.”

Her eyes softened, but her voice didn’t.

“Next time, stop before you hit the panic ceiling.”

Bakugo nodded, but it looked more like a twitch. He was quiet.

Later, after she cleared them to go, the three walked slowly down the quiet hallway.

No one said much.

Kaminari peeled off first.

“I’m gonna nap before Aizawa decides to debrief us to death,” he said with a half-grin.

Then, before leaving:

“I’m good, by the way.”

Bakugo didn’t answer.

Kaminari raised two fingers in a lazy peace sign and disappeared around the corner.

It was just Sero and Bakugo now.

Still walking.

Still quiet.

Then—

“You knew.”

Bakugo’s voice, low. Rough. Not a question.

Sero didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Figured something was off. Not the whole thing.”

They walked a few more steps.

Bakugo didn’t look at him.

Another pause.

“You scared the crap out of me, though.” Sero added finally.

Bakugo snorted. It almost sounded like a cough.

“You gonna tell the others?”

“Nah,” Sero said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Not my story.”

Bakugo stopped walking.

For the first time, looked at him.

Really looked.

And Sero just shrugged.

“If you need someone to shut up and stay close… you know where to find me.”

Then he kept walking.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t ask for thanks.

—————————————————————

Late night

The dorm halls always felt different at night. Still loud in places — a muffled laugh, the click of a video game three floors down — but it was a dull noise. Nothing cut through the walls anymore.

Except memory.

Bakugo’s door clicked shut behind him.

He didn’t bother with the overhead. Just the desk lamp. A circle of gold in a room full of shadows.

His hero textbooks were stacked on the desk, untouched since morning. His damp training shirt hung from the back of the chair. The room still smelled faintly of rot and smoke—not from his Quirk.

He sat on the bed.

Not to sleep.

Just… to sit.

His knuckles were raw. Swollen. Faint bruises blooming under the skin.

He flexed them once, slow.

The way Kaminari’s head had snapped back.
The blood.

His jaw locked.

How could he lose control?

…

A knock.

Soft. Two taps. Hesitant.

He didn’t answer.

Another beat.

“…You decent?” came Kaminari’s voice, weirdly casual after Bakugo almost demolished his face.

Bakugo didn’t move. “Why.”

“I brought frozen peas.”

What the—

He stared at the door like he could make it explode by will alone.

“…For your hand,” Kaminari added, quieter now. “Y’know. Since you tried to beat me to death with it.”

Still no answer.

A pause.

Then—creak. The door eased open.

Kaminari stood there, barefoot, hair a mess. He held up a half-squished bag of peas wrapped in a dish towel like it was a hostage negotiation.

“Don’t make it weird,” he said. “I already did.”

Bakugo didn’t say anything.

Kaminari stepped inside, gently set the peas on the desk, then hovered—like a dog waiting to be told whether it was allowed on the couch.

There was a cut on his cheek—shallow, but fresh. The edge already scabbing over, surrounded by a faint purple bruise. His lip was split. His jaw was swollen on one side, a dark blotch spreading beneath his skin like something hit hard and didn’t stop.

Bakugo stared at it.

Kaminari didn’t flinch under the look, but he didn’t meet it either. His eyes hovered somewhere near the floor.

“You should use that,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Kaminari said, sitting anyway. “You look like it.”

Bakugo didn’t move. He just watched him. Like he was trying to figure out if this was a setup.

Kaminari leaned back in the chair with a groan.

“You hit like a damn truck, by the way.”

Bakugo snorted. “Should’ve dodged.”

“I did. Mostly. I think you just threw a punch at the air so hard the air gave up.”

Silence stretched between them.

Kaminari’s voice softened a little.

“I’m not here to, like… process feelings or whatever. I’m not great at that stuff.”

“Then get out.”

“Nope.”

Bakugo scowled. “The hell do you want, then?”

“I dunno. Just didn’t feel like letting you sit in here pretending your hand’s not on fire.”

Bakugo stayed quiet. He just kept his gaze anywhere but on Kaminari, like eye contact might make it worse.

Kaminari gestured at the peas. “They’re, like, store-brand. Not even good peas. You should use them before they thaw and it becomes a legume crime scene.”

“You bring me expired fucking vegetables and call it a favor?”

“I bring you comfort and culinary efficiency. You’re welcome.”

Bakugo muttered something under his breath and sat back against the wall, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

“Thought you’d be pissed.”

“I was,” Kaminari said simply. “Still kinda am. But I’m not scared of you.”

Bakugo blinked.

Kaminari shrugged. “You lost it for a sec. That happens. We’re not all shiny all the time.”

A pause.

Then, even quieter:

“I’ve seen worse from people who don’t feel bad after.”

Bakugo looked away.

His fists stayed clenched.

This wasn’t rage.

It was restraint.

Shame dressed like silence.

Kaminari stood.

“You don’t have to say anything, dude. I didn’t come for that.”

He walked to the door.

“Use the peas. Or don’t. I’m not your mom.”

Then, just as he opened it—

“Oi,” Bakugo muttered—low, gruff, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Kaminari paused, halfway through the doorway, and glanced back over his shoulder.

Silence stretched.

Then, with a lopsided grin and a voice way too cheerful for the tension in the room, Kaminari said,

“I know, I know. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll say it was corn.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

He stared at the door for a moment—then his eyes lingered on the peas for another long second.

He scowled—

—and left them exactly where they were.

—————————————————————

They hadn’t blindfolded him.

Big mistake.

He’d memorized the room in under two minutes—cracked brick walls, flickering overhead bulb, dust caught in the still air. Smelled like mold and sweat. Cheap liquor and rust.

Bakugo sat locked into a reinforced chair, metal bracing his ankles, thighs, chest. Arms bound straight down, wrists cuffed to a steel block in front of him.

His back didn’t touch the seat.

He held himself upright.

A thick metal muzzle clamped over his mouth, pressing into his jaw. Tight. Heavy. No room to move, no space to breathe deep. It silenced him.

They were all here. Every freak in the League, like it was a fucking show.

Cowards. All of them.

Toga was cross-legged on the floor, twirling a knife and watching him like a cat watches a mouse that hasn’t decided to run yet. She hadn’t stopped staring at him.

Twice muttered nonsense in the corner, voice overlapping like static in a blender.

Spinner leaned near the door—guarding it, maybe. Or just watching.

Kurogiri hovered behind the bar—still, unreadable.

Dabi leaned against the wall like gravity annoyed him, half-lidded eyes burning holes through Bakugo.

But the center of it all was Shigaraki.

Pacing.

Scratching at his neck, his jaw, his arms—fingers twitching like they were desperate to dig. He moved like someone who’d already won.

He crouched now, just inches from Bakugo’s knees.

“Still angry?” he rasped. “You’ve been angry for hours now. Or is it days?”

Bakugo didn’t flinch.

Die.

The metal dug into his face. He couldn’t twitch. Couldn’t growl. Couldn’t even clench his jaw hard enough to relieve the pressure.

So he sat there. Silent. Staring. Eyes sharp. Locked. Deadly.

Shigaraki tilted his head, smile crooked.

“You’re not scared.”

A beat.

“You should be.”

Bakugo’s wrists flexed against the cuffs. They didn’t move. No slack, no play. Just solid restraint.

But he wasn’t testing them. Not anymore.

He was feeling them. Measuring them.

Planning.

Toga giggled.

“Bet he’s imagining what we look like on fire.”

Shigaraki chuckled.

“That’s the thing. He doesn’t need to say it. You can see it in his eyes.”

He stood, stepped away, dragging one hand across the top of Bakugo’s chair as he passed.

“You know what makes you different from the others?” he asked.

“They scream. Cry. Plead. Even the strong ones.”

He turned.

“But you just burn.”

Bakugo’s chest rose with a sharp inhale.

The muzzle hissed slightly as his breath pushed against the inner filter.

That was all he had right now. That breath.

That fire.

Shigaraki leaned down again. His breath smelled like dust and static.

“I brought you here to ask you something,” the voice said, calm and almost gentle beneath the rasp.

“What is a hero, Bakugo? What is justice?”

Bakugo’s eyes locked onto his, unflinching. His body didn’t move—but the hate in his stare was a live wire.

“They applauded the ones who let us rot. Called it collateral. Called it sacrifice. Called it necessary. The society is rot in a pretty box—and they still bow to it, pretending it smells like hope.”

He smiled, not kindly.

“I watched them turn pain into policy. Turn silence into spectacle. You ever notice that, Bakugo? How heroes only show up once the cameras do?”

A pause.

Shigaraki’s head tilted.

“You’re not their golden boy. You’re the weapon they’re too scared to throw away.”

“And you still fight for them. Still foam at the mouth for a chance to protect their hypocrisy.”

He crouched lower, voice almost conspiratorial now, like sharing a secret:

“We are equal, Bakugo. The only difference is which side of the mirror you were born on.”

Bakugo didn’t even blink.

If he ever got free—
If that metal came off—
If even one part of his body was released—

He would bring this whole place down.

His shoulders ached. His wrists had gone numb. His jaw burned from the pressure of the muzzle, clamped too tight for too long.

But he didn’t sag.

Didn’t bow his head.

Didn’t blink.

Not once.

The chair screeched as Bakugo lunged forward.

But the bolts held.

Toga clapped, delighted.

“Ooooh, he’s got that bite energy. I love him.”

Spinner scoffed. “Is he really worth the hassle?”

Shigaraki straightened,

“Of course he is.” His voice drifted. ”look at his eyes.”

He paced away again, hands in his pockets.

“You know, All Might once told the world a ‘true hero smiles when they save people.’”

He chuckled. A dry rasp of a sound.

“But you, Bakugo Katsuki… you don’t smile.”

Bakugo’s breathing quickened behind the muzzle.

Still no fear. Just heat.

Rage.

“You scream when you fight. You snarl. You destroy.”

Shigaraki turned again.

His eyes gleamed.

“You’re more like us than you want to admit.”

Bakugo’s vision narrowed. His heart pounded like a war drum behind his ribs.

They thought he was contained.

He wasn’t a firework.

He wasn’t a bomb.

He was a detonator.

And he was counting every second.

Shigaraki stepped close again, fingers brushing the side of the muzzle like a parent scolding a pet.

“What? No comeback?”

He smiled, slow and mean.

“Shame.”

Bakugo’s thoughts spun—hot, fast, furious.

Take it off. Take it off and see what happens.

You think I’m like you? I’ll show you what different looks like when you’re bleeding on the floor.

Bakugo shifted in the chair again.

Door’s behind Kurogiri.

Walls are concrete—old, not reinforced.

Ceiling’s high. Too high. But the pipes? Steel. Might carry weight.

His hands twitched in the restraints. Just once.

No Quirk. No voice. Just fire under his skin.

And that’s fine.

Pressure is how explosions start.

“You know what I think?” Shigaraki muttered, voice low. “I think you’re not just angry at us. I think you’re angry at them. The ones who failed you. Let you get taken. The ones who pretended you were fine just because you’re strong.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed.

Fuck you.

“You’d fit in here,” Shigaraki went on. “You really would.”

Suck my dick.

Bakugo strained against the cuffs again, slow this time, testing tension.

Nothing. Locked in tight.

Toga giggled. “He’s thinking all kinds of mean things right now.”

Disgusting. He cut a look at her. She smiled wider. Creepy freak.

Just give me five seconds. Five.
I’ll blow all of you to hell.

Shigaraki turned, same twitchy slouch as always, and gestured lazily with one hand.

“Twice. Take off the muzzle.”

The room stilled—not in fear, just… hesitation.

Twice froze.

“Uh. Boss-man. Love the chaos. Really feeling the vibe. But, uh—he’s got bite in his eyes, man. Real bite. Like, ’gonna-take-a-chunk-outta-my-throat’ bite.”

Shigaraki’s fingers flexed.

“What do you mean? He is one of us.”

Twice looked at Toga like she might bail him out.

“Why don’t you do it? You like getting close.”

Toga tilted her head, pouting.

“I like biting, not being bitten. And he looks like a biter.”

Dabi finally raised his head just enough to mutter, “You’re all morons.”

“Dabi. You do it.”

Dabi shrugged without moving from the wall.

“Not my kink.”

“None of this is about kinks!” Spinner snapped from the corner, scandalized.

Toga giggled.

“Says you.”

Twice threw his hands up and started pacing like he was arguing with himself.

“What if he bites me? I need these fingers, man! They’re, like, my whole deal!”

“You make duplicates,” Dabi deadpanned. “You’ll live.”

“I’ll live with trauma!”

They were still bickering when Bakugo shifted.

Just a little.

None of them noticed.

He was learning the rhythm now—Shigaraki’s patience, Dabi’s cracks, Toga’s attention span. It was a pattern. Like a clock.

They didn’t treat him like a threat.

Keep thinking I’m just a brat with no fuse. Let me watch you fall apart over a strap.

He tugged at the bindings again. Slow. Testing.

Still no give.

But if he could sweat enough—if someone pulled wrong—if he twisted—

Maybe—

Twice finally crept forward, holding the sides of the muzzle like it might explode.

“Okay, Bakugo. Buddy. Pal. No chomping, yeah? Don’t make me a statistic.”

Bakugo stared at him, slow and deliberate.

Couldn’t speak. But didn’t need to.

Touch me and I will ruin the rest of your life.

Twice flinched.

“Okay. That glare’s not a no. That’s not even close to a no. That’s a promise of dental violence.”

Toga leaned in, chin in her hands, eyes gleaming.

“What if he does bite? Would it be romantic?”

“Romantic?” Spinner barked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bakugo eyes tracked Twice’s hands—every twitch, every tremor.

C’mon. Just a little closer.

Twice stepped in close, muttering to himself.

“Just a strap. Just a mouth. Just a demon child with teeth and hate. You got this.”

He unclipped the left side of the muzzle.

Bakugo’s head snapped forward—fast, sharp, teeth bared.

“Gah—“ Twice yelped, stumbling back into the bar. Mugs crashed to the floor, one shattering loud.

”I knew it! I knew he’d bite! Little gremlin freak—he’s rabid!”

Bakugo growled through the half-removed muzzle, eyes blazing with pure, lethal promise.

Toga clapped like it was a magic trick.

“Ohhh, so close! You almost got his nose!”

“I need my nose!” Twice cried. “I only got one!”

“No you don’t,” Dabi muttered. “You’ve got like fifty.”

“Let me do it,” Toga purred. “He wouldn’t bite me. He likes me.”

Bakugo’s growl deepened.

She beamed.

“See? That’s a flirt growl.”

Shigaraki stepped forward again, scratching at his neck, slow and twitchy, like a marionette waiting for a reason.

He crouched low—too close again.

Voice quiet. Dangerous.

“You’re fun.”

Bakugo’s voice rasped out through clenched teeth, low and venomous.

“Lemme out. I’ll kill you first.”

Shigaraki’s lips twitched. Not a smile. Just a crack in something hollow.

“See? That’s why I like you. You don’t grovel. You don’t beg. You’re just angry.”

He unlatched the last clip.

The muzzle hit the floor with a dull thud.

Bakugo’s first move was to spit in his face.

Direct. No hesitation.

Shigaraki didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Bakugo’s voice cut sharp.

“Talk again, freak, and I’ll break every bone in your hand. Slowly. Even the ones you didn’t know had names.”

Toga gasped, delighted.

“He talks pretty!”

Twice peeked out from behind her.

“He talks murdery.”

Shigaraki stood, brushing off his coat like nothing happened.

“You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, almost bored.

Bakugo barked a laugh.

Rough. Mocking.

“You think I’m like you?”

He leaned forward, eyes locked.

“Nah. I don’t need a sob story or a pack of fucking freaks to be strong. I earned everything. You’re just rot in clothes.”

Dabi raised a brow.

Toga whispered, “Uh-oh.”

Shigaraki’s jaw twitched.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

Bakugo didn’t hesitate.

“Rot. In. Clothes.”

Shigaraki’s hand twitches, and a table nearby crumbles into ash—dusted away like dried leaves.

Bakugo didn’t flinch.

Just stared.

Still.

Dead calm.

Until—

Dry, cracked fingers brushed through his hair. Shigaraki’s fingertips rest just barely against Bakugo’s scalp.

No pressure. No grip.

Just threat.

A hundred plans bloom and die in his head. Useless. Worthless. He’s strapped to a chair. Hands bound. No gear. No allies. No exits.

Move? No. He’ll ash me faster than I can jerk away.

Scream? He’ll enjoy that. Not giving him the satisfaction.

Stare? Yeah. Keep staring. Keep him guessing.

All he’s got are his eyes and his teeth and a mind that refuses to stop calculating.

If he goes for it—if I feel it start—I’ll headbutt him. Hard. Maybe knock him back. Maybe break something.

Then what?

He hates that.

Shigaraki’s fingers linger in Bakugo’s hair.

Light.

Teasing.

A breath away from ash.

“…I wonder,” Shigaraki murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “What would happen if I did it? Just one touch. Would the rest of you still scream? Or just vanish?”

Bakugo meets Shigaraki’s eyes like they’re staring each other down across a battlefield, not two feet of stale air and straps.

His pulse hammers in his throat. A metallic tang fills his mouth—adrenaline, fury, spite—but he keeps it down. Chained. Like the rest of him.

Twice mutters something unintelligible from behind Toga’s back, low and shaken. “Dead kid walking. Volcano face. This is bad. This is bad. This is—”

Shigaraki exhales slowly through his teeth.

His fingers press down—not hard.

Just enough.

Just enough to let Bakugo feel it.

That sick promise.

His vision edges white.

Still, he doesn’t blink.

FUCKER.

For a second—just a second—Shigaraki’s fingers twitch.

Bakugo swears he feels the crackle deepen, the Quirk starting to stir—

And then Shigaraki pulls back.

No smile.

No words.

He turns away.

Bakugo’s breath punches out of him like smoke.

His head stays up. His eyes never drop.

But behind the steel of his stare, his skin crawls with residual static.

His scalp burns.

Dabi chuckles under his breath. Low. Almost impressed.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” he mutters.

Toga tilts her head. Her smile returns—soft, sweet, terrifying.

“I think he’s blushing.”

“He’s seconds from combustion,” Spinner grunts. “That’s not a blush, that’s a warning flare.”

Twice’s head pops out from behind her. “Should we—should we be restrapping him? Tighter? I feel like we need tighter.”

Bakugo closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

Long enough to breathe.

Not relax.

Just… reload.

He opens his eyes again.

Just in time to watch Shigaraki drag his nails across the bar as he passes it—metal squeals under his fingers. Not disintegrated.

“Not yet,” he mutters.

And then they all move.

Like the spell broke.

And when the League starts arguing again—over who gets guard duty, over noise—Bakugo’s mind doesn’t stop.

Not once.

…

They left.

Or most of them. The metal door scraped shut fifteen minutes ago.

Bakugo counted.

He heard their voices fade down the hall—Spinner’s grumble, Dabi’s lazy shuffle, Shigaraki’s nails dragging along the wall.

Gone now.

Just two left.

Bakugo. And Toga.

He didn’t know what time it was. This place killed time. Drowned it.

Could’ve been morning. Could’ve been midnight. Could’ve been a week since Kamino. Or an hour.

No windows. No clocks.

Just the flicker of overhead light and the low buzz in his skull that never stopped.

Across from him, she sat like it was a damn sleepover. Legs crossed, head tilted, one sock halfway on. Watching him.

Always watching.

And smiling.

He glared.

She smiled wider.

And talked.

Again.

“I think your blood would taste like firecrackers,” she said dreamily, like she was describing perfume. “Like bang-bang-bang across my tongue.”

Bakugo clenched his jaw.

She’s insane. Completely. Actually. Gone.

He stared her down, hard. Cold.

She didn’t flinch.

“And your eyes?” she went on. “They’re the best. All sharp and angry and mean. You don’t hide anything. It’s like—”

“Shut up.”

She giggled.

Like he’d paid her a compliment.

“See? That’s what I mean. Even when you’re mean, you’re interesting. You don’t pretend.”

God she’s loving this. Freak’s getting off on it.

He grits his teeth and looks away, breathing slow.

Stop giving her what she wants. Stop barking.

Doesn’t say anything else.

Silence.

It stretches long.

For a second, he thought she might be done.

But then—

“I had a cat once,” she said softly. “Bit me when I tried to pet it while it was eating. I liked it more after that.”

What the hell does that mean.

He turned his head, slow.

She was still smiling. But softer now. Tired, maybe. Tilted. Like something had slipped behind the act.

“You remind me of him.”

Bakugo stared.

She hummed to herself, tracing lazy spirals on the floor with one fingertip.

Didn’t giggle.

Just watched him.

Like she was waiting for something.

He leaned back against the chair, arms still bound, ankles locked.

Still trapped.

Still thinking.

Next time. One hand free. One distraction. I’ll rip them apart.

His fingers twitched with the thought.

He closed his eyes.

Didn’t sleep.

Just waited.

The quiet didn’t last.

Of course it didn’t.

Because she didn’t do quiet.

He heard it before he opened his eyes—fabric rustling, soft feet on concrete, the broken-lullaby hum that always preceded her weirdest moments.

He cracked one eye open.

She was closer now.

Too close.

Crouched, knees drawn up, elbows resting, head tilted far to the side like a fox in a glass cage. Her chin sat in her palms. Her smile was too still.

Eyes wide.

Hungry. Interested.

Bakugo stares at her, unimpressed.

“What.”

She grinned, sharp and cheerful.

“I wanna see your face when you’re really angry.”

He just glared.

Low. Cold. Done with this freakshow.

Her grin widened.

Like that was the answer she wanted.

Then she moved.

Sudden. Fluid. Close.

She climbed into his lap before he could blink. One hand grabbed his chin, the other reaching into her skirt pocket.

He recoiled, snarling, muscles straining against the straps.

“The fuck are you doing—!”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Just tilted his head with practiced ease.

“Stop squirming~ I’m not gonna stab you. Yet.”

Something glinted in her hand.

Black plastic.

Bakugo blinked.

“…Is that a Sharpie.”

She uncapped it with her teeth.

“I’m gonna draw a smile on you,” she said, chipper as sunshine. “To match all that sunshine in your heart.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Off.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she dragged the marker across his mouth—a bold black curve, sloppy and permanent.

He jerked at her.

But she leaned back to admire her work, beaming.

“There! Now you look happy.”

Bakugo stared at her like he could incinerate with his eyes alone.

She slid off, flopping to the floor cross-legged like nothing happened.

“You’re funny when you’re furious,” she chirped. “Most boys get boring when they’re tied up. You’re not boring.”

She giggled again.

He turned away, jaw tight, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

Insane. Unhinged. Should’ve bit her when I had the chance.

But then—

She sighed. Long. Quiet.

Almost human.

“You won’t be here forever,” she said, soft. Not looking at him now.

Bakugo’s glare sharpened.

But she didn’t elaborate. Didn’t giggle. Didn’t glance over with some weird glint in her eyes.

She just sat there. Humming. Drawing shapes in the dust.

Like she already knew the ending.

And maybe she did.

—————————————————————

They stop being careless.

They stop playing.

No more long silences. No more long leashes.

The chain is shorter now—just enough to breathe, not enough to brace.
The muzzle goes back on by nightfall. Maybe.

Not to stop him.

To remind him.

He’s not in control.

Today, Shigaraki doesn’t send the others in first.

He walks in alone.

The door groans shut behind him.

The room smells like burnt plastic and dust. Same scorched concrete. Same overhead buzz. Same damn chair.

Bakugo’s shoved into it before he can stand. Bound.

Hands forward.

Ankles strapped.

Click.

The muzzle locks again.

Tighter.

His jaw aches instantly. Every breath tastes like metal.

Shigaraki doesn’t wait. Doesn’t circle. Doesn’t monologue.

He crouches.

Right in front of him.

Too close. Too calm.

He stares into Bakugo’s face for a long, quiet moment. Not smiling. Not speaking. Like he’s studying a crack in marble. Waiting to see it spider wider.

“You still think they’re coming for you,” he says at last. Quiet. Almost gentle.

Bakugo doesn’t move. Doesn’t growl.

But his breathing shifts.

Just a little.

And Shigaraki catches it.

Leans in, voice a slow, poisonous thread:

“You know what I think?”

A pause. Silence breathing down his neck.

“They’ve already forgotten you.”

Shigaraki doesn’t stop.

“That school of yours is all about optics, right? Can’t afford to look weak. Can’t afford to rescue the explosive brat who keeps picking fights and blowing holes in things.”

Bakugo glares so hard his eyes sting. His body is frozen steel. But his eyes burn.

Shigaraki taps the front of the muzzle.

“Let me guess. You’re calling me a freak in your head. Wishing I’d come closer so you could bite my face off.”

He grins.

“I’ve thought about letting you try. Really.”

He stands.

Voice cool now. Dry.

“You’d die, of course. But maybe it’d be worth it. For the message.”

He walks. Slow circles.

Not around the room.

Around Bakugo.

“You’re not resisting because you’re strong,” Shigaraki says, circling behind the chair.

“You’re resisting because you think you’re doing the right thing. That this… makes you righteous.”

He leans in. Voice drops, quieter. Sharper.

“That’s not strength, Bakugo. That’s wasted fire.”

A pause. His next breath is measured, like he’s considering how best to gut a thought.

“You could be something more. You have the instincts. The hunger. But you’re squandering it—trying to be what they want.”

A beat. A smirk Bakugo doesn’t need to see it. He feels it.

“That’s cute.”

Another step behind the chair. Another inch of the noose.

“But one week with us?”

The chuckle is low. Dry. Cruel.

“You’ll stop pretending.”

A whisper now—right near his ear:

“You’ll be asking to stay.”

Bakugo’s fists clench in their restraints.

Hard.

His nails dig in deep.

He feels skin split.

Blood beads against the metal.

But he doesn’t make a sound.

The door opens.

Bright light spills into the room.

Twice leans in first.

“Time for round two?” he chirps. “I made a therapy sock puppet!”

Toga peeks around his shoulder, twirling a needle between her fingers.

But Shigaraki doesn’t turn.

“No,” he says, waving a hand.

“Not yet.”

He walks out past them.

“Let him sit.”

A pause.

“Let it stew.”

Toga lingers. Winks.

Mouths, Later, cutie.

The door closes. Hard.

And Bakugo’s alone again.

…

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

—————————————————————

He doesn’t know how long it’s been anymore. Time is dead.

His mind counts the buzzes of the bulb instead of time.

The slow drip of something leaking behind the wall.

The pressure in his wrists. The shift in his shoulders. The stretch of skin where blood has dried into the metal.

He counts.

He breathes.

And then he loses count.

At some point, it stopped being days and became a blur.

The metal against his mouth feels permanent now. Like he was born with it. Like the shape of his skull changed to fit it.

His jaw’s gone numb. His back aches. His left hand’s asleep again.

He flexes.

Barely.

Just enough to remind himself there’s still a body under all the bindings.

They stopped mocking him when they entered.

Now they just look. They just wait.

Like they think the silence will finish what the fists couldn’t.

Bakugo breathes.

He thinks.

And when thinking hurts too much, he waits.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

—————————————————————

The lights are dim again.

Always are when it’s her turn.

Mood lighting, she calls it.

Bakugo calls it bullshit.

Toga sits cross-legged in front of him, like they’re at a tea party.

There’s no tea.

Just a plastic kit—too clean, too organized—and Bakugo, strapped down like an offering.

The muzzle’s off.

That was her one request.

“I don’t like it,” she’d pouted. “It gets in the way.”

The overhead flickers—yellow, sickly—and the room smells like old sweat and antiseptic that never quite covers the blood.

No leverage.

Just rage.

And the buzz.

…

And her.

She opens the case with a loud plastic snap.

Inside—syringes, capped vials, tourniquets, alcohol wipes. Everything sharp and clean.

Her hand hovered over the kit, fingers twitching as she hummed louder, clearly torn over what to pick.

“Don’t scowl,” she says, glancing up at him. “I brought new needles! No reusing. I figured you’d complain.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer. His eyes do all the talking—glare, glare, die, rot.

Because if he talks, he’ll scream.
And if he screams, she’ll smile.

He won’t give her that.

She knelt in front of him like she was unwrapping a gift.

Bakugo jerked backward the second she reached.

The chain yanked tight across his chest, grinding metal into bone. His wrists twisted inside the metal cuffs. No give.

The lock didn’t budge.

She smiled wider.

“Every time,” she whispered, reaching for his arm. “It’s like a dance.”

Stop fucking moving. She is enjoying it. Stop.

Her hand closed around his forearm. Firm. Controlling. She positioned him like he was hers.

“You’ve got such good veins,” she cooed. “It’s like your blood wants to come out.”

“Get your fucking freak hands off,” Bakugo growled, voice low, sharp, poison-slick,
“Or I’ll rip your fucking throat out with my teeth.”

She giggled. Like he was flirting.

“You always say that,” she purred. “It’s kind of cute.”

Bakugo thrashed in the chair, shoulders straining, muscles seizing with resistance.

“You wanna see cute?” he growls. “I’ll show you cute when I decorate this filthy room with your guts.”

She hummed louder, not even phased.

Swab. Tourniquet. Tight.

His veins bulged under the skin, pulsing like a warning.

She leaned close.

“You make it so easy.”

“You make me fucking sick.”

“You make me curious.”

The needle slid in.

Fast. Too deep. Too smooth.

He hissed—

“You freak. You actual fucking freak. When I get outta here—”

Bakugo gasps between clenched teeth.

“You’re lucky I’m strapped down, you leech-eyed psychopath.”

“Ooooh,” she coos. “New insult. I like that one.”

The vial fills fast. Bright red.

He could feel the warmth draining out of him—slow and dizzying.

Toga switched to the second vial.

Bakugo’s knees kicked hard—violent and desperate—but they were tied too. Ankles lashed to the chair legs with thick leather belts.

They squeaked against the floor but didn’t land a hit.

She kept smiling.

“You’re beautiful when you struggle.”

“I’ll bury you. I swear to god—”

“I bet your blood gets hotter when you’re angry. Wanna test it?”

“Fucking freak,” he spat. “Rot. Die. Freak.”

He will remember this.

He will remember every second.

And next time—
when the cuffs come off—

The second vial clicked out of the syringe, warm and full.

Toga had watched it rise with the kind of attention people saved for falling stars and love letters.

Then the third.

Bakugo’s arm was pale now, limp, punctured in three places, his fingers twitched against the restraints, no longer from rage—
from oxygen loss.
From heat fading.

But his eyes—
his eyes were locked on her.
Hateful. Sharp.

Toga lifted one of the filled vials. Swirled it. Admired it in the dim light like it was wine.

“So pretty,” she whispered.

Bakugo snarled “You’re fucking insane.”

She popped the rubber cap off the vial.

Tilted it.

And drank.

Right in front of him.

The fuck?

She licked her lips, eyes fluttering closed like she was tasting something delicate.

Bakugo gagged in his throat, fists twitching against the restraints.

She didn’t flinch.

She smiled.

“You know what’s funny?” Toga said, tilting the vial. “I always wanted to know what it felt like. To be you.”

Bakugo jolted.

Didn’t dignify it.

He just clenched his jaw, shallow breath tearing at his ribs.

Fucking disgusting.

And then—

Her body shimmered.

Skin tightened, stretched, shifted—

She was fucking him.

His face. His build. His voice.

A mirror, twisted and wrong.

She turned, laughing softly in his tone.

“So grumpy,” she cooed, his voice echoing back at him. “No wonder people can’t stop looking at you.”

Bakugo’s mouth opened—

But he couldn’t speak.

For a second, it was like looking into a funhouse reflection of his own rage.

Wrong.

She leaned in, now him, every movement exaggerated.

Mocking.

“So, Katsuki,” she said with a smirk that looked wrong on his face, “wanna get to know yourself?”

She pulled another vial from the tray—his blood still warm inside—and held it up between them.

Bakugo flinched away instinctively.

“Here. Have a taste. Let’s be close.”

She grabbed his jaw.

And before he could jerk away—
before the chair could creak—
before his legs could kick—

She poured it into his mouth.

Warm.

Metallic.

His throat convulsed.

He spat it back immediately, choking, gagging as the taste hit him.

The chair shook under him as he thrashed—

violent. desperate. revolted.

He turned his head and vomited hard to the side of the chair, body jerking forward with the force of it.

“YOU FUCKING BITCH—”

His voice cracked open.

“I’ll FUCKING KILL you—I swear to every goddamn thing—I’ll blow your fucking face inside out, I’ll cut your fingers.”

He jerked forward.

“ YOU HEAR ME?! I’M GONNA FUCKING BURN YOU OUT!”

She didn’t flinch.

She licked the corner of her lip—still in his skin—and smiled.

“Now we really match.”

He lunged again, eyes red, body trembling with rage.

But the chains held.

The chair held.

His body gave out before the fury did.

He slumped forward, still breathing hard, spit and bile clinging to his lip.

“You’re gonna die screaming,” he hissed, voice low and ragged. “And I’m gonna be the one who makes it happen.”

She turned toward the corner of the room, where a rusted metal mirror hung crooked on the wall. The reflection wavered in the flickering light, catching him—her—as she stepped in front of it.

She leaned in close. Smiled at her reflection.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “So angry. So sharp. Like a knife about to cut.”

She dragged a finger down the cheek—his cheek.

“No wonder I like you.”

Behind her, Bakugo’s breathing turned heavy again.

The chains creaked as he strained against them, shoulders trembling.

“Stop it,” he growled.

Toga—still him—grinned in the mirror.

“Now I know how it feels to be you. That’s even better.”

She smirked at her reflection. Posed a little.

Then she leaned closer. Lips puckered.

And kissed the mirror.

The image of him warped in the glass under the smear of saliva and blood.

“You’re disgusting,” Bakugo rasped. “A fucking parasite.”

Toga turned, still wearing his expression, now twisted in delight.

“I think I look beautiful in your face.”

“You look like a fucking joke.”

Her smile faltered.

Just for a beat.

Then came back sharper.

“You’ll see it one day,” she said, walking toward him. “The truth. That all this anger—it means something. That’s what makes you—”

“Shove it up your ass.”

Bakugo’s voice cut like glass.

Toga finally stopped right in front of him.

Face to face.

His face.

She tilted her head, eyes shining with something cracked and sad.

Her hands went to the plastic case. A snap. A click.

The syringe slid out again. Smooth. Familiar. Too practiced.

“Just one more,” she said gently.

Like she was offering a glass of water, not stealing from him.

Shit.

He was shaking—from the way this felt more intimate than a fight and more violating than a wound.

When the fuck she is going to stop—

She uncapped a fresh needle. Slotted it in.

“You’ve got so much inside you,” she said, voice drifting again. “And I want to know all of it.”

Bakugo bared his teeth.

“You’ll know what it feels like to bleed out if you don’t step the fuck back.”

She ignored him.

Her hand wrapped around his arm again—right over the fading bruise from the last draw. The needle slid into place.

His whole body went stiff.

Hissed.

She didn’t pause.

Didn’t care.

Blood flowed. Thick. Red. Too fast.

Bakugo gritted his teeth.

His stomach churned.

He could feel the weight leaving his limbs again—a dull buzzing. A slow unraveling.

His vision swam.

“You better hope I never stand—fuck!”

She pulled the fourth vial out—another filled. She held it up, admiring the color like it was a sunset.

She looked at him—really looked.

Still in his face.

Still smiling.

Another.

Then another.

He was sweating. His jaw’s slack.

But his voice didn’t falter.

This was all he could do now.

“You’re not even a villain.”he spits—
“Just trash in a schoolgirl costume. You suck blood ‘cause you’ve got nothing worth bleeding for.”

That lands.
Her smile twitches — something mean and brittle underneath it.

She swaps the vial without a word. Slower this time. Controlled.

Bakugo shifts forward, chains groaning under the tension.

“You think I’m fucking scared of you?”
His grin is sharp. Crue.
“You think draining me makes you matter?”

Keep talking don’t drift.

“You’re a leech with a knife fetish. I’ll scrape you off my boot on the way out.”

Her voice comes quiet.
But it cuts.

“You really don’t know when to shut up.”

Bakugo sneers.

“Come closer. I’ll say it loud enough to crack your skull.”

…

He lost count, maybe Four vials. Five. Sixth one’s on the tray.

She switched arms. Left’s blown. That means next time, she’ll go for the neck.

“How are you still awake?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His mouth was dry. Tongue too heavy. Eyes half-lidded.

Focus. Count the vials. Remember her hands. Her weight. Her patterns. This matters. This isn’t death. This is fuel. I’ll use this. I’ll burn it later.

Toga leans forward.

Her nose almost touches his.

“Y’know what I really like?” she whispers. “When the ones who talk the most… can’t stand anymore.”

Bakugo’s head slumps slightly.

Not far. Not enough to lose eye contact.

He breathes hard, each inhale a fight.

She smiles again. Too wide.

Then, with sick sweetness, she licks the blood running from his arm.

Right up the puncture line.

Bakugo snarls, whole body shaking with fury he can’t release.

“You’re filth….”

Toga sighs. Dreamy.

“You taste like fire. Like something that wants to live.”

“You’re gonna taste like concrete—“

His breath ragged.

Fuck focus.

“when I slam your face into the goddamn floor.”

His head dips lower.

The blood loss hits. Hard.

Breath shallow. Shoulders twitching.

“One more vial. I swear to god—”

She caps the last one.

Slides the needle out.

Doesn’t press the gauze.

Just watches the blood run.

“You’re still talking,” she murmurs. “Even now.”

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

“And I’ll keep talking,” Bakugo snaps, breath hitching. “’Til I shove these chains down your throat.”

But his voice is slurring now.

Each word slower.

His body slumps forward an inch.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers. “It’s kinda beautiful.”

“You’re delusional. You’re all—”

“You’re so mean when you’re dizzy.” she interrupts gently.

Freak. Freak. Freak.

His vision tilted. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore.

He snarls again—but it’s quieter now. Muzzled by exhaustion. Heat fogs his brain.

The room buzzes. His thoughts slowed,

Her mouth was moving with nonsense, Bakugo didn’t bother focusing on her now.

His head dropped.

Just an inch.

He jerked it back up. Gritted his teeth.

Don’t pass out. Not yet. You need to see her. You need to remember this—So when the cuffs come off—when you stand again—you never hesitate.

Another flicker behind his eyes.

Shit.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

Stay up.

His neck refused to listen. His head dipped again, heavier this time. His vision narrowed—tunneling around her shape, her smirk, the glint of his blood in her hand.

Toga tilted her head, still in his face, still smiling. “You’re trying so hard,” she whispered.

Fuck you.

His arms twitched. Barely. His fingers curled and uncurled against the restraints like they still thought they could fight.

He was too far under.

The buzzing in his ears deepened. Thicker. Slower. Like static dragging him toward the floor.

Another breath. Sharp. Then a shallower one.

Then—

He slumped forward.

Dropped.

Like a puppet whose strings had been slowly, methodically cut.

Head dropping forward, breath shallow.

Toga watched him.

Still smiling. Humming like she is enjoying every second of it.

She sets the vials back in her case like precious keepsakes.

Then Toga giggled and cradled his arm like a doll. “You’re way cuter like this, y’know?”

Bakugo didn’t growl or glare.

He was out.

Finally.

The door creaks open.

Dabi steps in. Takes one look.

Bakugo’s slumped. Pale. Bleeding.

Toga’s mouth is red.

“…Seriously?” Dabi says flat. “You’re licking him?”

Toga turns, beaming.

“Wanna try? It’s like battery acid and victory.”

“Yeah, no,” Dabi mutters. “Basic villain rule: don’t tongue the corpse.”

“He’s not dead!”

“Yet.”

Dabi turns, walking out like it’s a boring Tuesday.

Two corridors later—

“Hey, Shigaraki,” he calls, boot kicking open the lounge door. “Boom-boy’s dead.”

Shigaraki looks up, blinking.

“What?”

“Dead. Probably. Your favorite little schoolboy is lookin’ real chalky. Toga was gettin’ mouthy with his arteries.”

Spinner chokes on his tea.

Twice shrieks, “Nooo! I liked him loud!”
Then he gasps, “No! No, no, no—just nap-dead, right? Like nap-nap coma-dead?”

Compress doesn’t even look up.

“I told you this would happen.”

Shigaraki stands.

Calm.

Hands flexing once.

“She said she’d be careful.”

Dabi shrugs.

“Well. She wiped her needles. That’s technically care.”

Shigaraki walks past him.

Not fast.

But focused.

And behind his steps—
the quiet crackle of decay.

—————————————————————

He wakes up to white.

Not clean white—peeling, stained, yellowing at the corners kind of white. Ceiling tiles that look like they’ve soaked up years of smoke and rot. One flickering light overhead hums a pitch just high enough to set his teeth on edge.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

His arms don’t move.

Neither does his legs.

He tries again. Nothing. Something tugs at his skin when he shifts—cuffs. The familiar sting of an IV, buried in the crook of his arm, makes his stomach twist.

He’s being kept alive.

Wrists bound to cold steel rails. Ankles too. A wide canvas belt cuts across his chest just under the ribs. Tight. Not hospital-grade. Makeshift. Like everything else in this dump.

There’s a faint rattle when he tugs again, harder this time.

“Try that again and I’ll sedate you,” a voice croaks.

Bakugo turns his head slowly—neck stiff, jaw dry, tongue like sandpaper.

In the far corner of the room, hunched over a tray of instruments, is him.

The so-called “doctor.”

Gloves already on. Goggles fogged. Lab coat stained.

Not U.A. standard. Not even close. This man looks like he crawled out of a morgue and decided to set up shop.

His voice is reedy and careless when he speaks again. “Your blood pressure crashed. You’d have bled out if I didn’t give you fluids.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer.

His throat feels shredded. He wouldn’t talk even if he could.

The doctor waddles closer, eyes flicking to the monitor beside the bed. “You’re lucky, y’know. Very lucky. Little Toga girl nearly drained you like a Capri-Sun. Delightful girl, poor impulse control.”

Bakugo glares at him.

It’s all he can do.

The doctor’s breath smells like iron and chemicals. His gloves squish faintly when he adjusts the line in Bakugo’s arm.

He pretends not to notice the way the boy flinches.

“You’re going to stay right here for a while. You heal fast. That’s good. We need you in one piece.”

He says it like property maintenance, not medicine.

The overhead light buzzes louder. Bakugo closes his eyes for half a second—just to get rid of the sound—but it doesn’t leave him.

He catalogues everything automatically:

Two exits. One behind him, one to the left.
One window, too narrow to fit a body through, reinforced with bars.
Tools on the tray. Scissors. Scalpel. Syringe.
He could kill a man with three of those if he wasn’t tied like this.

Bakugo shifts—just enough to test the limits of the cuffs. They don’t give.

But the sound of the metal straining draws the man’s gaze again.

“Don’t bother. Quirk-suppression cuffs. Custom-designed. You’d break your wrist before you break those.”

Bakugo opens his mouth.

Voice like smoke,

“You design ‘em?”

The doctor pauses.

Surprised.

“Me? No. But I did calibrate them to your musculature. I had to adjust the wrist torque after your last… outburst.”

Bakugo grits his teeth.

“What else did you calibrate?”

“Oh,” the doctor chuckles. “Trying to reverse-engineer your escape already?”

“Tryin’ to see how scared you are.”

The doctor stills.

Then leans forward.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“And you’re deader than you think.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

Bakugo keeps staring.

But in his mind, the thoughts rip.

I’ll kill you. I’ll tear your hands off first. Then your fucking throat.

He is sick of it all.

The next time they unstrap him, someone’s bleeding.

Even if it’s him.

…

Silence.

No shuffling lab coat. No syringes clicking in a tray. No low, gurgling monologue from that Frankenstein-ass doctor. Just the buzz of the busted overhead light and the low, hissing beep of a monitor that’s been stuck at the same reading for an hour.

He hasn’t seen the doctor since the last injection. No more footsteps. No voices.

Bakugo’s alone.

His head turns slowly, cheek grinding against the crusted pillowcase. One eye scans the room.

No shadows in the corners. No breath in the doorway. Good.

His hands are still bound — not just cuffs. These were designed for him. His wrists are locked in quirk suppression restraints, chained directly to the side poles of the bed. If he so much as tried to sweat, nothing would spark.

He’d tested it already. Twice. Nearly dislocated his thumb on the second try.

They weren’t bluffing.

He knows he can’t fight like this.

His eyes flick to the cuff housing.

Sturdy. Polyfiber shell. Likely a magnetic lock inside. Reinforced joint at the connection to the rail, but not unbreakable.

If he could twist his arm just right…

Bakugo exhales slow. This is going to hurt.

He braces.

One. He yanks—hard—to the left, slamming the outer edge of his cuff against the steel bar. Bone grinds. The metal doesn’t budge.

Two. He twists his wrist until the bones strain. Ligaments pop. He doesn’t stop. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. He bares his teeth.

Three.

He lurches sideways and rips his right arm up and over the bed rail and—

—PULL!

FUCK—!

A white-hot spike of pain knifes through his whole torso. His body arches. His throat goes hoarse from the scream he barely lets out. But his wrist’s free. His hand dangles, limp, useless now — most likely dislocated.

His body trembles,

He slams his shoulder back against the mattress edge until something grinds. Until the bone almost slots back. It doesn’t — not fully — but it’s enough to move.

His heart was doing that thing—punching his ribs like it was trying to escape.

Steady, he told himself.

He tears at the strap across his chest, blood smearing over the buckle. It resists at first. Then breaks.

The left is tighter. Less give. No angle.

He twists the arm. Slowly. Then faster. Then slams it once, twice against the rail.

Nothing.

Again.

The pain spikes—white-hot, like knives through his elbow. The bone doesn’t move. The restraint holds.

He snarls, yanks again—hard—and something shocks through his shoulder.

But the cuff holds.

Too tight.

He pulls his bleeding, trembling right arm over his stomach and reaches for the other cuff — pulling the joint up against the rail again and again, bone-on-metal, over and over, until—

Blood spatters the sheets.

“Fucking c’mon—”

He claws at the cuff with his bloody fingers. Each tug slices skin. Each flex digs rust into the torn meat of his hand. Blood smears the frame. His arm shakes violently.

He curses, spits, thrashes once—but he knows.

Left arm’s not coming out.

He grabs the IV line—rips it out. Trailing a long thread of blood down his forearm.

Then he cranes his neck down. His legs are slick with sweat. Every movement feels wrong—like his bones are underwater.

He angles his right hand down—shaking, bleeding—and starts working at the strap across his right ankle.

It takes minutes.

His fingers don’t work right. Every tug sends lightning up his leg. The canvas is soaked in blood where it’s rubbed raw.

Pulls.
Pulls.
Pulls.

It comes loose.

He moves to the left—barely able to reach. The pain gets worse. Throbs. Ticks. Spikes.

He slips.

Tries again.

His breath comes ragged. Every inhale slices his ribs.

The strap gives.

The legs are his again.

Sort of.

They’re too weak to stand.

But they still move.

That’s enough.

Half-free.

One hand. Both legs.

He’s almost there—

The skin around the left cuff is shredded now—deep, wet, red. Too swollen. Too thick to slide through.

He knows what that means.

The restraint isn’t the only thing he’ll have to break.

His eyes flicked to the tray on the far side of the bed—out of reach.

The scalpel.

Small. Silver. Sharp enough.

Right there. Laughing at him.

Bakugo’s breath hitched once. Just once. Then—

“Fuck this.”

He leaned forward, arm jerking back instantly—too short. The chain pulled taut. Metal screeched against metal.

He couldn’t get farther than the edge of the mattress. Could barely bend his knees without the chain digging into his spine.

He clenched his jaw.

Fucking hell.

He tried again.

The same.

Every inch forward pulled the cuff tighter. Dug it deeper into the raw cut on his wrist. Sent fresh blood sliding down to his elbow.

He looked at his legs.

Then the bedframe.

The bar.

Let them hear.

Didn’t think.

Just moved.

He braced his knees on the mattress and dragged the weight of the bed with him—inch by inch—metal shrieking across concrete.

His shoulder screamed. The chain jerked harder. The whole rail threatened to snap his damn socket—

But the tray was closer.

Just barely.

One more pull.

One more grind of restraint over skin.

He lunged.

Fingers stretched—

Scalpel.

Cold in his grip.

Finally.

He dropped to his knees, left wrist still locked to the bed, blood dripping onto the floor in quick, wet ticks.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t pause.

Just turned the blade inward.

Slid it under the cuff.

And cut.

Deep.

Fast.

Through torn flesh and already-bruised tendon.

The pain hit like a truck. His whole arm locked.

He hissed through his teeth,

Once I get my quirk—I’m gonna burn this place down.

I’m not escaping.

I’m fucking ending this.

Pressed harder.

Twisted.

The meat of his wrist split open—raw and red and wet—and still he pulled.

“Fuck—“

The cuff groaned.

Didn’t give.

He pressed harder.

Fingers shaking. Elbow bent wrong. Blood running down his arm, dripping off his chin.

He grit his teeth.

Slammed the restraint against the bar.

Once. Twice.

Blood runs fast—thicker now, darker. It coats his hand, the floor, the frame.

The sound—bone on steel—cracked through the air like a gunshot.

He couldn’t see anymore. Could barely think.

Then—

The cuff gave.

It didn’t slide.

It ripped.

The skin tore open, clean through the seam he’d carved with the scalpel. Nerve, muscle, meat—it all went loose.

The metal slipped.

And so did he.

The sudden release threw his whole weight backward.

Shoulder slammed the floor. Spine jarred. His head cracked back into the concrete.

A breath flew out of him like a punch to the gut.

Then—

Silence.

Everything swam.

Just… static in his ears and the throb of his pulse behind his eyes.

He didn’t move at first.

Didn’t breathe right.

The pain roared so loud it felt like someone else was screaming in his skull.

And yet—

His hands were free.

For real this time.

Both of them.

He dragged his right hand, slow and shaking, up in front of his face.

It didn’t even look like a hand anymore.

He couldn’t tell where the bruising ended and the cuts began.

It didn’t feel like his.

For a second—just a second—he wondered if they’d switched his body while he was out. If this wasn’t his at all.

He let out a laugh.

Quiet.

Short.

It was fucked up.

A second.

Then—

He felt it.

That flicker in his chest.

That hum.

That spark.

That thing—that charge just under the skin. The way his palms always pulled tight before an explosion. The tension in his fingers before sweat ignited.

He breathed in—ragged, ready.

His palm flexed.

Nothing.

He blinked.

Again.

Focused.

“Come on.”

Every muscle, every thread in his body reached for it—called it.

He clenched his fist. His whole arm tensed.

Still nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

His stomach dropped.

A weight slammed into his lungs—not panic.

Wrongness.

He stared at his hand like it had betrayed him.

Like it wasn’t his anymore.

No spark.

Just silence.

He gritted his teeth.

“Fuck you—“

He slammed his hand into the floor.

Blood splattered.

Nothing.

The fury boiled so fast it made him dizzy. It fought for room with the fear.

Not fear of dying.

Fear of this.

Of being empty.

His quirk was gone.

He didn’t know how.

He didn’t know why.

But he knew gone when he felt it.

Bakugo stared at the ceiling like it had stolen something from him. Like if he glared hard enough, maybe the universe would give it back.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

He was still fucking stuck here.

His breath came fast. Sharp. Shallow.

Cornered.

Panicked.

His heart thudded like it wanted out. Like maybe it could run if the rest of him couldn’t.

Blood was everywhere.

Spattered across the tray. Pooled under the bed. Painted up his forearms in thick, drying streaks.

He looked down at his hands. Both of them.

Shaking.

Raw.

Useless.

For the first time in his life, Bakugo Katsuki’s hands didn’t mean anything.

Not weapons. Not warnings.

Just wreckage.

He couldn’t even recognize them. One was swollen to hell, the other torn open. Blood soaked the creases of his fingers, dark and tacky, seeping down his wrist like his body was trying to drain itself empty.

He turned his left hand over. Stared at it. It barely looked human. Just a mess of pulp and pain. Barely his. It betrayed him.

Then he looked up.

The door.

Still closed, standing.

Fuck this hell.

He rolled, slow and crooked, until his ribs screamed from the twist.

His good hand scraped across the concrete. Nails first. Then skin. Then bone.

Found the scalpel.

Slick. Sticky. Still sharp.

Gripped it.

Too hard.

The blade bit back into his palm, reopened skin.

Then he dragged his elbow under him. His leg twitched once, refused to move.

Didn’t fucking matter.

He shoved with his shoulder, gritted his teeth, and pushed up off the floor.

Blood smeared under his palm. His knee slipped in it.

His foot hit the ground—wrong. Like someone had disconnected the wires.

Still, he stood.

Shaking.

Lurching.

One leg at a time.

Like it was instinct. Like he didn’t need muscle, or nerves, or even oxygen—just hate.

He leaned on the wall to stay up.

Head spinning. Hands twitching at his sides like they still wanted to throw something, like they didn’t know the blast was gone.

One arm barely moving right. The other barely moving at all.

Pain shot up through. A reminder.

He clenched his jaw.

The bed was behind him now. The rail. The cuffs.

Everything they used to hold him still.

He took one step.

Then another.

They forgot who the hell they were dealing with.

Even without his quirk—

He’s still Bakugo Katsuki.

Nothing left in his chest but rage.

And rage moves.

Someone was going to bleed for this.

Chapter Text

The hall outside the room is colder.

Wider, too.

He doesn’t recognize it. Could be underground. Could be somewhere deeper in the compound. Doesn’t matter. The lights are flickering again, humming overhead like they’re laughing.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

He walked.

Every step feels like someone’s digging a knife into the meat behind his knee.

He presses a bloodied hand to the wall, dragging it behind him.

The scalpel in his right hand drips.

He doesn’t know if it’s his blood or someone else’s.

Was he bleeding?

There are doors lining the corridor. Most are shut. One’s cracked. He doesn’t look inside.

He just keeps walking.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance—“ he muttered.

Eyes ahead.

Vision tunneling.

He doesn’t care where it leads.

Just as long as it leads to somewhere.

Then—

A sound.

Footsteps.

Light.

Not Dabi’s boots. Not Shigaraki’s dragging shuffle. Not a guard.

These were soft. Careful.

He knew that sound.

Knew it down to the marrow.

He turned the corner—

And there she was.

Toga.

Hands behind her back. Head tilted. Smile razor-sharp.

Like she’d been waiting for him.

“Oh…”

She tilts her head and whispered, like she’d just walked in on a painting.

“You look pretty.”

His fist clenched around the scalpel.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz.

His breath was a rasp—shaky and uneven. His body sagged, but his eyes didn’t blink.

Toga stepped forward.

Not too close.

Just enough to block the hallway.

“I was coming to check on you,” she said lightly. “But I guess you’re up and bleeding already.”

That sweet, manic nothingness in her fucking tone.

Like she hadn’t drained him dry.

“Move,” he said, voice hoarse.

She tilted her head. “They’ll notice soon, y’know. If I call Dabi—”

She didn’t finish.

Her hand drifted toward her skirt pocket.

She didn’t even get halfway.

— Bzzzt… flicker.

Bakugo lunged.

A raw, animal motion. Instinct more than strategy.

She moved—

Too late.

He slammed into her full-body—no coordination, no control. Just blood, gravity and hate.

They hit the ground hard. Her head cracked against it, his knee drove into her hip. His arm shot out—

The scalpel went in.

Below her collarbone.

Her breath caught in her throat. Eyes wide.

“Katsu—?”

He stabbed again.

And again.

Deeper.

Again.

The handle slipped in his palm, wet with blood—his and hers—but he gripped harder.

“You think this is love?” he hissed. “You think this is how people fucking show it?!”

She shrieked, kicking at him, trying to scramble back, but he pinned her by the wrist with his shattered hand and drove the scalpel in—

The blade cracked.

Half the blade stayed buried in her chest.

Toga wheezed—blood pooling under her back. Her mouth opened, and this time no words came out.

She tried to smile.

Even as blood began to soak the front of her shirt, thick and spreading.

Bakugo’s chest heaved.

“You think this is some game?” he whispered, voice rough, broken.

The handle clattered to the floor.

His hand trembled too hard to hold it anymore.

No scalpel?

Fine.

Crack—

Once.

Bare knuckles, knuckle-to-teeth.

“You bleed me out,” he roared. “You fucking smiled while I pass out—”

Toga’s breath hitched.

Again.

Remember what she did.

Again.

His fist slipped.

Don’t stop.

He hit her again.

“You licked it off my skin—”

He grabbed her collar. Slammed her head back against the tile. Her eyes rolled.

“You DREW ON MY FUCKING FACE—”

Crack.

“You’re a fucking disease—”

Crack.

His knuckles split.

The pain didn’t register.

Just pressure. Momentum. Rage.

The hallway echoed with each hit. Fist to bone. Gasp to grunt.

Again.

He didn’t feel it anymore. Not the bruises on his palm. Not the burn in his ribs. Not even the bite in his lip, still leaking his own blood down his chin.

“Your filthy hands—”

CRACK—

“You don’t—fucking—”

CRACK—

CRACK—

She wasn’t fighting back anymore.

Her breathing had slowed.

Wasn’t even looking at him now.

Maybe she was still smiling. Maybe not.

He didn’t see it.

He kept going.

Even when his vision blurred.

He punched again.

He was somewhere else.

Lost in it.

…

Blood.

Dabi smelled the blood before he saw it.

Then—

A lot of it.

Spattered across the wall, soaking into the cracks of the concrete floor like it belonged there.

And Bakugo—barefoot, hunched like something half-broken and half-feral—was crouched over what used to be Toga.

Breathing hard.

Hands red up to the wrists.

He was shaking. No—he was vibrating. Head low, body heaving with each breath like the only thing keeping him upright was the rage still boiling in his veins.

The scalpel—what was left of it—was on the concrete beside her.

Toga’s limbs were slack. Her skirt was soaked through. Her chest rose, but barely.

“…What the fuck?” Dabi said flatly.

No answer.

Just kept breathing.

Short. Fast. Brutal.

His fists were cracked and trembling, fingers still curled like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t hitting anymore.

Dabi didn’t move either.

Not yet.

No one did.

Bakugo looked at Toga, then back up at Dabi.

Like he was ready to keep going.

Dabi didn’t flinch.

Didn’t reach for her.

Just stepped forward.

His boots hit blood and left prints.

“You really wanna do this?” he asked, slow, almost lazy. “You’re half-dead, sparkplug.”

Still no answer.

Just that look.

That pure, bone-deep rage Dabi recognized too well.

He’d seen it in a mirror once.

He raised a hand, palm already glowing blue at the edges.

“You’re lucky I hate cleanup,” he muttered, fingers twitching.

Bakugo lunged.

Sloppy. Desperate. Fast.

Too fast.

Dabi blasted a blue flame across the space between them—not hot enough to kill, just enough to knock him sideways.

But Bakugo kept coming. Didn’t even pause.

The flames caught the edge of his sleeve—lit it up in a blink.

Bakugo tore it off mid-step and threw the charred fabric aside.

Then he was there.

Swinging.

Dabi ducked the punch—barely—and slammed his elbow into Bakugo’s ribs.

Something cracked.

Bakugo coughed, but didn’t back down.

Didn’t know how to back down.

Every hit he threw came from a place that didn’t care what broke.

His own bones. Someone else’s. Didn’t matter.

His eyes were pure fire—wild, unhinged. He looked like he didn’t even know who he was anymore.

“Fucking—hell,” Dabi muttered, sidestepping the next strike. “You don’t quit.”

“I’ll kill all of you,” Bakugo rasped, breath ragged. “—if I have to crawl, I’ll take you with me.”

Dabi let the flame surge again—right hand blazing, a column of fire meant to keep him back.

Bakugo ran through it.

Through it.

Skin blistered on contact. His leg buckled—but he caught himself, drove his shoulder into Dabi’s chest, knocking both of them to the wall.

“You’re insane,” Dabi growled, grabbing Bakugo by the collar with one hand and pressing the other—still burning—against his chest.

He threw his head forward—headbutting Dabi square in the mouth.

Blood.

Dabi staggered back, wiped his lip,

Laughed once.

Dry. Sharp. Unamused.

“Okay,” he said.

“No more games.”

He grabbed Bakugo by the hair.

Flames surged up his arm.

Blue. Hot. Cruel.

He slammed Bakugo against the wall and pinned him there with a palm to the chest.

“You wanted heat?” Dabi hissed. “Let me show you mine.”

The fire burned in.

Skin sizzled.

Bakugo’s legs kicked out, but they had nothing left. His screams ripped out of him hoarse—no strength behind them. His arms tried to push, grab, anything—but his fingers slipped off Dabi’s jacket, too slick with blood to hold.

Dabi leaned in, voice low in his ear.

“You’re bleeding from like five places and you’re drugged. What exactly are you planning to do—bleed at us until we drown?”

Bakugo spat blood at his face.

It dripped off Dabi’s chin.

He pulled back—

And punched Bakugo in the jaw. Hard.

The boy’s head cracked the wall behind him.

His eyes rolled back.

Dabi stepped back and watched him slide down the wall.

Still twitching.

“Told you,” Dabi muttered, “Half-dead.”

He didn’t kick him again.

Didn’t need to.

Bakugo wasn’t moving.

Just slumped there, eyes half-lidded, blood trickling from everywhere.

Alive.

Barely.

“Hey,” Dabi said over his shoulder, already walking away, “Tell Shigaraki he’s all yours now.”

—————————————————————

He woke with a gasp.

Already mid-breath, like he’d surfaced from drowning.

He blinked up at the ceiling, heart pounding.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone.

Not again.

Same one.

Same goddamn ceiling.

The hum was still there too — low and steady, with a flicker every six seconds. Bakugo’s mind counted it before he could stop.

He wasn’t on the floor anymore.

His ribs ached. Shoulders, too. Dragged back against the chair again — wrists locked, ankles pinned, everything bound so tight it felt like his pulse didn’t belong to him anymore.

No blood.

He blinked once.

Twice.

He flexed the fingers on his right hand.

Numb, sluggish — but not swollen. Not broken. No crunch. No sting.

The left?

Same.

His legs?

Fine.

No evidence.

What the hell?

His breath caught.

His wrists had been cut to shit.

But now?

Nothing.

Nothing but restraints, sweat and the chair.

I saw it.

His jaw twitched.

I stabbed her.

“They… must’ve patched me up,” he whispered, half-daring the room to confirm it.

His voice was hoarse.

Still real. him.

But his body?

It didn’t hurt enough.

He glanced down again.

No bandages. No dried blood. No gauze.

No scars. Not even a scratch.

No signs of anything.

So where the hell—

Had it been a dream?

His pulse jumped.

No. No way.

That wasn’t a dream.

Is she dead?

Why would I care.

I didn’t stop.

She deserved it.

He didn’t stop.

I broke my hands—

Where is it?

Where’s the pain?

“How many days…” he muttered.

No clock. No calendar. No sun. No fucking clue.

He looked at his hands again.

“Am I still dreaming now?” he murmured. Voice low. Low enough that maybe the room wouldn’t hear it.

Whatever was listening didn’t answer.

They’d scrambled him.

Or worse—they were resetting him.

Like a goddamn toy.

This is what they wanted — to carve him out, piece by piece, until even his own memories couldn’t be trusted.

Fucking psychos.

Is this what they wanted?

Did they fuck with my head so bad I don’t even know what’s real?

He leaned forward, teeth grit, throat raw.

Silence.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He took a shaky breath.

“I’ll do it again.”

—————————————————————

The air didn’t breathe.

— Bzzzt… flicker.

It clung.

Buzz—gone.

Heavy with rust, mildew, the echo of burnt things that wouldn’t stay buried. The kind of air that made you feel like you were being forgotten in real time.

And the silence?

Silence was the real captor.

Sat there, thick as concrete, pressing on his chest like it wanted in.

He could hear his heartbeat louder than his thoughts.

Then—

Bzzt.

Flicker.

Buzz.

Gone.

The light in the far corner stuttered again.

The rhythm had teeth now. A heartbeat that wasn’t his.

Bakugo stared at it.

Breath slow.

Eyes red-rimmed—from the fight it took just to stay awake inside his own skin.

One. Two. Flicker. Buzz. Gone—

Again.

Again.

He’d counted for hours.

Maybe days.

Time here wasn’t real. It melted like skin under flame. Folded in on itself and came back wrong.

Another flicker.

Bakugo’s lip curled.

“…Tick-tock, you little shit,” he muttered to the bulb.

The light didn’t answer.

It blinked like a dying eye.

Bakugo leaned his head back against the chair. The cuffs didn’t let him rest—just held him in that perfect tension. Ankles numb. Wrists carved raw. One side of his jaw still throbbed from the memory of a hit that might not have happened.

He wasn’t sure anymore.

“Thought you’d burn out before me,” he muttered, to the bulb. “Guess even trash gets stubborn.”

Bzzt.

Flicker.

He exhaled through his teeth.

Sharp. Measured. Tasting blood, or maybe just memory.

“Y’know what’s funny? I got out. I fuckin’ got out.”

His laugh was short. Bitter.

A pause.

Then lower:

“Should’ve died in that hallway.”

Bzzt.

“Would’ve made more sense.”

Flicker.

His eye twitched.

“Instead I’m here. Watchin’ a dying bulb mock me.”

Another flicker.

Another breath.

“Fuck you.”

He stared harder.

The silence pressed closer. Thicker. It sat behind his eyes.

He tipped his head back again, throat dry. It scratched when he breathed.

Bzzt—buzz—gone—again.

He whispered, voice frayed like old wire.

“I swear—this place… this fuckin’ place—”

“—it’s like it wants me to lose it.”

Bzzt. Flicker. Buzz. Gone.

He exhaled. Slow. Unsteady.

“If I die in here, it won’t be them.”

“It’ll be that piece of shit makin’ me lose my mind one blink at a time.”

The silence came back.

Brutal.

He spoke to it anyway.

“If I go out in this shithole, I swear—I’m blowing the shit out of you.”

His fingers twitched against steel.

“I don’t rot easy.”

And then he went quiet again.

—————————————————————

The door creaked open.

Slow. Lazy.

Like even the hinges had given up.

Boots hit the floor.

Measured. No urgency.

Bakugo didn’t lift his head.

He didn’t have to.

The smell of char and soot got there first.

Dabi.

Of course it was him.

“Still alive?” the voice asked, casual like checking the weather.

Bakugo looked up. Slow. Controlled.

Dabi leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, stitched mouth drawn in that permanent near-smirk.

No mention of the hallway.

Just the hum of the overhead light and the familiar taste of metal behind Bakugo’s teeth.

“Was starting to think they’d forgotten about me,” Bakugo muttered, voice raw.

Dabi shrugged. “Nah. You’re a popular guy.”

Bakugo narrowed his eyes.

“Could’ve fooled me. No check-ins. No questions. Not even a cleanup crew.”

Still no reaction. Dabi just scratched the side of his neck with one scarred knuckle.

“You want a mint on the pillow too?”

Bakugo ignored the jab.

He shifted in the chair, tugging slightly at the cuffs—just enough to sell the discomfort, not the calculation.

“You’d think someone would’ve fixed the light,” he said casually.

It flickered again. Buzzed.

Every six seconds.

“Hmm,” Dabi hummed.

Bakugo’s lip twitched. “Still wearing the same boots.”

That earned a blink.

Dabi looked down at his feet, then back up.

“What, you want a fashion show?”

“Nah,” Bakugo said. “Just weird. Thought you’d’ve changed after—”

He let it hang.

Waited.

Dabi didn’t bite.

“After what?”

Bakugo leaned forward as far as the cuffs allowed.

“I don’t bleed easy.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“You saying I’ve been quiet this whole time?”

Dabi pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room.

“Dunno. Maybe you’ve been screaming. Maybe not.”

He crouched, low and casual.

“Maybe it’s all in your head.”

Bakugo didn’t flinch. “Maybe it’s not.”

“Then I guess you better remember it right.”

Eyes still locked on him. Bakugo sat back.

Nothing.

Nothing to confirm the blood, the screams, the scalpel.

So what was it?

He hated not knowing.

And Dabi?

Dabi didn’t give him anything.

Silence.

It stretched too long.

“Shigaraki’s been real quiet about it.”

He stood, stretching out his fingers.

Flames curled blue at the tips.

“But now?”

He shrugged.

“Yeah. He’d kill you now. No speech. Just dust.”

Bakugo didn’t move.

Then Dabi’s voice, soft but sharp:

“If you’re fishing, try a deeper hook.”

Bakugo looked at him.

Dead in the eye.

His voice sharpened, “You’d think I did something.”

Dabi smirked.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched.

So that’s how it was.

No denial.

No confirmation.

Just fog and flame and fuck-you silence.

Dabi let the flame dance higher.

“You remind me of someone,” Dabi said, voice low. “Someone who used to scream just like you.“

The flames flared. Hungry.

“This won’t be a lesson.”

His hand came up.

Blue light against the dim ceiling.

“This is gonna be catharsis.”

The flame surged.

Paint on the wall behind him curled.

The metal frame of the chair creaked in protest.

“Let’s see,” Dabi murmured, fire glowing between them, “what you really remember.”

He tilted his hand, slow and controlled—like he had all the time in the world.

Then—

The flame touched his forearm.

Not all at once.

Just a small, searing circle of skin—slow and deliberate.

Hiss.

The heat crawled up his nerves like it had teeth, chewing its way in.

Bakugo gritted his teeth.

His breath hitched, short and sharp. His legs twitched involuntarily, muscles spasming. The metal cuffs groaned where he strained.

Don’t scream. Don’t curse.

Dabi let go.

The burn glowed angry red. Bubbling. Raw.

“That’s one,” Dabi said quietly.

Bakugo spat at his boots.

A twitch of Dabi’s smile. Small. Crooked.

Then—

His hand reached for Bakugo’s jaw.

Slow.

Confident.

Like he already owned the outcome.

“This only stops when you’re useful,” he said, voice rough with smoke and heat. “Join us… or leave your face behind.”

Another flicker above them—
Bzzt. Buzz. Gone.

Bakugo breathed hard. Jaw clenched.

“Same script. Every time,” he rasped. “Like y’all think I’ll forget what happened five minutes ago.”

“Like I’ll forget what I am.”

He lifted his chin—defiant,

“I’m Bakugo fuckin’ Katsuki.”

“If you think some flickering light and a few burns are gonna erase that…”

A pause. A smirk.

“…you’re dumber than you look, Ashtray.”

Dabi tilted his head. The flame in his fingers flared.

“Yeah,” he said, almost smiling. “He used to talk like that too.”

Then the second burn landed.

Below his chin, too close to the throat. The skin cracked under the heat like scorched parchment.

Bakugo’s body snapped tight. Jaw flung open with a soundless grunt.

Reflex. Pain. Rage.

His spine arched against the chair, but the cuffs held. Always held.

Teeth slammed shut, a tremor running down his back.

He choked out a breath that sounded more like a growl.

“You ever feel your face melt?” Dabi murmured. “I do. Every time I breathe.”

Then—

The third burn came fast—under his eye.

No warning.

A half-snarl, half-choke that ripped out of him before he could stop it.

His arms snapped forward, steel dragging deep, skin tearing against the edges.

White.

Vision flared.
Pain detonated behind his eyes like a flashbang in his skull.

He slumped.

One shoulder dipped. His chest heaved.

Breathing shallow.

Eyes open—but not focused. Still fighting.

Dabi stood, brushing off ash like this was routine.

“That’s three.”

Bakugo sagged. The burn on his cheek hissed, flesh curling at the edges. The smell of charred skin thick in the air.

Blue light returned.

Small. Precise. Cruel.

Bakugo jerked, muscles twitching under blistered skin.

“Get your fucking rotten hands off me—!” he snarled, breath catching on every word.

The flame pressed higher—near his temple this time.

The smell hit first.

Hair. Skin. Something underneath.

Then—

Pain.

“Shit—!”

He kicked, knee crashing into the chair’s frame. Teeth clenched so hard his skull felt like it would split in half.

“F–fuckin’—ngh—”

The world stuttered, black dots blooming like rot.

Dabi leaned close. Breath hot.

“You’ll burn for us. Or we keep peeling the skin off your face until there’s nothing left but yes.”

Bakugo spat blood, weakly this time—it hit his own lap.

“F–fuck. Off.”

Another burn.
Over his chest. The same place—the old wound. Rewritten. Reopened.

Everything inside him twisted.

The world lurched sideways.

His throat moved, jaw wide open—

Only pain.

Everything went white.

“You’re still here,” Dabi muttered, almost thoughtful.

“Didn’t expect that.”

Bakugo’s lips moved. A curse—maybe. Maybe a breath.

He slumped forward,

Didn’t pass out.

Not fully.

The world dimmed, heavy and slanted. Like drowning with his eyes open. But Bakugo clung to consciousness like it owed him something.

…

Pain pulled him back.

Always did.

His face felt like it had been torn off and stapled back on.

He blinked once.

It hurts.

The air shimmered.

Still burning.

Dabi hadn’t left.

He raised his hand again.

“Let’s see what happens when I hit the eye.”

Bakugo didn’t really feel it, maybe he did.

A breath rattled in his chest.

Don’t black out—don’t black out—don’t—

—————————————————————

The buzz came first.

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone—again.

Bakugo snapped awake like someone had kicked him in the chest.

Sweat already coated his skin, cold and clinging. His breath shot out in short bursts—fast, sharp, uneven. His fist was halfway clenched around nothing, the knuckles white, nails biting into calloused palms.

The ceiling above him swam in the dark.

But the noise—

That fucking buzz from the old light outside in the dorm hallway.

Same pitch. Same rhythm.

Same as—

He shoved himself upright with a ragged curse, heart hammering like it was trying to blow a hole through his ribs. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows digging into his knees, trying to breathe like a human being again.

“Shit…” he whispered, throat dry.

He could still feel it, though. The chair. The cuffs. The needle. The way Dabi leaned in too close, and the way his skin blistered under a hand that didn’t belong near anything alive.

Fucking freaks.

Bakugo gritted his teeth and dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair. It came away trembling.

The lights.

He hated those fucking flickering lights.

He rubbed his forearm.

Maybe some of them real. Some of them not. He didn’t know where the line ended anymore.

Didn’t matter.

Bakugo got to his feet. He paced once, twice.

Then sat back down.

Calm the fuck down. It’s not there. You’re not there. They’re not here.

But the buzzing returned.

Just faint, from the hallway.

Flicker—buzz—gone—again.

Bakugo stared at the door.

Then got up again. This time slower.

The cold tile under Bakugo’s feet was sharp enough to ground him, but it didn’t stop the tremble in his jaw.

He stood in the hallway in his sweats and hoodie, arms crossed. The faint hum of electricity buzzed from the cracked ceiling light overhead.

Flicker—buzz—gone—again.

That goddamn sound. It hadn’t meant anything before Kamino. Now it lived in the marrow of his bones.

He ran a hand down his face and snatched the phone out of his hoodie before he could talk himself out of it.

Fingers hovered over the screen.

He called.

It rang once. Then twice.

“This better be an emergency, Katsuki—” her voice barked through the line, half-asleep but still sharp.

He didn’t speak at first.

Silence held.

Just the buzz of the dorm light.

“…Mom.”

That word—it came out quieter than he meant it to.

The line went quiet.

Then softer, “…What’s wrong?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

His grip on the phone tightened.

He swallowed.

“…Can I sleep at home tonight?”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then her voice, lower than before. “I’ll come get you. Ten minutes.”

Just: Ten minutes.

Bakugo stared for a second before hanging it up.

He didn’t go back to his room.

He just stood there in the hallway, under that flickering light, breathing slow.

Ten minutes.

He could wait ten minutes.

…

The dorms stayed quiet.

Not asleep—U.A. never really slept—but hushed enough that even the hum of the hallway lights felt louder than it should.

Bakugo sat on the bottom step of the stairwell, elbows resting on his knees. He hadn’t grabbed his shoes.

His toes were starting to go cold against the tile.

He didn’t care.

Ten minutes.

Just ten.

He didn’t check the time. Didn’t scroll. The phone sat heavy in his hoodie pocket, as if lighting up would set him off again.

Instead, he stared at the floor.

Counted cracks in the linoleum.

The way the dirt built up in the corner tile seams.

He tried not to listen to the buzzing above his head. But it kept slipping through, quiet as a memory he didn’t ask for.

Flicker—buzz—gone—again.

It didn’t hurt.

Not really.

It just felt like waiting for pain.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, chest tight, eyes dry but burning.

He didn’t feel the cold under his feet anymore.

Didn’t notice the wetness on his palm until it dripped from his knuckle onto the stairwell.

He looked down.

His nails had dug in again.

Old habit.

Then something pulled him.

Just a shift.

Like pressure behind the ribs.

A quiet part of him stood up before he told it to, hands shoved into his hoodie, steps dragging.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t wonder.

He just moved.

Bare feet over cold tile.

Out of the dorms, through the front door.

And there she was.

Headlights off.

Engine humming soft in the dark.

The car parked just beyond the gate.

Bakugo slowed when he saw her in the driver’s seat. She hadn’t gotten out. Her hands sat on the wheel, one finger tapping slow, steady, like she was holding back from reaching for her phone again. Hair pulled up in a lazy half-twist like she’d left the house fast.

Like she hadn’t even bothered with proper shoes.

Like she hadn’t hesitated.

She saw him through the windshield.

No squint. No wave. Just a nod.

He opened the passenger door and slid in without a word.

The doors clicked locked.

She didn’t pull away instantly.

Didn’t look at him either.

Just turned the heat on low and adjusted the vents toward his feet.

“You forgot your shoes,” she said.

He grunted. “Didn’t feel like it.”

The engine rumbled under them.

She drove.

The interior smelled like old upholstery and cheap car freshener. Clean, but lived in. Like home.

Then, eyes still on the road, she muttered, “You look like hell.”

“You look like you crawled outta a whiskey bottle.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

He snorted. Folded his arms. Pressed his forehead to the window.

The streetlights streaked past.

Outside, everything was dark, cold and quiet.

Inside, his chest felt too loud.

She glanced at him. Said nothing more.

Neither did he.

They pull away from the school.

Silence, for a while. The kind that isn’t awkward — just thick. Like they’re both thinking too much.

She exhales through her nose, glances at him sideways. “You gettin’ sleep at all?”

“…No.”

“Figures.”

Another few blocks pass. She doesn’t press. He doesn’t offer.

Then, softer—

“You hungry?” she asks.

“No.”

“You eat today?”

Silence.

She sighs, long and hard.

“We got leftovers,” she says, “I’ll heat somethin’ up. You don’t gotta eat it. Just sleep, if you want.”

He doesn’t answer.

And when she pulls into the driveway, he doesn’t get out right away.

He just sits there, staring through the windshield. That same buzzing sound in the back of his head.

Until her voice cuts through it, low, solid:

“You’re home, Katsuki.”

He blinks.

Then gets out.

The key clicks in the lock.

Bakugo steps into the entryway. The hallway smells like the same lemon cleaner his mom’s always used, sharp and a little too clean. The lights are off, but Mitsuki doesn’t bother flipping the switch. She drops her purse on the narrow table, keys clattering beside it.

“Trash day’s tomorrow,” she mutters absently, toeing off her heels. “Don’t forget.”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to. She wasn’t really asking.

The house is quiet. Still. Not like the dorms — no footsteps overhead, no hallway murmurs. Just walls and silence and the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

He turns toward the hallway.

“Oi,” she calls.

He pauses halfway down,

“What?”

Her arms are crossed, like she’s preparing for an argument.

“Your dad’s outta town. Don’t be weird. Just crash in my room.”

Bakugo squints at her. “Why?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re askin’ that like you didn’t call me outta nowhere and sound like hell. I’m not gonna let you sulk alone in that tomb of a room you never clean. Just—shut up and do it.”

He looks away, jaw tight.

“Tch..”

The he shuffles down the hall behind her.

The bedroom is the same as always — a mess of throw pillows, laundry in a basket, two water glasses on the nightstand. His dad’s side of the bed is perfectly made.

Mitsuki climbs in like it’s routine. Bakugo hesitates by the doorway.

“Don’t hog the blanket,” she warns.

He mutters something under his breath and lies down, stiff and motionless, fully clothed.

The ceiling fan ticks softly overhead. Wind outside brushes against the windows like something trying to get in.

Neither of them says goodnight.

But before he drifts off—if he even does—he hears her voice, low and quiet in the dark:

“…You don’t have to talk.”

No answer.

“You got that from your dad. Bottling crap until it breaks something.”

Still nothing. But his breathing shifts.

“…You called me. That’s enough.”

The silence returns.

She doesn’t say it, but her hand shifts under the blanket — just close enough that if he wanted to reach out, he could.

Bakugo doesn’t move.

Just exhales, steady. Eyes wide open.

—————————————————————

His head hung low.

Neck stiff from being tilted forward for too long. Vision blurred. Throat dry—raw like he’d been coughing smoke for hours.

The fire. The screaming. The smell of burning flesh—his.

Then, nothing.

Again.

He exhaled. No surprise left in it.

Was it the first day again?

Was he starting over?

He gave a short, humorless laugh.

“You’ve been quiet,”

Calm. Almost bored.

Bakugo didn’t lift his head.

He stared at his hands.

Like if he focused hard enough, the burns would show again. The pain would return. Something would prove this wasn’t just a loop.

Bakugo slowly raised his head.

Eyes sharp.

But his voice—when it came—was hoarse. Wrecked.

“This is hell, huh.”

Shigaraki blinked once.

Then shrugged.

“Maybe.”

He crouched in front of him, resting his arms on his knees.

“You know what I want, Bakugo.”

Shigaraki smiled.

Thin. Hollow.

“Whatever it is that keeps you going. That anger. That pride. I want what’s up here—”
He tapped his temple.

“—and what’s in here.”
He tapped his chest.

Bakugo stared at him.

But when he finally spoke—

It was still venom.

“You want what’s in my head?”

He looked up fully now,

“Too bad. It’s full of ways to kill you, Rotten bastard.”

Toga giggled from somewhere behind him.

Bakugo didn’t flinch. Not this time.

He glanced over. Saw her perched on a table, legs swinging. Same as always.

She grinned.

“Still so grumpy, Katsuki. Even after all this bonding time?”

He blinked slowly.

Didn’t I shatter her face?

Shigaraki leaned back on his heels. “You’re on autopilot now.”

Bakugo rolled his shoulders—tight against the cuffs.

“Yeah? Then press restart already. Burn me. Rip me open.”

He tilted his head back, hitting the chair with a dull thunk.

“I’ll just wake up again. Spit in your face again. Lemme save you the speech—‘join us, Bakugo,’ ‘we see your potential,’ ‘we are the same,’ fucking nonsense—”

He leaned forward—shoulders grinding in the cuffs—

“I’ll still tell you to choke on it.”

Shigaraki stood up slowly.

Looked down at him.

“This is your last chance.”

It wasn’t a threat. Just a sentence. Like saying the time.

Bakugo stared back.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Shigaraki stood still, staring down at Bakugo.

The air had shifted—colder, quieter.

Then Shigaraki spoke. Not to Bakugo. Not to the League.

His voice was reverent. Uncharacteristically soft.

“Sensei… lend me your strength.”

Bakugo blinked. A harsh laugh broke from his throat.

“Sensei? Aren’t you supposed to be the boss here?”

Shigaraki didn’t react.

He turned his head slightly.

“Kurogiri. Compress. Put him back to sleep.”

Compress exhaled through his nose, long and theatrical.

“I can’t believe he’s still resisting. After everything.”

He stepped forward. Calm, collected. Polished glove sliding into place.

Toga tilted her head, knife tapping her thigh. “Katsuki’s boring today.”

“But I’ll admit… I admire the conviction.” Compress added.

Bakugo’s chains creaked.

“If you want me to listen, then get on your knees and beg!”

Then—

Knock.

Everyone froze.

A voice came through the metal door, muffled but bright:

“Uh—hello? Pizza delivery?”

A beat of silence.

Twice, half-whispering, half-panicked:

“We didn’t order pizza. Did we order pizza? I didn’t order pizza.”

“No one ordered pizza,” Spinner muttered.

“Are we ordering pizza now?” Toga asked.

Bakugo didn’t say a word.

Didn’t blink.

His head snapped toward the door.

Suddenly—

The wall wasn’t just gone—it disintegrated.

A shockwave punched the air out of his lungs.

Rubble crashed. Lights shattered. The heat of battle flooding the bar like a goddamn sun had been born inside it.

Bakugo’s head snapped toward the destruction, heart thudding so hard it hurt. But his eyes locked on only one thing.

Him.

All Might.

The silhouette through the smoke, golden hair rippling behind him, fists clenched, eyes burning like they were the only thing left in the world that still had weight. No scratches. Just power and fire and purpose.

Everything else faded.

Bakugo’s breath stuttered.

“Kurogiri—get us out—!”

Shigaraki’s voice was sharp, but Bakugo barely heard it.

Didn’t care.

He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the chaos beyond the wall. He saw movement—a blur of green, brown, blue.

Tree limbs?

Kamui Woods. He wrapped the League in thick branches. Tight. Fast. Clean.

Toga shrieked. Compress tried to vanish. Dabi flared—

A blur slamming him unconscious before the flame even lit.

Gran Torino.

“Too slow, punk.”

The man didn’t stop moving, didn’t waste time gloating. He zigzagged through the chaos, air pressure bursting under his boots. One moment he was flattening Dabi, the next he was in front of Bakugo.

Gran Torino dropped low, hand reaching fast. His wrinkled brow pulled down in a tight line as he examined the restraints.

“Stay still,” he muttered. “I’ve got you, kid.”

Bakugo’s eyes were still locked—unblinking, disbelieving—on the one man at the center of it all.

All Might…

He didn’t realize someone had gotten behind him until his restraints clicked open.

Click. Snap.

The metal loosened. Fell.

The pressure left his arms so fast it made him sway. The weight he’d been holding onto—vanished all at once. He nearly fell forward.

Shit.

Gran Torino caught him under one arm,

“Easy,” the old hero said, more gently this time. “You’ve been restrained a while. Can’t expect your body to remember everything at once.”

No.

Is this another trick? Is this more of their shit?
Is this some Quirk?!

He was hallucinating again. Just like before. His brain was broken. He didn’t trust it anymore.

He couldn’t stop looking around. Couldn’t stop waiting for the reversal.

For the fakeout.

For the pain.

Gran Torino was still talking—radio chatter. Backup. Exit point. Police. None of them made sense. Not to him.

He was still staring at All Might. Expecting it to change. For the illusion to drop. For Shigaraki to laugh.

Gran Torino must’ve seen it on his face—something, at least—because he paused, hand steadying Bakugo by the shoulder.

All Might stepped into the smoke like a storm in motion. His eyes swept the villains like they were already defeated. And then—

They met Bakugo’s.

That single second punched harder than any explosion.

All Might’s face softened.

“This must have been terrifying,” he said, voice low, steady, real. “You did good, young man.”

Bakugo blinked. His mouth pressed into a tight, stubborn line—but his eyes stung. Hot. Sharp.

No. No.

You don’t cry now.

All Might stepped forward.

“I’m sorry, Bakugo. But you’re safe now.”

Bakugo’s breath shuddered out of him.

“I wasn’t scared,” he rasped. “I wasn’t fucking scared, dammit—”

A voice, thin and metallic, sliced through the smoke.

“After all we’ve been through,” Shigaraki said, eyes wide with something unhinged, “the planning, the careful timing…”

All Might shifted, just slightly, keeping himself between Bakugo and Shigaraki without even thinking. A barrier. Instinctual.

“You said you’re not alone,” Shigaraki sneered. “Neither are we.”

His head snapped toward Kurogiri.

“Kurogiri—bring them.”

A beat.

No response.

“Kurogiri.”

Another pause.

The warp gate didn’t come.

Shigaraki’s voice dropped, cold. “What’s wrong?”

Kurogiri’s voice buzzed. Glitched. “Apologies, Shigaraki Tomura. The Nomu… they were stationed, but… they are not there.”

“What?” Shigaraki snapped.

“You lack experience,” All Might said suddenly, calmly. His hand was on Bakugo’s shoulder. Warm. Steady. “You underestimated us.”

“You’ve mocked us long enough,” All Might continued, his voice carrying weight,

He stepped forward, just slightly, and Bakugo felt it in his spine. That power. That presence.

“You thought we’d hesitate?” All Might said.

he said, louder now, stepping toward Shigaraki. “You underestimated our anger. The Nomu—”

He paused. Tension prickled the air like static.

“—have been neutralized. This ends now.”

All Might didn’t speak. He declared. Like the world had no choice but to listen. Like fate itself would bend if he said so.

And Bakugo—
He couldn’t stop staring.

He couldn’t feel his hands, not really. His vision still swam from the pressure and the fucking weight of it all, but—

The voice in his head kept whispering: He came. He came. It’s really him.

And for a second—
Bakugo wasn’t a hostage.
Wasn’t Quirkless or afraid.

He was just a kid again.

Looking at him like he’d hung the damn sun. Like if All Might said the world was safe, then it was, because how could it not be?

Shigaraki’s face contorted.

His voice rasped through clenched teeth,

“You call this the end?” he spat, struggling to rise as the branches of Kamui Woods dug into his limbs, holding him down.

“I’ve barely even started.”

His eyes gleamed with a feverish light, face twisted, half-hidden behind the pale hand clamped to his face.

“All that talk about justice… about peace…”

He chuckled—dry, bitter, broken.

“It’s just a lid you’ve slapped on a pile of garbage.”

He strained against the restraints, every word shaking with hatred and resolve.

“I’ll tear it all down. Every inch of the rot you’re trying to polish.”

“And you think this is over? That I’ve been working alone?”

“I’ve started gathering real allies. People who don’t hide behind empty slogans and shallow ideals.”

He lifted his head, the fingers of that grotesque hand casting jagged shadows across his eye.

“This isn’t the end, All Might.”

His mouth curled into a cracked smile.

“This is the beginning—!”

The air broke.

A pulse. Wet. Wrong.

Black mud split open on both sides of him—something in them twitched, shivered, shuddered too hard, too fast. Out of the void: limbs. Snarls. The heavy wet slap of muscle.

Nomu. Dozens.

Roaring from the dark like dogs let off chain.

Pro-heroes surged forward instantly—Kamui Woods shouting formations, Gran Torino’s voice cracking sharp orders. Power flared in every direction.

But Bakugo wasn’t moving.

His heartbeat skipped in his ears, then slammed back, too loud. His vision warped slightly at the edges, like the world had tilted by a few degrees and no one else noticed.

He staggered half a step back.

And then—

Something moved under his skin.

A twitch.

Small. Like a muscle spasm, just under the ribs.

Then again, sharper.

Then higher.

What the—

His hand shot to his stomach. His fingers dug into the side like he could claw it out. He opened his mouth to breathe, to scream, to anything—

—but what came out was black.

Black and slimy, like tar and fog had given birth to something alive and it was crawling up his throat.

He choked.

Stumbled.

“What—” his voice cracked. A wheeze. He couldn’t feel his tongue.

The edges of Bakugo’s vision blurred.

It ripped through him.

His ribs snapped inward, chest collapsing as the warp gate cracked open through his mouth, pulling his body through it piece by piece.

Everything went lightless.

Then—air. Ragged and sharp in his throat.

Bakugo coughed, hard.

Gasping. Hacking. His voice cracked raw.

“The hell—?”

He was still coughing when the shadow stepped forward.

“Sorry, Bakugo.”

Smooth. Measured. Like it had all the time in the world.

Bakugo looked up, breath caught halfway through a snarl.

And froze.

A figure stood there—tall and still like the shadow of a monument that shouldn’t be standing anymore. The air bent around him—like gravity was warped. The suit was black. Elegant. Out of place.

But the mask—

That blank, pitch void of a face with slitted, mechanical filters that hummed as he breathed—like a machine stitched to muscle and hate.

Bakugo’s blood ran cold. Sweat stung his brow.

“You’re here after all, aren’t you?” All For One said, calmly.

Then—

CRACK—!!

Something tore the sky open.

A flash.

A roar.

All Might dropped from above like judgment itself, slamming a fist down like it could tear the earth in half.

The shockwave blew concrete to dust.

Bakugo was hurled backward, his spine slammed concrete. Wind knocked out of him.

He grunted, barely caught himself from crumpling. Sound ringing. He blinked through doubled vision.

No. He forced himself up.

“Run, Tomura,” he said, like it was an afterthought. “Take that child with you.”

Bakugo’s eyes flicked fast across the scene.

The freaks—all of them—surrounding the open space.

Toga smiled when their eyes met. Like she was glad to see him again.

Like this was a reunion.

Bakugo’s pulse spiked.

He flexed his hand. Nothing. No heat. No crackle.

His quirk wasn’t working.

Shit.

A gate opened near Shigaraki.

He was still dragging that mangled hand over his face, trying to stand.

Bakugo’s breath came fast, shallow.

Fucking hell.

His body moved without waiting.

He stepped forward.

Fight pose. Wide stance. Shoulders squared.

No quirk. No support. Just him.

He glared at the portal.

Not unless it’s over my fuckin’ corpse.

“What a pain.”

His fists were still fists.

He moved first.

The second Dabi lifted his hand, Bakugo closed the gap and kicked it aside. The flames barely missed his face. Spinner lunged, that jagged-ass blade swinging too wide, too eager. Bakugo ducked under and slammed a shoulder into his ribs, sending him staggering.

“Come on then!” he barked. “What, you scared of one guy?!”

Hands scraped concrete behind him. Toga. He spun, caught a glimpse of her twisted smile, knife raised.

Then—

WHHHR—

Ice?

It screamed up from the cracked asphalt—lurching, rising, rising—

A cliff of frozen water. Towering. Splitting the battlefield.

Bakugo’s breath caught as the cold hit his sweat-slicked face.

And then—

There.

In the air.

Four eyes. Deku. Shitty hair.

Kirishima leaned forward,

“COME!” Kirishima shouted, eyes wide, hand out like it was his own damn lifeline.

Bakugo’s knees bent. He knew what to do. Knew how to launch.

Target your hands. Fire off the blast.

Launch up.

Only—

Nothing.

No quirk.

His palms stayed cold.

His hands useless.

Dead weight.

He staggered, chest heaving, eyes wild.

Fucking pathetic.

His eyes flicked toward Shigaraki, who was bolting straight at him again, sprinting across the battlefield with that grotesque hand raised, dust curling behind him.

Screw that.

Bakugo dropped low. Ready again.

Fine. No Quirk? Then I’ll beat you bloody barehanded.

He braced, ready to lunge, to tear this freak apart with raw fury if he had to—

WHHHHRRM—

A wall of ice shot between them, blue, jagged and sudden. Bakugo staggered back as frost bloomed across the floor.

“What the—?”

He didn’t have time to finish. He was grabbed by wrist—

“Move!”

No explanation, no hesitation. Just action. Todoroki’s iron grip yanking him down the corridor, boots hammering the ground. Bakugo barely kept his balance.

Another figure ahead—

Yaoyorozu.

She was running backwards, facing them, something already materializing from her arm. A sleek black canister—no, smoke bomb—launched behind them as a second one formed in her hand. The air behind them filled with a thick, suffocating cloud.

They were vanishing.

Smart. Controlled. Perfect timing.

The smoke swallowed Shigaraki’s screams.

Bakugo’s feet barely touched the ground as Todoroki yanked him through collapsing corridors, turning fast corners.

Bakugo snarled. “My Quirk—!”

“Whatever suppressant they used, it’s temporary,” Yaoyorozu said, panting, already pulling out another device from her arm. “We just need distance.”

Todoroki didn’t say a damn word—just kept his grip on Bakugo’s wrist like a vice, half-dragging him. Ice shot out with every step, freezing the ground behind them.

Down a maintenance tunnel. Into a hatch. Underground now. Bakugo’s head was spinning. His legs screamed. His ribs were on fire.

He hated this.

He hated this.

Being the one pulled along. Being the mission.

But he didn’t stop running.

Didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t need to.

Not because he wanted to run—

But because they came.

The maintenance tunnel curved left—then opened up into a concrete utility corridor that looked half-demolished by the earlier chaos. Momo led now, still conjuring more canisters, eyes scanning every dark corner.

Todoroki was quiet, focused, hand never once letting go of Bakugo’s arm.

“Let go, icy-hot,” Bakugo growled, still breathless, “I’m not dead weight.”

“I’m not taking chances,” Todoroki shot back, blunt.

“I’ll shove you into the next wall if you keep talking like that.” he barked, nearly tripping over broken asphalt.

“Good,” Todoroki said quickly, voice level but tense. “Means you’re still conscious enough to threaten me.”

Bakugo opened his mouth to argue—

“Katsukiii~!”

Bakugo’s spine stiffened before he even turned.

Toga.

The voice was syrupy sweet and insane.

She darted into the corridor like a shadow come alive, knife already gleaming in her hand, blood smudged across her cheek like makeup. Her tongue flicked out once, just for fun.

“You’re running away again? So boring. I thought we were having a moment~”

“Fucking psycho,” Bakugo hissed.

Todoroki dropped low, dragging Bakugo with him as the blade whipped over their heads. Momo spun, pulling a collapsible staff from her side—one she must’ve prepped minutes ago.

CLANG.

Steel met steel as Toga slashed again, eyes wide, breathing erratic.

Todoroki moved in like a ghost.

One hand slammed to the floor—
WHOOSH—

He raised a wall of ice—but Toga was too fast.

She flipped over it.

Bakugo snarled, practically foaming.

“Lemme at her. I’ll break her fucking teeth.”

He lunged, shoulder-first, but he stumbled.

He was slow. Off-balance.

He hated this.

“—goddammit!” he barked, swaying.

Todoroki dragged him back by the collar. “Bakugo, stay back!”

”Don’t waste time. She’s stalling!” Momo shouted, tossing down a compact disc-shaped object.

Flashbang.

Bakugo’s teeth ground together. He knew it. She wasn’t here to kill them. She was here to delay.

“Keep moving!” Momo snapped. “She won’t chase if we break line of sight!”

“Like hell I’m running—!”

Bakugo was ready to lung—but Todoroki’s already dragging him, boots skidding across the concrete, hauling him hard away from the battlefield.

“I can fight!” he snapped.

“Not like this,” Todoroki shot back. “Stop being a liability.”

Momo pulled another canister from her belt—smoke this time—and slammed it down.

The corridor filled instantly. Choking, white fog.

Confusion was their weapon now.

They ran blind. Every footstep counted.

…

The hallway twisted ahead — too long, too narrow and half-collapsed, lined with exposed pipes and flickering lights. Bakugo stumbles once—his legs won’t keep up—but Todoroki didn’t stop—he yanked Bakugo forward with a grip that didn’t match his usual calm. Tight. Urgent.

Bakugo’s bare feet slapped the concrete hard, slipping once on broken tile. The cold bit into his skin. colder than any ice. Every step is pain. But he ran on instinct, hunted by adrenaline and rage.

He didn’t ask for help. He didn’t slow down.

But he was swaying.

Hard.

They turned a sharp corner—

“Shit—” Bakugo hissed, stumbling again.

“Bakugo,” Todoroki said, not slowing, but glancing back. “You good?”

Bakugo’s teeth clenched. “Just fucking run.”

“Come on,” Momo called, voice steady. “There’s a way out past the sublevel. Kurogiri can’t warp what he can’t predict.”

Bakugo tried to match pace—but his legs were folding.

He stumbled again—harder this time—one hand smacking the wall, the other tightening around Todoroki’s grip just to stay upright.

“Damn it—” His voice cracked.

Todoroki stopped. “Hey—“

He didn’t wait for a response. Just shifted, arm slinging around Bakugo’s back.

It burned.

Everything fucking burned.

Bakugo yanked his arm away.

“Don’t touch me—” Bakugo gasped, dragging in air like it owed him something.

His legs weren’t listening. Not fully. One was shaking now, the other numb from the ankle down, whether from cold or adrenaline drop, he didn’t know. The cold floor was eating through him—

“I’m fine,” he snapped, “Just—fucking keep moving.”

Todoroki didn’t answer.

Because he saw it.

The way Bakugo’s body dipped. His balance faltered a second too long. His breathing was too loud. Too fast. His skin—pale. Slick with sweat, sticking to the collar of his shirt.

Bakugo hit the wall again—shoulder-first this time. Didn’t even curse.

His foot dragged.

It wasn’t like him. Not the usual fury-driven stomp. This was slow. Heavy. Sloppy.

Not a choice.

A warning.

Todoroki grabbed his arm—firm, no room for argument.

Bakugo growled low. “Let go—dammit—I said I’m—”

He didn’t finish.

He swayed.

One moment tense, cursing, stubborn—

The next, his weight leaned too far right. His knees gave out. Like a switch flipped.

“Shit—!” Todoroki nearly fell with him. He adjusted fast, yanking Bakugo’s arm over his shoulder, weight shifting awkwardly.

Bakugo’s teeth ground together. “Don’t—carry me—”

“I’m not,” Todoroki lied. “Just helping you run.”

Bakugo’s feet barely lifted now. One step. Then another. Every few steps, Bakugo’s heel scraped the floor instead of lifting clean. His weight dragged, body slumping harder into Todoroki’s side with every turn.

But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t protest again.

“Bakugo, still with me?”

Bakugo’s eyes fluttered. He tried to speak. Something about staying upright. Something about being Bakugo Katsuki.

But the words slurred out.

His breath was ragged, head dipped forward, blond hair sticking to his temple. Still conscious—but barely. His limbs were locked with tension, like he was trying to keep standing out of sheer spite.

Todoroki tightened his hold.

“He’s out,” Todoroki muttered. “Damn it.”

He shifted grip, hauled him up—one arm around his chest now, dragging him faster, harder.

“Don’t fall,” Todoroki muttered through gritted teeth. “You’re not stopping here.”

Ahead, Momo threw another smoke bomb, masking the next turn.
Her eyes snapped back, saw them—
And widened.

“Todoroki—!”

“He’s fine,” Todoroki bit. “Just keep the path clear.”

Bakugo’s head lolled. His mouth moved—but no sound came out.

“Plan B?” Todoroki asked, breath fogging the air.

Momo exhaled. “Two turns forward. There’s a service ladder—leads to the drainage tunnel behind the evac point.”

Todoroki nodded. Adjusted Bakugo again. “He won’t make it down that ladder.”

Momo didn’t blink. “Then we carry him.”

…

Their boots scraped through the shaft, echoing in metallic thuds. Bakugo’s head bumped Todoroki’s shoulder with every step, a dead weight that wasn’t supposed to be dead. Todoroki’s grip tightened.

“You better wake up before I drop you,” he muttered under his breath.

Momo glanced back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answered, sharp. “He’s heavy.”

She smiled faintly. “He’s always heavy.”

Todoroki didn’t answer. Just kept moving, adjusting his hold every few steps. One misstep and they’d go down—

Crack—

No warning—just the brittle crunch of concrete snapping and a sudden, jarring tilt.

Todoroki’s boots skidded. The ground sloped away fast—too fast.

“Shit—!”

The tiles beneath their feet gave out in chunks, revealing a steep maintenance chute beneath—angled, brutal, slick with old dust and debris. Pipes jutted from the walls like teeth. It had once been part of an industrial system, maybe for waste disposal or runoff, now gutted and half-collapsed.

Todoroki barely had time to brace himself. Bakugo was still in his arms—unconscious, limp, heavier than he looked.

They slammed into the slide.

The world blurred.

Dust roared around them. His shoulder hit a pipe, pain lanced through it. Sparks flared where metal scraped his boots. Gravity sucked them downward at a vicious angle—too steep to stop, too rough to steer.

“Shitshitshit—!”

A bounce nearly threw Bakugo from his grip.

“Hold still—dammit—!”

He twisted around him, shielding his head as they crashed through loose chunks of broken paneling.

“Brace—!” Momo’s voice shouted somewhere.

Momo vaulted down behind them.

She hit the incline in a crouch, both palms already glowing.

Metal sparked from her skin — a curved panel, smooth and convex, forming in midair and slamming into the slide just ahead of them. A deflector. It slowed their speed by degrees — just enough.

“Duck!” she shouted.

Todoroki barely managed it, hunching forward as they hit the makeshift buffer. The impact jolted through his spine. His grip on Bakugo nearly slipped again.

It knocked the wind out of him.

Everything rang for a moment—pulsing static in his ears.

He stayed there, gasping, heart hammering, arms still wrapped protectively around Bakugo.

Momo crouched beside them immediately, scanning both of them with sharp eyes. “You okay? Nothing broken?”

“No,” he rasped. “Just… tired.”

A second device came next — a series of wide, interlocking plates fanning out beneath them like a chute. Momo’s boots struck concrete as she dropped alongside them, bracing both hands against the structure to control its angle.

They coasted the last ten meters instead of crashing.

Then they hit the tunnel.

Todoroki exhaled hard, forehead pressed against the cracked floor. The ache in his legs screamed. His arms were dead weight. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding on until now.

The stench of sewage and ozone slapped them in the face—metal, rot, and scorched air. Somewhere far above, the faint rumble of sirens.

Bakugo groaned once, barely audible. Todoroki nearly flinched.

“We’re not out of danger yet.” She pulled a padded foam panel from her forearm. “Rest for sixty seconds.”

“Thanks,” Todoroki muttered, half to Momo, half to no one.

She didn’t answer—already working again.

Todoroki shifted his arms and gently slid Bakugo from his hold, he braced one hand behind his head, guiding him carefully to ground.

“His skin’s freezing,” he muttered, frowning. “He’s cold.”

Momo was already at his side, snapping her fingers. A fabric bolt unspooled from her palm — thick, insulated. She worked fast, folding it into a blanket.

“He lost a lot of heat during the run,” she said quietly. “His shirt’s torn, he’s barefoot. The drop didn’t help.”

Todoroki nodded grimly and draped the blanket over Bakugo, tucking it around his shoulders with deliberate care. His breath clouded slightly in the lingering chill.

Todoroki glanced around the tunnel. The air was still thick with dust. Everything above them looked fractured — support beams snapped, concrete spiderwebbed with cracks.

“We can’t stay here long,” he murmured. “But if we’d gone west instead—maybe followed that side path—I think we could’ve avoided this whole collapse.”

Momo exhaled, gaze darting over the walls. “I didn’t realize the structure was that compromised. Not until it was too late.”

She swallowed, then added, “All Might’s impact… the shockwaves probably cracked everything deeper than we thought.”

Todoroki’s expression hardened. “It wasn’t your fault. You caught us. If you hadn’t…”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. Calm. “Still.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was Bakugo’s breathing — uneven, but steady.

Then Todoroki looked down again, brushing a bit of rubble away from Bakugo’s hairline. His tone was low.

“We’ll get him out. No matter what direction we take next.”

Momo straightened. “Then we go northeast. That emergency rail tunnel I mapped yesterday should intersect the next block. If we’re lucky, it hasn’t collapsed.”

Todoroki met her eyes, the beginnings of resolve flickering behind his tired gaze.

“Let’s move. While he can still be carried.”

Together, they shifted Bakugo’s body carefully—

Todoroki crouched. “On three.”

Momo braced him as he hauled Bakugo up and over his back, wrapping the blanket tighter across his chest. His legs dangled loosely, scraping Todoroki’s side. The cold against Todoroki’s back—was the sheer stress of his body running too long on adrenaline and nothing else.

Todoroki stood, jaw clenched.

“There’s no time,” Momo said quickly, already scanning the tunnel.

Todoroki gave a short nod, already moving.

The tunnel sloped down, metal underfoot echoing every step. His pace wasn’t fast—Bakugo’s weight forced his balance—but it was determined. Controlled. Focused.

Momo ran just ahead, drawing a small staff from her forearm and glancing around every corner like a practiced tactician.

Bakugo’s head lolled slightly to the side, hair brushing Todoroki’s shoulder. Even unconscious, he looked strained—lips slightly parted, brows furrowed like he was still fighting something.

Todoroki adjusted his grip again, keeping him higher on his back.

The tunnel twisted—then opened up into a wider industrial level, scaffolding branching into staircases and a half-collapsed wall that let in shafts of pale light.

Momo turned back, voice low but urgent. “We need to move through the debris field. If we can make it to the east corridor. It can guide us out.”

Todoroki stumbled out of the tunnel, boots hitting uneven concrete as the space opened wide.

Debris stretched in every direction—bent beams, fractured walkways, slabs of concrete hanging in precarious angles like cracked ribs.

They reached the door.

CLANK.

It groaned open.

A rush of wind hit them from the other side—cleaner air, street-level noise, distant sirens.

Todoroki blinked hard against the brightness.

And then—figures.

Kirishima was already running toward them.

“I SEE THEM—!”
He skidded into the tunnel mouth, about to fall mid-sprint. “Oi!!”

Midoriya was bounding over the rubble, full speed.

Todoroki adjusted Bakugo’s weight and called out sharply, “He’s down!”

Midoriya’s expression changed instantly—relief collided with panic.

“He’s—? Is he—?”

“Alive,” Todoroki snapped. “But barely.”

Kirishima sprinted forward, skidding to help support Bakugo’s legs while Todoroki adjusted his grip. The blanket was slipping.

“Shit—he’s freezing,” Kirishima muttered, voice tight. “Where were you guys?!”

Momo glanced briefly, brow furrowed with concern. “Where’s Iida? He wasn’ with you?”

Kirishima shook his head, eyes sharp despite the urgency. “He went ahead—said he was gonna guide the ambulance as close as possible.”

Momo nodded, eyes scanning the chaotic rubble. “Alright. Let’s keep moving. Every second counts.”

“We’re taking him to the evac point,” she added, steady as ever. “Our priority is extraction. Hold formation.”

…

They plunged into the rubble field.

Every step was a calculation—loose stones, tilting steel, unstable footing.

Kirishima tried to offer support again, but Todoroki waved him off, teeth gritted. “I’ve got him.”

Bakugo didn’t stir.

Didn’t mumble. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t fight.

That alone was enough to make Midoriya go pale.

Todoroki felt his knees scream against the incline as he pushed forward, breath tight, hands locking around Bakugo’s knees and torso to keep him in place. The blanket was heavier now, soaked slightly with sweat, but it was all they had.

The field roared with dust.

But they kept moving—climbing, ducking, pushing through narrow gaps where broken beams made crawling a necessity.

Momo went first, clearing sections with a small plasma torch.

And finally—

Todoroki shoved past the last beam, his shoulder screaming under Bakugo’s weight.

They made it through.

The rubble field behind them was nothing but a fading roar.

Dust still clung to their clothes, settling into the folds of fabric and skin. The only sound now was heavy breathing and the muffled crunch of broken cement beneath their feet.

Todoroki pressed forward, Bakugo slumped over his back, arms limp, face buried against his shoulder.

Then—

A twitch.

He felt it first.

Bakugo’s fingers curling weakly against his sides.

Todoroki’s spine stiffened.

“Bakugo?”

A low, hoarse sound came next. Barely a word.

“…where…”

Todoroki didn’t stop walking. He couldn’t. The path ahead was barely stable—half of the path collapsed into a jagged incline, the edges still hot from recent combat.

Midoriya turned sharply. “He’s awake?”

Bakugo stirred again, breath catching in his throat. His head lolled against Todoroki’s shoulder, then snapped up with a grunt.

“What—?”

He tried to move, but his muscles gave out halfway. His body bucked once against Todoroki’s grip, arms trembling, breath wheezing hard through grit-coated lungs.

“The hell’s—” he panted, voice raw. “Put me down—what the—”

“You passed out,” Todoroki said calmly, tightening his hold. “Stop moving.”

“No—where—where the fuck is—” Bakugo’s voice cracked. His legs kicked once, but there was no strength behind it.

“Bakugo, we got you,” Kirishima said, falling in beside them.

“I’m not a fucking—” His breath stuttered. “Put me down.”

“I will. When you stop fading in and out,” Todoroki answered flatly.

Bakugo grit his teeth. He wanted to yell. Wanted to throw a fist or blast his way free—but his body didn’t move like it should. His head was pounding, throat dry, fingers twitching uselessly.

He looked down at the arms holding him—Todoroki’s arms.

He was shaking. Cold. Weak.

Humiliated.

“Shit,” he muttered, barely audible. His head dropped forward, eyes squeezed shut. “Shit…”

Midoriya glanced back, face tight with worry, but said nothing.

Momo was quiet too. She moved ahead, clearing fallen wires and piping, cutting through twisted metal with another improvised blade.

His breaths came short and wild and small, sharp shivers ran up his spine. He fought to stay conscious again, not from injury—but from sheer exhaustion.

“We’re almost out.” Todoroki said, quieter now.

Bakugo’s head rolled to the side against Todoroki’s shoulder.

“…Don’t… fucking carry me…”

“You can yell at me later.”

Kirishima reached out, steadying Bakugo’s dangling arm gently.

“Hey. You’re here, man. You did it.”

Bakugo didn’t answer.

They kept moving.

…

The ruined corridor narrowed again, warping around collapsed doorframes and broken glass. Every few steps, Todoroki’s boots crunched through something unidentifiable—wood, tile, ash. The weight on his back was manageable, but it was starting to catch up with him.

With half the adrenaline gone.

Todoroki’s breath was getting shorter. His grip on Bakugo’s legs had to keep adjusting, one palm starting to cramp where it pressed just beneath Bakugo’s knee. He didn’t complain—of course he didn’t—but his steps had started to drag.

Kirishima noticed.

“Yo,” he said, drawing closer, matching his pace. “Switch with me.”

Todoroki didn’t answer at first. Bakugo’s head was still resting against his shoulder, breath shallow but steady. He wasn’t moving again—

“Seriously,” Kirishima pressed, glancing at the sweat running down Todoroki’s temple. “You’re gonna burn out. Let me carry him.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

A beat passed.

Then, from behind them—a growl, slurred and low:

“Don’t fucking pass me around.”

Bakugo’s voice, ragged and raw. Barely above a whisper, but unmistakably his.

His head lolled back once,

“Don’t do that,” Todoroki muttered. “Stay awake.”

“I am,” Bakugo growled, barely audible.

Bakugo shifted slightly on Todoroki’s back, fingers twitching again like he was trying to summon the strength to move. His breathing hitched as he forced his head up, eyes glassy but burning.

“I can walk.”

“No, you can’t,” Todoroki said simply.

“Watch me.”

“You couldn’t stand ten minutes ago,” Midoriya added from the front, carefully stepping over a fallen beam. “You need to rest.”

Bakugo barked a weak laugh.

“Don’t pretend to care now, nerd.”

“I always care—!” Midoriya started, but cut himself off with a frustrated breath. “We’re trying to help you.”

“I didn’t fucking ask—”

“Dude,” Kirishima cut in gently, “You’ve been out cold for, like, half an hour. Just let us carry you. It’s not that deep.”

Bakugo gritted his teeth.

Everything hurt. His wrists throbbed from the restraints. His legs felt like rubber. He was aware of every bead of sweat sticking his shirt to his back, every bruise forming under skin, every glance from the others—

“I’m not a damn corpse,” he muttered, pushing against Todoroki’s shoulder with one trembling arm. “Let me down.”

Todoroki hesitated.

“He won’t stop until we let him try,” Momo murmured, catching up from behind, blade still in one hand. “Give him that much.”

A long beat.

Then, wordlessly, Todoroki slowed, crouched, and eased Bakugo to the floor. Bakugo hissed when his bare feet hit the ground—glass and grit biting into his soles—but he didn’t complain.

Didn’t show it.

He straightened slowly, swaying slightly, fists clenched at his sides.

Everyone watched, ready to catch him.

But he stood.

Barely.

“See?” he rasped. “Fucking told you.”

Todoroki stared at him. Kirishima looked ready to jump forward at the first sign of a collapse. Midoriya didn’t even blink.

Bakugo’s knees wobbled.

Then locked.

“Let’s go,” he said, eyes forward. “Before I decide to pass out again and ruin your damn day.”

Kirishima smiled despite himself.

“Alright. Let’s get you out, man.”

They fell into step again—slower now, tighter formation. Bakugo at the center, every move calculated, stubborn, heavy. Not because he wanted to be strong.

But because he refused not to be.

Behind him, Todoroki kept just close enough to catch him if he needed to.

They moved through the wreckage with uneven rhythm—Bakugo limping in the middle, every step jarring through raw, unsteady legs. His breaths were shallow but sharp, like each inhale was a decision.

He didn’t ask for help.

The others kept pace without speaking.

Deku ducked under a low beam, pausing long enough to glance back.

Bakugo was still standing. But barely.

His arms shook with each step, fingers curled like he was daring his body to give out so he could scream at it for doing so.

Midoriya’s voice dropped. “Debris field again. We’re close.”

They stepped into the open.

The space stretched out like a battlefield swallowed by disaster—concrete split into jagged islands, broken streetlamps bent like matchsticks, scorch marks spidering across shattered walls. A Nomu had definitely passed through here.

And maybe something worse.

Momo hissed softly under her breath. “We’ll need to be fast. It’s too exposed.”

“Eyes up,” Todoroki murmured.

Bakugo’s gaze flicked upward automatically.

The sky was wide again—open, blistering. The air was thinner out here. No more shadows to hold onto.

Bakugo’s foot caught on a slab of concrete.

The blanket Momo wrapped around him hung off one shoulder now, dragging slightly with every half-step.

Kirishima jogged beside him, expression tight, eyes flicking constantly between the path ahead and Bakugo.

“You still with us, man?”

Bakugo didn’t look up. “If I wasn’t, I’d be on the goddamn ground.”

“You kinda were, earlier,” Todoroki said quietly from his other side.

Bakugo gave him a narrow glare. “Wanna die, IcyHot?”

Kirishima offered a shaky smile. “Just makin’ sure you haven’t drifted into a coma while walking.”

“I’m not that weak.”

“No one said you were.” Kirishima scratched the back of his neck. “But you’re not exactly doing laps either, dude.”

Bakugo didn’t reply. His jaw was locked again.

So Kirishima tried something else.

“…You used your hands earlier. Tried to blast off the ground, but nothing came out.”

Bakugo’s eye twitched. He didn’t look at him.

A beat.

“So…?”

“I don’t know,” Bakugo said, voice low. “I think they drugged me. Or somethin’. I heard ‘em talkin’. Never saw ‘em do it.”

The others turned subtly at that.

Kirishima blinked. “They… what?”

“Not the freaks I think. The ones behind the wall.” Bakugo’s breathing hitched for a second. “Didn’t know what day it was. Couldn’t move right. And now my quirk’s just—dead.”

He looked down at his hand.

His fingers trembled, whether from adrenaline or exhaustion, it was hard to tell.

“I can still feel it,” he muttered. “Like it’s there. Right under the skin. But it won’t come out.”

Deku slowed his pace. “Kacchan…” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re really—”

“Don’t say anything,”

Deku stopped.

Bakugo’s voice was hoarse. Not cruel. Just too tired for it.

“I’m not gonna fall apart, Deku.”

A beat passed.

“…Okay,” Midoriya said quietly.

He didn’t say the rest — but Bakugo saw it in his face. The guilt. The relief. The thousand questions stacked behind those stupid green eyes.

Behind them, Yaoyorozu adjusted the bundle of supply canisters she’d created, her voice light but clipped with concern. “I can reinforce the blanket if it’s slipping—”

“It’s fine,” Bakugo barked. His voice cracked on the word.

Kirishima asked, voice soft but not pitiful. “If it’s chemical that means it’s not permanent, right?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Todoroki answered, still somehow blank-faced. “If they wanted to erase his Quirk permanently, they wouldn’t have used something this subtle. They’d have used a bullet.”

“Gee, thanks for the fucking cheerful input,” Bakugo muttered.

Todoroki blinked, deadpan. “You’re welcome?”

Midoriya muttered more to himself than to Bakugo. “It’s temporary. I know it. Your Quirk isn’t gone. It’s just… waiting.”

…

They reached a wide section of broken concrete and halted—wind cutting through the alleyway like a blade.

Deku turned to Kirishima, eyes flicking to Bakugo’s dragging steps.

“He’s swaying again.”

“Don’t start, nerd.” Bakugo snapped. “I’m still moving.”

“You don’t have to prove anything right now,” Momo said gently.

Bakugo gritted his teeth, voice hoarse. “I’m not fucking proving anything. I’m walking. That’s it.”

Bakugo’s steps faltered again.

He didn’t stop—wouldn’t—but his breath had gone shallow, jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Kirishima walked right beside him, pretending not to notice.

“So,” he said lightly, “first thing you’re doing when we get back—what is it? Shouting at Kaminari? Blowing up the training grounds? Shower for two hours?”

“Shower,” Bakugo muttered.

Kirishima grinned. “I knew it. You’ll use up the entire dorm’s hot water, huh?”

“You make it sound like a damn spa day.”

“Compared to this, it kinda is.”

Momo kept pace behind them, her arms full of supplies she’d made earlier—emergency kits, a roll of bandages still tucked under her elbow. She was watching Bakugo more carefully now. Something about the way his gait shifted. The scuffing sound of his heel.

Then she saw it.

The trail.

Small smears of red on the dusty rubble, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Bakugo—your feet,” she said sharply.

He didn’t stop. “They’re fine.”

“They’re bleeding.”

“Then they’ll scab.”

Todoroki exhaled. “Not if you pass out again.”

“You keep fucking saying—” Bakugo started, but the words caught. His throat was raw. He didn’t have the energy to argue, but his pride kept him upright.

Momo didn’t wait for permission.

“I’m making shoes,” she said calmly. “Stop walking for five seconds.”

“I said—!”

“You’ll go lame if you keep tearing them up,” she cut in. Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it was final. “I’m not arguing.”

“Kacchan, just for five seconds.”

Bakugo hissed out a breath through his teeth, body coiled like a landmine.

But he stopped.

Momo crouched immediately, a faint glow building from her arm. The soles appeared first—thick rubber with flexible joints—followed by the structure: lightweight combat-style sandals that wouldn’t rub raw.

She held them up.

Bakugo didn’t move.

“Put them on,” Todoroki said dryly. “Or I will. No offense, but you’re barely vertical.”

“Back off, half-and-half—!”

“You need help?”

“Don’t touch my damn feet, nerd” Bakugo snapped, snatching the sandals.

He slid them on—rough, irritated—but once they were on, he didn’t argue further.

“Thanks,” Kirishima said, glancing at Momo.

She nodded once.

They started walking again, slower now.

“Hey, Bakugo?” Kirishima said after a beat.

“What?”

“You remember that sports festival fight? With Uraraka?”

“Yeah?”

“You were serious as hell. Everyone thought you were being a jerk, but I remember thinking—nah, he’s just not pulling punches ‘cause she’s a girl.”

Bakugo side-eyed him. “What’s your point, shitty hair?”

“You’ve always taken fights seriously. Doesn’t matter who it is. Doesn’t matter if you’re tired. Doesn’t matter if you’re bleeding. I really admire that part of you.”

Bakugo was silent a moment.

Then he muttered, “That’s a weird-ass pep talk.”

Kirishima grinned. “Yeah, but it’s working, right?”

Bakugo didn’t answer. But he didn’t stumble again for the next dozen steps.

Kirishima said, grinning again. “How’re the feet?”

“Like I walked barefoot through a field of glass.”

“You kinda did,” Momo said softly,

Deku jogged up beside them, cheeks flushed, expression tight with concern.

“You’re doing great, Kacchan.”

“Fuck off. Don’t say it like I’m a fucking kid learning to walk.”

…

The sound came first.

A low, uneven whir. Faint. Mechanical.

Then — blue lights.

The emergency lights bled through the fog like lighthouses — blue and red beams flickering over the broken lot as they limped toward it.

The cracked concrete opened up into a half-collapsed lot — the remnants of an old evacuation checkpoint. A crooked fence wrapped around the edges, torn in places, and in the middle sat a bright white van, dusted with ash and debris but humming quietly.

Todoroki’s eyes caught the flash of something familiar — a tall figure in a dust-covered uniform, waving a hand toward them.

“Iida!” Midoriya called out, breathless.

Iida jogged forward, relief radiating from every line of his usually composed posture. “We cleared the perimeter. The medics are prepped.”

The back of the van had already been swung open, revealing the interior rigged for triage — blankets, IV hooks, a compact monitor mounted to the wall. One of the medics stood ready at the entrance, nodding them forward as they approached.

Behind them, Bakugo staggered the last few steps toward the van.

He was breathing hard, sandals scraping against the gravel. His hands were trembling at his sides, but he still had the gall to glare when Midoriya reached to help.

“I got him,” Kirishima muttered to Midoriya. Together, they helped guide him up the shallow ramp.

Bakugo barely glanced up when Kirishima moved to help — he just leaned, quiet and too cold to resist.

He was already slipping.

His fingers brushed the frame of the doorway—and that seemed to snap something. His knees gave just slightly.

They caught him, just enough to get him inside.

He collapsed onto the stretcher with a hiss, head falling back against the thin cushion. His breath rattled in his chest. The fight was draining out of him fast now, leaving cold in its place.

The medic moved fast.

“Get vitals,” he said. “Saline, warming pads. Looks like he’s post-shock, low on glucose. Check for external bleeding.”

Another tech pulled an oxygen mask over Bakugo’s face as the first slipped the IV in clean.

Todoroki turned as Momo’s knees buckled slightly beside him.

“Here,” he said, reaching to steady her. “Let me.”

She didn’t argue.

He helped her up the ramp with a hand under her arm. Her weight was nearly nothing now — she was running on fumes.

“The sandals are sticking a little,” one of the medics muttered, crouched near Bakugo’s feet. His gloves tugged gently at the edge of the worn rubber. “Is it safe to remove them?”

“They’re safe,” Momo confirmed. “I built them to flex around any injury.”

“…You what now?” the medic blinked, again, not quite computing.

“She’s Yaoyorozu. Creation Quirk,” Todoroki said, standing just outside the doors.

“Holy hell,” the medic whispered, “…That’s going to be incredibly useful,”

One of the medics pointed toward the bench near the back. “Sit. We may need you for creation. Compressions or tools, if anything fails.”

Momo nodded wordlessly and sat, head bowed, just breathing.

Todoroki was hovering by the ambulance door.

From there, he could see everything.

Bakugo’s body looked smaller on the stretcher — not physically, but stripped down. Hi shoes were off. His shirt had been peeled halfway open. Electrodes stuck to his ribs. His mouth moved faintly under the oxygen mask, like he was trying to say something in a dream.

The medics moved efficiently, taking vitals, checking skin turgor, slipping warming gel packs against his sides and neck.

Iida stood near the front of the van.

Kirishima was still sitting beside the stretcher, eyes locked on Bakugo’s face. He didn’t talk. He just sat there, breathing in sync like it might somehow keep Bakugo tethered.

Midoriya hovered just behind them, hugging himself. He didn’t cry. But he looked like he wanted to.

Todoroki didn’t move.

Not until he saw Bakugo’s eyelids flutter again — once. Twice. Then still.

“Consciousness fading,” said the medic.

“Let him rest,” the other added. “We’ve got him now.”

Todoroki stepped up and climbed inside.

He sat down quietly, not trusting his legs to hold him anymore.

Momo was sitting beside him leaned against the wall, the glowing orb in her hand finally sputtered out, flickering to nothing.

“Is it weird,” she said, after a beat, “that I thought he’d… fight us more?”

Todoroki didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the medics.

“He would’ve,” he said eventually. “If he could.”

“He’s going to be pissed,” Momo said, managing a weak smile. “Once he’s up. You carried him.”

“I dragged him,” Todoroki muttered. “Big difference.”

Momo huffed out a laugh—thin and worn, but real. Then her expression sobered.

Yaoyorozu didn’t move for a second. Her arms hung by her sides, red lines etched into her skin from overuse. She looked like she might collapse, but didn’t.

Todoroki looked at her.

“You okay?”

She exhaled shakily. “No.”

He nodded. “Same.”

He settled in hard against the wall, back hitting the cold metal with a dull thud. His eyes closed for a second too long, listening to the soft beeps.

For once, the explosive quirk that defined him was quiet.

And for once, he was just… human.

—————————————————————

The smell hit him before his eyes even opened.

Savory. Sharp. That sizzling bite of soy sauce and eggs, the faint toasty heat of sesame oil. Rice in the cooker, just finishing — he could hear the final puff of steam pressurizing into the air. Bacon, probably. His mom always made too much.

Bakugo blinked once. Then again.

The ceiling was too white.

No dorm room shadows or rattling pipes. Just light through a half-open curtain, soft and slow, the kind of sunlight that had nowhere to be. The smell dragged him out of bed like a hand at the collar. No phone check. No bathroom. He didn’t brush his teeth.

He just moved.

Down the hallway, through the living room that looked the same as it had since he was ten. The photo frames were still crooked. The old All Might keychain still dangled from the remote holder by the couch.

The kitchen was warm.

Mitsuki stood at the stove, back turned, flipping something in the pan like this was any other morning. Like he hadn’t called her in the middle of the night. Like he hadn’t—

“Sit,” she barked, without turning.

There was already a plate in front of him. Tamagoyaki, rice, miso soup — hot. Fresh. Steam curled over the bowl. She poured tea into a chipped mug and slid it across the table with a clack.

He picked up the chopsticks.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

He started with the eggs. They were too soft — she always made them too soft — and the rice was perfect. Soup, salty. Tea, bitter.

Halfway through chewing, something caught.

Not in his throat. Somewhere lower. Deeper.

His hand trembled as he set the chopsticks down. Just barely. Just once.

He stared at the plate.

It wasn’t even anything — nothing triggered it. No noise. No flash. Just the eggs and the rice and the quiet morning sun and—

He gasped. A sharp, wet breath. His hands curled tight on the table’s edge, and then—

It cracked.

Like a dam. Like a rupture.

He didn’t sob. Not loud. But the tears hit like a punch, sudden and brutal, splattering onto the table without warning. His shoulders hunched forward.

Mitsuki didn’t say anything.

Just turned off the stove. Quietly. Set the pan aside.

And sat down at the table across from him.

Not reaching. Not asking.

Just staying.

There.

Bakugo didn’t move for a long time.

He sat there, fists clenched on the table, knuckles bone-white, like he could stop the shaking if he clenched hard enough.

The food was warm, and the room didn’t smell like metal, and the light wasn’t flickering.

This was home, and his body didn’t believe it.

The tears stopped, but the shaking didn’t. Not really. It settled into his arms. His spine. A low tremble, like a pressure leak inside a boiler that hadn’t gone off — yet.

His mom didn’t talk.

Didn’t sigh. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t scold like she usually would’ve.

She just sat there, hands folded in front of her, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder.

Finally — finally — he got a grip. Enough to push the plate forward, wiped his face rough and fast, like he was scrubbing evidence, like it hadn’t happened at all.

“…Sorry,” he muttered. The word tasted like metal.

Mitsuki raised an eyebrow. “What the hell are you apologizing for?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have an answer.

He just stood, quietly, and took his dish to the sink. It clinked. He rinsed it under cold water that bit his raw fingers.

Then he stood there a second too long, staring at the drain. Like it might swallow everything he didn’t want to feel.

The water had long stopped running, but his hands still gripped the edges of the sink — tight. The air in the kitchen felt heavy. Too quiet. Too still — his breath still catching from where it had cracked into something broken.

He didn’t hear her footsteps. Or maybe he did, but ignored them.

But he felt her arms wrap around him.

Not tight. Not suffocating.

Just… solid. Real.

Mitsuki didn’t say anything — didn’t force the moment to be more than it was. She just rested her cheek against his back, her arms looped around his middle.

And Bakugo — he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t bark out a curse or tell her to back off.

He just stood there.

For a second, he closed his eyes, shoulders still trembling under the weight of whatever the hell was still clawing at his ribs from the inside out.

“…I didn’t cry there,” he muttered, barely audible.

“I know,” she said, just as quiet.

Buzz. Flicker. Silence. Buzz again.

He let out a shaky breath. His hands slowly relaxed on the sink edge.

She gave him another moment. Then, carefully, like he might break from too much kindness, she stepped back.

Bakugo didn’t look at her as she moved.

He kept his gaze fixed on the drain. One droplet clung to the edge like it didn’t know how to fall.

She was quiet for a beat, then—

“…You wanna take a shower?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp like usual. It wasn’t soft, either. Just even. Like she wasn’t asking because he looked like shit — though he definitely did — but because it was something normal. Something human.

Bakugo blinked once, slow.

“…Yeah,” he said finally, hoarse.

She nodded once. “Towels are in the usual place.”

She didn’t wait for a thank you. Didn’t expect one. Just walked out, leaving him there with the silence again.

Bakugo peeled himself from the sink. His legs were heavy — not weak, just slow. Like moving took more thought than it should. The hallway felt smaller than he remembered, or maybe it was just the air closing in around him.

He passed the door to his old room. Didn’t look inside.

The bathroom light buzzed when he flicked it on. Same damn buzz. His throat tightened at the sound, just for a second.

He turned the shower dial until the water came out almost too hot. Steam poured up the mirror as he stripped, wincing when the shirt peeled off his shoulder — some scab or bruise which is supposed to be there.

When he stepped under the stream, it hit him like a punch. Not the pain — the normalcy.

A fucking shower.

Tiles. Soap. Water that didn’t smell like rust.

He stood there a long time.

Didn’t scrub. Didn’t move.

Just let the water run down his spine and tried to remember what it felt like to be clean.

When he tilted his head back, the water roared in his ears.

For a moment, he could pretend the buzz in his head was just from the pressure.

Not from memory.

Not from fear.

He stayed until the water turned cold. Then longer.

Until his fingers wrinkled and the sting in his side told him he was overdoing it.

Bakugo shut the water off.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks…

He exhaled.

—————————————————————

The sky was obnoxiously blue.

Not a cloud in sight. The kind of day that made old people comment about the “perfect weather,” like it was something earned. The air was just warm enough to bake the sidewalks, cicadas whining somewhere up high. And Bakugo hated how nice it was.

He squinted against the sun as he followed his mom through the shopping district, hands shoved in his pockets like they might save him from public humiliation.

“Come on, Katsuki, you’ve been wearing the same damn hoodie since middle school,” Mitsuki snapped over her shoulder, a bright shopping bag swinging at her side. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw it out while you were gone.”

“Tch. You touch my shit and I’ll burn your hair off.”

“Like hell you will. I made that hair.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t say more. The sidewalks were crowded. Kids yelling, couples walking too slow. He should’ve stayed in the damn car.

But she’d raised an eyebrow at him — asked, “You wanna get out for a bit?” — and before he could think, he’d said yeah.

Now he was suffering for it.

They ducked into a men’s store, too bright, air conditioning blasting. His mom made a beeline for a rack of button-downs.

“Here,” she said, grabbing one in burgundy. “Try this. You don’t always have to dress like you’re going to mug someone.”

“I like black. I’m not wearin’ your tax accountant shirts.”

“Katsuki, shut up and put it on before I do it for you.”

“Just try it, dumbass,” he mocked under his breath, grabbing the hanger with a scowl.

He stomped into the changing room, muttering, “This is so fucking stupid,” as he yanked off his hoodie.

The shirt fit. Of course it did. It wasn’t even bad. Just—clean. Normal.

When he stepped out, Mitsuki looked up from her phone, and for one second, the corner of her mouth twitched up. “See? Handsome. You look like someone who doesn’t threaten every cashier.”

“Maybe I should start again.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she handed him another — paler this time — and made him try that one too.

They went back and forth for a while, him swearing and her snapping, until she laughed out loud when he cursed at the price tag and shouted, “You’re the one who’s got no job, mister big-shot hero student.”

He grumbled, “I hate you.”

“You’ll live.”

…

They stepped back out into the sun around noon. The air smelled like fresh bread and food stalls, the hum of winter thick and lazy. Bakugo squinted up at the sky again, blinked against the sharp light. The sun flashed over a shop window.

And just like that—
A metal door.
The buzz.
That stench of smoke, breath, hands.

He blinked hard.

His heart kicked in his chest, and for half a second he wasn’t in this stupid shopping street anymore.

He was back in that chair.

Tied. Restrained.
No escape.

He heard his own breath—sharper than it should be.

Then—

“Oi.”

His mother’s voice.

He looked sideways.

She was two steps ahead, brow furrowed, turning to check on him. “What are you doing? You get heatstroke or something?”

He blinked again. The sun was still there. So was the sidewalk. The food. The sound of kids laughing somewhere behind them.

And his mom.

Standing there like a storm in a tank top and handbag, scowling at him with something sharp behind it — something worried.

“…Nothin’,” he muttered, stepping forward to catch up. “I just hate shoppin’.”

“Tch. Drama queen.”

But she didn’t tease him after that. Just walked beside him, shoulder brushing his once, casually. Like he hadn’t almost lost it in the middle of a sunny street.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he stayed close.

…

Bakugo leaned back against the wall outside the changing room, arms crossed, one foot tapping the tile impatiently as Mitsuki browsed the women’s section like it was a damn Olympic sport.

He could feel his irritation crawling up his throat. She didn’t need fifteen dresses. She wasn’t even going anywhere.

His phone buzzed.

Incoming Call: Shitty hair.

Bakugo stared at it.

Thought about ignoring it.

But his thumb moved on its own, swiping to answer.

“…What?”

“BRO!”

Kirishima’s voice nearly blew out the speaker. Behind him, Bakugo heard the chaotic mess of overlapping voices — Kaminari, Mina, Sero, and Deku all yelling something incomprehensible.

“Jesus—what the hell, are you on speaker?!”

“Dude, are you okay?!” Kaminari shouted over the line. “You ghosted harder than Todoroki’s text game!”

“I respond,” Todoroki’s calm voice cut in. “Eventually.”

“Hey hey, Blasty,” Mina chimed in sweetly, “Are you having a date or somethin?”

“I’m gonna murder every single one of you,” Bakugo growled.

“You always say that,” Sero laughed. “Never deliver.”

“I’m working on it, Tape-face.”

“Where are you right now?” Midoriya asked — softer, careful, like he didn’t want to set anything off. “We were thinking of swinging somewhere, but Aizawa-sensei said you went out.”

“Yeah, you okay?” Kirishima asked, more serious this time. “You didn’t say much last night…”

Bakugo clicked his tongue.

“I’m fine. I’m with the old hag.”

“Aw, cute!! Mother-son bonding day?” Mina practically sang.

“Shut up, raccoon eyes.”

“Don’t yell at me while you’re buying cardigans with your mom,” she fired back.

“I’m not—! She’s the one shoppin’ now, okay?! I already suffered through her makin’ me try on crap like some damn dress-up doll—!”

“Oh my god,” Kaminari wheezed. “Kacchan’s doing fashion week.”

“Do you look handsome?” Mina teased.

“Do you look like a productive member of society?” Todoroki added with a suspiciously neutral tone.

“GO TO HELL,” Bakugo barked. “ALL OF YOU.”

They cackled on the other end.

Even Deku was trying to muffle a laugh.

Kirishima finally cut in, voice gentler. “Seriously, man. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

Bakugo was quiet for a second.

“Of course I’m, dumbass.”

The line buzzed lightly as silence settled in — warm, not awkward.

“You gonna come back tonight?” Kirishima asked.

Bakugo glanced at Mitsuki, who was still arguing with a store clerk over a sale sticker.

“…Maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay. We’ll save you dinner.”

“And hide your notebook,” Sero said.

“I always wanted to borrow that green hoodie,” Kaminari added.

“I swear to GOD—”

The laughter drowned out his threat.

Bakugo couldn’t help it.

He let out a breath that might’ve almost been a laugh, if someone wasn’t paying attention.

“…Later, idiots.”

“Later, man.”

He ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket, exhaling through his nose.

Mitsuki turned back just then, holding two bags in one hand.

“You talkin’ to your boyfriend?”

“Which one?”

She snorted. “Fair enough. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes and followed. His shoulders didn’t feel quite so heavy.

…

The restaurant was a small place tucked between a pharmacy and a bookstore — one of those older, quiet neighborhood joints that didn’t blast pop music or cram you into booths so tight you could smell the person next to you.

Just a bell over the door, soft lighting, and the faint sizzle of something cooking in the back.

Mitsuki had marched in like she owned the place, waving at the server like an old friend.

Bakugo trailed after her with his hands stuffed in his pockets, hoodie hood still up over his head. Not that it hid much. His scowl gave him away instantly.

They took a booth near the window.

“Sit up straight,” Mitsuki said without looking.

“Shut up,” Bakugo replied automatically, but he did straighten anyway.

She smirked.

A waitress brought them menus. Bakugo didn’t need one. He pointed at the katsudon without saying anything.

Mitsuki ordered the same. “Figures. You’d eat that on your deathbed.”

Bakugo shrugged.

They didn’t say much at first — not that they needed to. There was a quiet sort of comfort in just sitting across from each other, letting the space fill with the clink of silverware and the hum of conversation from other tables. The kitchen door swung open every few minutes with a whoosh of heat and the sharp smell of frying oil.

Mitsuki finally broke the silence.

“You look better than last night.”

“Tch.”

“You’re not screaming at walls. That’s a win.”

He snorted. “Not yet.”

She tilted her head. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

She sipped her drink, still watching him. “You wanna do anything after this? Walk around, hit a movie, maybe break something expensive?”

He cracked a tiny grin. “That last one sounds good.”

She smirked. “Like mother, like son.”

The food came. Katsudon hot and perfect, steam curling up in lazy wisps. Bakugo didn’t speak as he ate, but his shoulders dropped, just a bit. The first bite hit something in his chest — not a memory, not trauma — just warmth. Real warmth.

Mitsuki was halfway through hers when she said, “You know you can stay as long as you want, right? Hell, transfer back to your old school if you feel like it.”

Bakugo shook his head. “I’m not quittin’.”

“Didn’t say you were quittin’. I said you’ve got options.”

He didn’t reply, chewing slower now.

The table went quiet again,

After a moment, he glanced out the window.

Some kid was running down the street, hoodie flapping. It was dumb — a regular day in a regular place. But it looked… untouched. Like the world still spun no matter what happened to him.

His gaze flicked back to his mom.

She was pretending not to watch him.

He took another bite. “Thanks. For not pushin’ it or whatever.”

Mitsuki shrugged like it didn’t matter, but her eyes softened.

“Just eat your damn katsudon before it gets cold, brat.”

He huffed.

But he ate.

And for the first time in a while, it actually tasted good.

The clatter of chopsticks and plates filled the silence between them. No music played over the speakers — just the quiet murmur of other customers.

Bakugo slouched a little more in his seat, resting his elbow on the table as he worked through the last of his katsudon. Grease slicked his fingers. He wiped them on a napkin without thinking. Across from him, Mitsuki was sipping the last of her miso soup, her hair falling over one eye like it always had, sharp and unapologetic.

She didn’t smile much, not really. But she didn’t need to.

She was here.

“Y’know,” she said, eyes still on her bowl, “when you were a baby, I couldn’t even feed you this stuff without you throwing half of it at the wall.”

“Guess I had taste,” he muttered,

She raised a brow. “You’re lucky I didn’t launch you at the wall.”

He smirked again. Only a little. But it stayed longer this time.

Their waitress came by with the check. Mitsuki grabbed it before he could reach.

“Oi—”

“Don’t even start.” She tucked her wallet back into her purse, then jabbed a finger at him. “This is mother-son bonding time, you little gremlin. You pay when you’re a pro.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He tugged his hood back up like it would hide the faint heat on his face.

They stepped out of the restaurant together, warm air brushing their skin. The afternoon sun hit the sidewalk with a soft golden hue, casting long shadows and that weird, too-perfect glow that only showed up after heavy rain or long winters. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing music from a phone speaker — muffled and a little too upbeat.

“C’mon,” Mitsuki said, nudging him with her elbow. “Walk off that starch.”

“Tch. You walk it off.”

“I’m in heels, dumbass. What’s your excuse?”

He muttered something under his breath but followed her anyway.

The streets were quieter now. No crowds. Just a row of stores and the occasional breeze that rustled his sleeves.

Bakugo didn’t realize his shoulders had loosened.

For now — for this moment — it was enough.

…

The night had settled gently over the park, wrapping everything in a quiet, almost tender hush. The air was cool—not biting, but with just enough chill to remind you winter wasn’t quite done yet. Soft, golden halos from the flickering streetlights ,with no buzz, pooled on the winding path, while the trees overhead rustled lazily, whispering secrets to the breeze.

Mitsuki had dragged him out here, insisting she needed to “walk off all that damn food,” but Bakugo knew she just didn’t want to head home yet. Maybe neither of them did.

They walked side by side, but apart. Mitsuki’s eyes glued to her phone, likely locked in another battle of words with her cousin over something stupid. Bakugo’s hands were
shoved deep into his hoodie, head low, just listening to the scuff of his own shoes.

They ended up on a bench near the edge of the path, under one of those flickering lamps that hadn’t been fully fixed since last fall.

Eventually, they settled on a worn wooden bench near the edge of the park, right under one of those flickering lamps that had been broken since last fall. Mitsuki sighed like she’d just clocked out from a double shift, peeling off one shoe, then the other, rubbing at her heel like it had personally wronged her.

Still staring at her phone, fingers dancing over the screen.

The breeze picked up, leaves fluttered overhead, and somewhere in the distance a car slid by, smooth and slow.

Bakugo leaned back against the bench, letting himself breathe.

She groaned, reading aloud with growing irritation.

“Oh, fuck off, Mika,” she muttered. “You’re not hot—you’re just thirty and have a ring light.”

Bakugo shot her a sideways glance. “Mika’s the one who wore heels to grandma’s funeral, right?”

“She tripped into the casket.”

Bakugo choked on air.

“No, seriously,” Mitsuki launched, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement despite herself, “mid-cry, the whole damn thing wobbled like a vending machine. Grandma almost rolled right out. You and your dad were trying not to laugh—“

Bakugo snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“And your cousin pissed himself. But somehow, I’m the bad guy for yelling at Mika during the eulogy. She’s still mad about it. Can you believe that?”

“‘You dumbass inch-heel banshee!’” he mimicked, cracking a grin.

“I meant it!” she snapped back, cracking up. “Damn sent grandma to the afterlife twice!”

Bakugo couldn’t hold it any longer.

He burst out laughing—deep, rough, uncontrollable. His shoulders shook as he covered his face with one hand, trying to keep it together.

“Oh my god,” he gasped between laughs, “you did scream that.”

Mitsuki’s laughter joined his, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners.

She leaned back against the bench, grinning wide, then smacked the back of his head.

“Asshole.”

…

Mitsuki tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Not out of impatience. Just habit. The kind of rhythm you fall into when you’re used to doing everything your own damn self.

Bakugo sat slouched in the passenger seat, legs braced wide, arms folded, hood up even though the car wasn’t cold. His eyes were on the window, but he wasn’t really looking at anything.

Just watching the world pass by.

“You eat enough?” Mitsuki asked, breaking the silence.

Bakugo snorted softly.

“You ordered me three fucking plates.”

“You finished all three.”

He shrugged. “I was hungry.”

“You always are after you pretend you’re fucking not.”

She smirked. The light caught her cheekbones, sharp and proud.

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched—just a little.

“Thanks for lunch.”

Mitsuki glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

“You mean that?”

He paused. Then nodded.

A beat passed.

Then she added, voice quieter:

“You’ve been different. Since… y’know.”

Bakugo didn’t move.

Didn’t tense.

Just waited.

“Not bad different,” she clarified. “Just… quieter.”

He looked down at his hands.

The fingers twitched.

Still remembered.

But he kept his voice steady.

“I’ve got shit in my head.”

“I know,” she said. “And you don’t have to spill it if you don’t want to.”

Another silence.

But it wasn’t empty.

It was filled with the hum of the road, the soft rhythm of wheels over concrete, and the distant sound of a radio playing some mellow guitar track from the early 2000s.

Finally, Bakugo spoke again.

“You scared?”

Mitsuki blinked. “Of what?”

“Of me.”

That landed harder than she expected.

She let the question sit there.

Then she clicked her tongue, turned her head slightly, and met his eyes for a second at the red light.

“You think I raised you just to flinch when you crack?”

She turned her head back to the road and added,

“You scare me when you don’t fight.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that.

So he didn’t.

But his throat felt tight.

The drive wasn’t long.

Maybe twenty minutes, not counting traffic. But it felt longer.

By the time she pulled into the narrow driveway of their house. The siding looked the same. The mailbox still crooked. The smell of warm concrete and flowers from the neighbor’s yard hit him like muscle memory.

Home.

Mitsuki parked with a hard jerk of the brake, clicked the engine off, and didn’t move right away.

Bakugo didn’t either.

Then, quietly:

“You gonna sit there all day?”

“You always park like a goddamn stunt driver?”

“You always whine like one?”

“Tch.”

They got out at the same time. Bakugo slammed the door a little harder than necessary. Mitsuki didn’t comment.

Inside, the hallway smelled like laundry and lemon floor cleaner. And no buzz.

Bakugo bent to untie his shoes—slow, careful, like he hadn’t done it in a while.

Then he saw another pair of shoes.

Men’s. Worn. Familiar.

His brow furrowed.

Mitsuki stepped ahead of him, casually dropping her purse on the tiny entryway table and kicking off her own heels with a grunt.

“Heey,” a soft voice called from the living room.

Bakugo straightened.

His dad appeared a second later—holding a mug, sweater rumpled, expression warm but tentative.

Bakugo Masaru.

“Welcome home,” he said with a wide smile.

Bakugo blinked. “Weren’t you on a business trip?”

Masaru rubbed the back of his neck, still holding the mug.

“Yeah, but—Mitsuki told me you were coming home for a while. Thought I’d take time off. Spend some time with you two.”

A while?

Bakugo’s eyes slid to his mother.

She had moved into the kitchen, opening the fridge like it owed her rent money.

Didn’t look at him when she said:

“I know the dorms are safer. I know the school probably hates me for dragging you outta there at night.”

She pulled out a plastic container, popped the lid, sniffed.

“Jesus, this miso’s probably older than I am.”

Bakugo paused in the hallway.

Shoes still half-off.

“I’m going back tomorrow.”

The fridge door stayed open a second too long.

She stood up straight, closed it with a solid thunk, and turned to him with a look.

“The hell you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, brat.”

He stepped into the kitchen, jaw set, “I’m not gonna rot here just because—”

“I said don’t pull that shit.”

“And I said I’m fucking FINE!”

The words cracked through the kitchen like a slap.

Then — silence.

He turned on his heel and headed to the hallway.

“I called your tired-ass homeroom guy,” she snapped, stepping forward now. “Told him I dragged your ass outta the dorm.”

Silence.

“And he said ‘let him stay as long as he needs.’ Didn’t even hesitate. So unless he shows up on my doorstep in that weird scarf, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Ugh—”

“—And wipe that tone off your fucking face before I slap it off.”

Across the room, Masaru cleared his throat. Quiet. Careful.

“Hey, uh… maybe we just sit down? Have dinner together?”

Bakugo and Mitsuki turned in sync.

“FINE!” they both snapped.

Masaru smiled.

Then nodded. “Okay. I’ll… get the bowls.”

…

The kitchen was warm—hot, actually. A dry heat from the stove and the overhead light that Mitsuki refused to change out because she swore “warm bulbs made food look fake.”

Mitsuki moved like a storm with a direction.

Pan on. Rice cooker humming. Fridge opened, slammed, ingredients tossed onto the counter without finesse but with frightening accuracy.

“Curry,” she announced, like it was law.

“Tch,” Bakugo muttered from the table, half-seated, slouched.

He hadn’t even taken off his hoodie.

Masaru hummed in agreement, already setting out plates. He was slow about it—not because he was lazy, but because he believed in taking his time.

Ceramic on wood. Chopsticks aligned. A tiny saucer with pickles. Miso already poured.

It felt so normal it almost made Bakugo’s skin itch.

He stared at his arms on the table.

His right hand still ached—like a ghost pain from something that may or may not have happened.

He rubbed it with his thumb.

Just to make sure it was still his.

“Want to help?” Masaru offered.

“He’ll screw it up,” Mitsuki barked from the stove.

Bakugo didn’t answer.

Masaru smiled gently and set the water jug on the table.

…

By the time the curry hit the table, the kitchen smelled like ginger and garlic and toasted spices. Mitsuki’s version of comfort.

She slammed the pot down with a thud.

“Eat,” she said.

And they did.

First few bites were quiet.

The clink of spoons. A low murmur from the TV in the next room that no one had bothered to mute. Bakugo kept his eyes down, watching the steam curl from his plate.

Mitsuki finally spoke—around a mouthful of rice.

“Don’t sulk while eating. It’s pathetic.”

“I’m not sulking,” Bakugo muttered.

“You’re hunched like a gargoyle. Sit straight.”

“You’re talking with food in your mouth.”

Masaru coughed lightly. “The curry’s good.”

“It’s always good.”

“It’s fine,” Bakugo said flatly.

“You ungrateful little—”

Masaru cleared his throat.

The silence that followed was thicker, but not sharp.

Just them.

They kept eating.

Mitsuki reached over and shoved more rice onto Bakugo’s plate without asking.

“You’re still too thin.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. I can see your damn neck bones.”

Bakugo glared at his food.

“Neck bones are bones, old hag.”

“Shut up and eat.”

It wasn’t until halfway through the second serving that Bakugo slowed.

Just for a second.

Chewed slower.

Breathed deeper.

His head tilted, and for the first time—

He looked up.

His dad had a bit of curry on his chin. His mom was already eyeing the pot like she might go in for thirds.

Nothing was calm.

But no one was asking him questions.

No one was waiting for him to talk.

No one was trying to put nonsense in his head.

They just let him eat.

And in that moment, surrounded by noise, bickering and the smell of slightly burnt onions—

Bakugo let himself breathe.

…

Mitsuki scraped the last bit of rice from the pot into a container, sealed it with a snap, and shoved it into the fridge. Bakugo grabbed the dirty plates—four stacked in one hand, spoons in the other—and carried them to the sink.

The faucet ran. Hot water. Steam rose.

Masaru stood by with a towel, already drying the ones Mitsuki had washed.

Steam rose off the sink, fogging the window above it. Bakugo stood stiff at the edge, sleeves pushed up, jaw locked like he was holding a scream in his molars.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just scrubbed at his plate like it had personally offended him.

Then the words came.

Low.

Not thrown. Not loud.

Just… released.

“They didn’t hurt me the way you’re thinking.”

Mitsuki paused, hand mid-air between dish and cabinet.

Masaru kept drying, but slower now.

Bakugo didn’t turn around.

He rinsed the plate. Moved to the next.

“They didn’t even touch me at first. Just… sat there.”

“Tied me up. Stared. Like I was some damn dog they were waiting to turn feral.”

He set the clean plate in the rack.

A pause.

“They waited.”

He blinked. Something in his chest twisted.

“I didn’t scream.”

His knuckles were white against the sponge.

“Even when they wanted me to.”

His breath hitched. He grabbed another dish.

“They talked a lot. That freak… kept trying to convince me we were equals. Like I was one of them.”

“Like I’m just a little bit of pain away from becoming them.”

“…maybe I’m.”

He scrubbed harder.

“Sometimes I—”

He blinked hard. The plate slipped slightly. He caught it with a curse.

“Sometimes I wonder if I—if I imagined parts of it.”

“There were days I thought I escaped. Broke free. Killed her.”

He laughed once, dry.

“Woke up in the same fucking chair.”

The water hissed louder.

He gripped the sink edge with both hands now. Arms braced. Chest heaving once.

“I’ve got burned. I felt it. I smelled it.”

“Then I’d wake up with no marks.”

“No bruises.”

“Like it didn’t happen.”

— Bzzzt… flicker—buzz—gone. Gone.

He stared down at the sink, at the swirl of food scraps and soapy water and his own reflection.

“So maybe it didn’t.”

His voice broke on the last word.

And that’s when the tears hit.

Silent. Sudden. Stupid.

One drop on the steel edge of the sink. Another on his wrist.

He wiped them fast with the back of his arm. Harsh. Angry. Like they’d betrayed him.

Mitsuki didn’t say a word.

Masaru didn’t breathe too loudly.

They just stood still.

And let it happen.

Bakugo sniffed once. Shook his head. Kept scrubbing.

“Don’t say anything,” he muttered.

“I’m not crying.”

No one argued.

But his hands kept shaking.

The water was too hot.

The kitchen was quiet.

Steam still rising.

The faucet kept running.

He heard a sound behind him.

Small.

Sharp.

A sniff.

He turned slightly, shoulders stiff, like he was expecting Mitsuki to be rolling her eyes and calling him dramatic.

But she wasn’t.

She was standing still by the counter, hands gripping the lid of a leftover container. Her jaw was tight.

But her eyes—

Red. Glassy.

Another tear slipped out, and she wiped it away fast—furiously—like it wasn’t allowed.

“Shit,” she mumbled. “Stupid curry steam.”

Bakugo’s lips parted.

She didn’t look at him. Just turned to face the counter, head down, shoulders shaking once.

Then—

A sound from his left.

Masaru had his hand over his mouth.

Eyes wide. Wet.

Tears already running down his cheeks, silent and full.

He wasn’t sobbing—not loud.

But it was worse.

The kind of cry you can’t stop even when you’re trying to hold everything together for everyone else.

Bakugo stared.

His own breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t know why it stunned him so much—he’d seen his dad tear up before, sure. Movies. Goodbyes. Them arguing.

But not like this.

Not for him.

“I’m fine,” he said, but it came out hollow.

Masaru stepped closer, like he wasn’t sure if he should.
Then stopped.

Mitsuki finally turned.

Her voice wobbled.

“You don’t have to be fine in this kitchen.”

She crossed the room and slapped a dish towel down on the counter like it owed her.

“You think I give a shit if it was bruises or brains they went after?”

Bakugo’s throat burned.

He dropped his eyes again.

His chest felt too tight to breathe.

Masaru stepped up next, reaching out slowly—tentatively—until his hand rested on his son’s back.

Not heavy.

Not holding.

Just there.

Real.

Bakugo didn’t shrug it off.

Didn’t move.

He just stood there.

Eyes stinging.

Hands trembling.

Parents crying harder than he was.

Home.

He grabbed a clean towel, tossing it to his mom.

“You’re still crying.”

“I am not,” she snapped, catching it one-handed. “I have allergies. Curry dust.”

Masaru walked by, ruffled Bakugo’s hair.

Bakugo growled.

“Hands off, old man.”

“Still soft as ever,” Masaru said, smiling.

They cleaned up the rest of the dishes in a rhythm that didn’t need instructions.

By the time the kitchen was wiped down and the leftovers packed, the only thing left in the air was the faint smell of garlic and soap.

Bakugo stood at the sink again. Quiet now.

Not trembling.

Just breathing.

Mitsuki walked past and paused by the doorway.

“You need anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m good.”

She didn’t push.

Just nodded once. “Door’s open if you change your mind.”

Masaru followed a moment later, patting his back gently.

Bakugo stayed there a while.

Just standing.

Not thinking. Not fighting. Not running.

Just letting himself be still.

—————————————————————

He woke up to light cutting through the blinds.

Not sharp. Not blinding. Just that soft, gray kind of morning sun that slips in before the world wakes up fully.

His eyes blinked open, dry and gritty.

For a second—he didn’t move.

Just lay there.

Staring at the ceiling he’d grown up with. The faint water stain in the corner that kind of looked like a cloud if you squinted. The cracks in the paint near the light switch. His old All Might poster still tacked up behind the door, edges curled with time.

Safe.

He sat up slowly, muscles stiff.

His palms itched. Ghost aches. His mind still played echoes he didn’t invite.

But he moved.

That mattered.

Downstairs, the house was already awake.

He heard the sound of eggs hitting a pan. The fridge door opening. The low rumble of his father’s voice, half-muffled by morning.

Bakugo pulled on a clean hoodie. Brushed his teeth without looking too long in the mirror. Slid into his socks and left his room like it was just another Thursday.

The kitchen smelled like onion.

Mitsuki was at the stove, back to him, flipping eggs like she was mad at them. Hair up. Slippers on.

Masaru sat at the table, reading something on his tablet, steaming cup of tea in one hand.

They both looked up when he entered.

No one said anything at first.

Then—

“There’s rice,” Mitsuki said. Not looking at him. “And tea. Sit down.”

He did.

Wordlessly.

He ate slowly. Mechanically. But he ate.

Masaru passed him the soy sauce without a word. Mitsuki pushed a second egg onto his plate without asking.

And then—

Bakugo swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said:

“I’m heading back.”

Mitsuki didn’t turn.

“Figured.”

Masaru nodded, setting his cup down.

“Want me to call a cab?”

“Nah. I’ll walk to the station.”

Mitsuki finally turned to face him. Her eyes were unreadable.

“You sure?”

Bakugo met her stare evenly.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then she sighed.

“Your teachers better be ready.”

Masaru stood and clapped him gently on the shoulder.

“I’ll walk you down.”

“I can carry my own fucking bag.”

“Not what I said.”

…

Twenty minutes later, he stood at the door, bag slung over one shoulder.

His shoes were on. Hoodie zipped. Hands in his pockets.

Mitsuki leaned on the wall, arms crossed.

“Don’t be a dumbass.”

“Not planning to be.”

Masaru smiled faintly beside her.

“We’ll keep a plate warm. Come back when you need it.”

Bakugo nodded.

Then—

He hesitated.

Just half a second.

Then turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the morning.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

He knew the door would still be there.

…

The morning was gray.

Not heavy with clouds — just that dull, washed-out kind of sky where the sun never really shows its face. The pavement was still damp, speckled with tiny leaves stuck to the curb from last night’s wind. Cold air nipped at his fingers where they were shoved in his hoodie pockets.

The streets were quiet. Not empty. Just slow.

Old man Watanabe was out sweeping his driveway with that beat-up straw broom, muttering at the wind like it owed him rent. The lady two doors down was dragging recycling bins to the curb, slippers slapping wet pavement.

Normal.

Bakugo kept walking.

He was maybe a block from the station when he heard a voice—

“Bakugo?!”

He turned, brows already starting to pull together.

It was that one brat from around the corner — maybe nine or ten, puffy green jacket zipped up to his chin and soccer cleats clicking on the sidewalk.

Kid skidded to a stop in front of him, wide-eyed. “You’re back? For real? I thought you were, like, living in a fortress now or something.”

Bakugo snorted. “It’s a dorm, not a fucking fortress.”

“Same thing,” the kid said, grinning. “You got a real hero license and everything now, right?”

Bakugo didn’t answer.

He kept walking.

The kid kept pace.

“Do you, like, fight villains every day? What’s the biggest explosion you’ve ever made? Your quirk has always been cool. Did anyone die?”

“Chatterbox,” Bakugo muttered, not breaking stride, “go back home.”

“I’m on the way, jeez. Hey—wait—do you still have the gauntlets? You know, those grenade things? They’re so cool. My brother says you were in the news like five times last week.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes.

“Don’t believe everything your dumbass brother says.”

The kid grinned anyway. “So you do still have them.”

Bakugo finally glanced down at him, tone flat.

“You planning to rob a fucking bank or something?”

The kid laughed.

Bakugo didn’t.

They reached the corner. His turn.

“Hey,” the kid said suddenly, “is it scary?”

Bakugo stopped. Looked down at him.

The kid shifted a little, tugging at his jacket sleeve. “You know. Being a hero.”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

He looked at the street. The puddles. The station across the intersection.

“…No,” he said finally.

Then crossed the street.

Didn’t look back.

The kid stood there for a minute, watching.

Then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled after him:

“I’m gonna be a hero too!”

Bakugo didn’t respond.

But his steps didn’t slow either.

Not until the station doors hissed open and swallowed him whole.

The train car was quiet.

Middle cars always were this time of day. No school kids. No salarymen. Just a few scattered passengers, heads tucked into books or napping against the windows.

He slouched in his seat with his hood up and his bag at his feet. He didn’t wear his uniform. Just dark jeans, sneakers, the same black hoodie from yesterday that still smelled faintly like home and curry.

Bakugo had chosen his seat for one reason: no one beside him.

Or so he thought.

When he slid into his spot near the window, he barely glanced to his right—just enough to clock a tiny pink backpack wedged under the opposite seat and the flutter of a tiny socked foot swinging beneath it.

A kid.

And an old lady.

He didn’t think much of them at first. Just settled in. Hoodie up. Bag on his lap.

But as the train pulled out of the station, he noticed them a little more.

The girl—maybe five, six?—had a notebook open on her knees and a crayon in each hand. She was drawing something with too many arms and stars for eyes. Occasionally humming.

The old woman—grandmother, probably—wore a warm brown coat and had hair the color of fresh snow. She was knitting. Fast. Like she was racing herself.

They didn’t talk much.

But they had that kind of quiet closeness you could feel.

Bakugo kept to himself.

At least, until—

“Oba-chan,” the girl whispered, tugging on her grandmother’s sleeve. “That boy is handsome.”

Bakugo’s ears twitched.

The woman looked up, glanced at him, then leaned down and whispered back, not nearly as quiet as she thought:

“He is, isn’t he?”

Bakugo stiffened.

Dead still.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

But the red bloomed across his ears like fire under skin.

Bakugo turned his face to the window. Slowly. Deliberately. Like if he looked away fast enough, the embarrassment would vanish into the passing buildings.

He stared out the window.

The city slid by in fragments.

Shops, rooftops, power lines. Trees bent under a lazy wind. A group of kids on the platform waved at the train as it passed.

The motion was familiar.

He’d taken this route before. Hundreds of times.

But it felt different now.

Everything did.

They rode like that for a while.

The girl drew a cape on the thing she was sketching.

The old woman kept knitting—rhythmic, soft clicks of needle on needle.

And Bakugo sat there, eyes on the window.

Before the next stop, the girl whispered:

“Is your hair real?”

She was standing now, halfway leaning across the aisle, pink socks bunching around her ankles.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was pointed.

He stared at her.

She stared back, eyes too round to flinch.

“…Yeah,” he muttered.

“Oh.” She considered this. “Cool. Your hair is spiky like the sun.”

Bakugo blinked.

Glanced at her.

She was beaming.

He coughed, rubbed the back of his neck.

She sat back down, completely satisfied.

Bakugo stared ahead.

The hell was that?

The old lady smiled without looking up.

He sank lower in his seat, dragging his hood further over his eyes.

Goddamn civilians.

The train bumped slightly over the next rail split.

Bakugo adjusted his hood again. Tried to ignore her.

Didn’t work.

A crayon rolled off her knee and tapped against his boot. She scrambled after it—then stayed crouched halfway in the aisle, looking up at him with the unnerving confidence of a kid who had never been taught not to talk to strangers.

“I’m going to my cousin’s,” she said seriously, crayon held up like it was proof. “Her name’s Sora and she has a guinea pig that screams. But only at night. Or when you eat salad in front of him.”

Bakugo blinked.

The girl tilted her head. “Where are you going?”

He stared.

Then looked out the window. “Non of your business.”

He thought that would shut her up, but she giggled.

“What’s your name?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Stranger danger.”

“I’m not a stranger! I’m a kid!”

Bakugo glared. “That makes it worse.”

She huffed, crossed her arms. “Fine. Then I won’t tell you my name either.”

“Wasn’t askin’.”

A beat.

“…It’s Hana.”

Bakugo sighed explosively through his nose.

“…Katsuki,” he mumbled. “Now shut up, Hana.”

She beamed like he gave her a gold medal.

She climbed back into her seat and resumed her drawing,

He leaned against the window again, heartbeat still a little too loud in his ears.

The girl tapped her crayon against her chin.

“Hey,”

Fuck this shit.

“What?”

“I have a question. Do you always look angry, or is that just your face?”

He blinked.

Then scowled—instinctively.

“That’s a dumb question.”

“So it’s your face,” she said solemnly, like she’d solved a great mystery.

Bakugo let out a slow breath and leaned back in his seat.

Unbothered, the girl just resumed coloring. “My cousin’s grumpy too. She says it’s ‘cause her brain’s still growing.”

Bakugo scowled at the window. “My brain’s just fine.”

“Okay,” she said, totally unconvinced.

“You always interrogate strangers on trains?”

“Only the ones with spiky hair.”

“Great. Lucky me.”

She sat up straighter.

“I’m drawing a hero monster. It saves other monsters. Wanna See?”

“No.”

She held it up anyway.

He glanced at it, mostly just to shut her up. “It’s got, like… ten arms.”

“Twelve.”

“Figures.”

“It has electric eyes,” she explained. “Because those are the coolest.”

He rolled his eyes.

Bakugo started to think maybe that was it. Maybe he was finally free.

Then—

“Hey.”

He sighed. “What now?”

Hana had scooted halfway across the seat now, her notebook balancing on her knees, her mouth moving a mile a minute.

“You know what happened today?”

Silence.

“So today we had a substitute teacher and she was really tall and her hair was pink, but not like mine, like—brighter, like bubblegum, and she couldn’t remember our names so she called me ‘child’ the whole time which was weird—”

Bakugo nodded once, eyes still on the window. He’d stopped trying to respond.

That didn’t stop her.

“—and then at lunch I traded my pudding cup for two seaweed crackers and I regret it, but I didn’t wanna be rude and say ‘hey, give it back’ even though I should’ve because my crackers were stale and had a weird bend in them—can seaweed bend? Is that normal?”

Bakugo blinked. “…I don’t think so.”

“Right? That’s what I said! But Aoi said it’s ‘natural’ and she’s six like me but she acts like she’s ten and she tried to braid my hair but it got stuck to her bracelet and we had to go to the nurse’s office and the nurse was like ‘again?’ which was rude, but also, like, fair.”

Bakugo stared at her.

This girl was a menace.

She kept going.

“Then Takeru tried to throw a glue stick and it hit the class pet’s tank so the teacher screamed and we had to do quiet reading for the rest of the day but I read ten pages of my dragon book which is, like, three more than yesterday.”

She added, suddenly serious, “I don’t like Takeru,”

Bakugo grunted. “Yeah, I got that part.”

“Takeru always pulls my hair.”

Bakugo blinked again. “…Huh?”

“He always steals the red crayon and tells me girls can’t run fast and I’m annoying.”

She pressed harder on the page. Her tongue stuck out in focus.

“He always says stuff like that. But then he sits right next to me on the bus. So who’s annoying now?”

Bakugo glanced sideways. “Kick him in the shin.”

“Oba-chan says that’s not nice.”

“Then accidentally trip in his direction.”

Bakugo smirked, just barely, and added,

“Next time he pulls your hair, grab his wrist. Twist it—not hard, just enough to freak him out.”

Her grandma cleared her throat not looking at them.

“Gently,” Bakugo amended. “Gently freak him out.”

Hana giggled.

“Then what?”

“Then tell him if he wants your attention, he should try being nice, or you’ll steal all his crayons.”

“Even the red one?”

“Especially the red one.”

Hana grinned like he’d given her a secret weapon.

“I’ll twist his hand tomorrow.”

Bakugo shrugged. “I give great advice.”

“You should be a teacher.”

He snorted. “Hell no.”

A pause.

Then she didn’t look up when she said:

“Sometimes when I get home from school, my backpack’s heavier than it was in the morning. Because of how tired I’m after listening to the teachers all day. Am I the only one?”

She glanced at him.

“Your bag looks heavy too” she said pointing at it on his lap.

Bakugo stayed quiet.

“Feels like I’ve been dragging it for a while,” he said eventually. “Forgot what it’s like to put it down.”

“You ever wanna throw it in the river?” she asked.

The girl leaned sideways to whisper, “I almost did once.”

“Yeah?”

She grinned. “But I forgot my math homework was in it.”

He started at her, Then after a beat:

“…Maybe that’s why I didn’t throw it either.”

And for a long moment, they just sat there. The sound of the train filled the quiet between them.

The girl’s crayon snapped, and she didn’t even flinch. Just swapped it out with another from a cluttered pouch. She looked up for a second, met his eyes.

Then grinned.

Bakugo blinked. Looked away fast.

He shifted in his seat, leaned his head against the glass. The glass vibrated softly under his skull. The hum of the train was distant, soothing in a way he hated.

Hana had started humming now—off-key, nose wrinkled in concentration as she shaded in her monster’s boots. Her legs kicked lightly under her seat.

He should’ve been in peace.

But instead he was listening to a kid hums a song with no tune, coloring with broken crayons, like the world wasn’t big enough to scare her yet.

Great.

The woman beside her didn’t look up from her knitting. Her hands moved so fast, like muscle memory. Like someone who need to stay busy.

His leg bounced without thinking. Hands clenched in his hoodie pocket. He caught himself counting the stitches in her scarf.

Seven. Eight. Nine—

“Hey, mister.”

Not again.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

His head jerked like she’d thrown a punch.

“What kind of fucking question is that.”

“An important one,” she said seriously. “For character development.”

He gave her a full deadpan glare.

She grinned.

Then added—

“Or a boyfriend?”

Bakugo choked on absolutely nothing.

“WHAT?!”

“Oba-chan says people can love whoever they want. So I was wondering.”

He stared at her like she’d grown a second head, ears on fire.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

She nodded solemnly.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re, like, four.”

“Five and a quarter.”

“Exactly.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “That means you don’t know yet.”

“what does that even—”

“That’s okay,” she said, turning back to her drawing. “Sometimes loud people take longer.”

He pointed a finger at her. “You better stop talking right now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gonna give yourself a time-out.”

“Wow,” she whispered. “You’re just like my cousin Hiroto.”

Bakugo grit his teeth. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“He says things like ‘stop talking’ when he’s embarrassed.”

“I swear to god, I’M GONNA LAUNCH YOU OFF THIS TRAIN—“

She patted his arm like he was a scared cat in a thunderstorm.

“It’s okay. You will find a boyfriend soon.”

“I AM NOT—”

Her grandma hushed them both from the seat ahead, not even looking up from her knitting.

Bakugo hissed between his teeth. “I swear to god, if you weren’t a child—”

He slouched in his seat, seething.

Hana just went back to her coloring like she hadn’t just obliterated his ego with six words and a crayon-streaked smile.

He stared out the window for a long time after that. Still flushed.

“So… what did you do today?” she asked,

Silence.

Bakugo didn’t really want to answer.

What was he supposed to say?
Cried into a kitchen sink and decided to face the people I punched in the face two days ago?

He ignored her.

“Hey, what did you do today?” She repeated, like if he ignored her she will haunt him to the dorms.

He didn’t want that.

“Got on a train.”

“Did you have pudding?”

“No.”

“Seaweed crackers?”

“No.”

She tilted her head. “That doesn’t sound fun.”

He grunted. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”

She didn’t talk for the next ten minutes.

The train hummed steady beneath their feet.

Her monsters danced across the paper.

Then, with no ceremony at all, she dug around in her jacket pocket and pulled something out.

A crayon.

Red.

She shoved it toward him with both hands, like it was sacred.

“Just in case someone pulls your hair later.”

He blinked.

Didn’t move.

Then, slowly, almost cautiously, he took it.

Didn’t say anything.

But his fingers curled around it without thinking.

The train slowed. The platform came into view.

The girl’s grandma stood, bag in hand, and gave Bakugo a short bow before shuffling toward the door. The girl followed, watching her bounce away like a wind-up toy in sparkly boots.

At the last second, she spun back around and waved—big, like she meant it.

“Bye, Katsuki.”

Then the doors slid open.

And she was gone.

Bakugo stared at the space she left behind, still holding the crayon in his hand.

The train pulled forward.

He looked down at the thing still warm in his palm.

Short. A little chipped. Peeling paper with someone’s bite marks in it. Probably hers.

He turned it over in his fingers once, twice.

A smudge of red was left behind in his hand.

It didn’t burn. It didn’t sting.

He slid the crayon into his pocket.

And leaned back in his seat, arm draped across his bag, eyes drifting half-shut.

The red stayed with him.

And it didn’t mean fire.