Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katsuki Bakugou ain’t ever been described as slow. He’s rash, hot-headed, abrasive, and knows what he’s got. He put himself on the hero path at the ripe age of five, when his explosions finally became consistent enough to start thinking much about anything. Thing is, Katsuki has been described as obsessive, ambitious, overzealous. 

His parents had handled it as well as one could. Extra classes, extracurriculars, extra everything. Eventually they gave up, letting him drop the soccer and the drums and the martial arts. He had torn through all of them, hungry for something he couldn’t quite place. When the third meeting about his attitude on the pitch ended, his dad had looked at him, bloody and seething, and said they weren’t going back. Which was fine by Katsuki.

Suddenly at age eight, he had a lot more free time to fill. It started easy, watching the new All-might documentaries, spending some more time with his friends. Thinking of his future. Slowly a routine of his own took shape: cook breakfast, go to school, study, train. Then three days a week became four, four became five, five jumped to seven. Katsuki had learned to fly and forgotten what processed sugar tasted like by the time he turned nine.

Newly twelve and angrier than ever, Katsuki had taken to exploring the city after school. His parents having long trusted him with a key and the ability to feed himself. They began working later, taking short trips into other branches. Two-three day increments of a quiet house drove him to the streets. The hollering and cursing were better than the oppressive silence. 

He stood outside a boxing house more than once, a more western concept. Long enough for someone to leave the door open for a better view. Katsuki supposed that was where it started, the open door. It's a shoddy building and that was being kind. Three measly stories, and a rusty fire escape on the side. The brick was rubbed of any paint that might have been there, any windows are either frosted, or maybe they were never even cleaned.

It only took him a few days to make his way inside, it was mostly empty. A few people were training with sandbags, no one looked at him. Katsuki pushed the burn of it down. He walked out a few minutes later. But Katsuki went back the next day, and the next. He didn’t speak to anyone, just watched and watched. The air was somehow always stale, whatever few people were there paid him no mind. 

He turned thirteen without much fuss, he didn’t bother having a party. He didn’t like any of the people in his class, he certainly didn’t want Deku there of all people. He could feel himself getting angrier every day. His hands always hurt from overuse, his ears ringing more often than not. The ache for more, more, more pushing him to it. Getting up earlier, training harder. It wasn’t healthy. Katsuki was smart enough to know that. The need to fight, to win had been the reason for why many trees in the woods behind his house were cracked and gone.

He started staying out later, instead of training after he wandered about the city. Katsuki went home after school, training until his hands burned and as the sun was setting, he threw on a hoodie and slipped out his gate. 

It was different at night, the city more ominous. The walking dulled the rage ever rotting inside him. The boxing club was still open at night, but the doors were shut tight. Katsuki could see the light from under the door, the dull roar of a crowd. He was curious. It took a few nights of coming back before he noticed a pattern, three knocks and the door would open before bolting shut again. 

It only took him two nights more to work up the courage to do it. A voice chanting in the back of his head that this was a bad idea. That he should be at home, in bed. He only had another two years before UA starts, he can’t afford to fuck about.

Katsuki knocks on the door that has been peeling red paint for the better part of the last year. It opens, and he’s staring at someone he’s never seen before. Not even in the few weeks last year when he stood and lingered around awkwardly. The man had more piercings than Katsuki knew existed, tattoos up his neck and the ugliest dyed hair Katsuki had the misfortune of seeing. 

The man stares back, grunts and lets him in. The crowd is bustling, and workout gear usually present in the gym is gone, only the ring is left. People swarm around it, Katsuki can’t see much more than the tops of two figures circling each other. He worms his way to the front, snapping and snarling with hunched shoulders to get there.

He watches as two women, both with short hair, circle each other. Their expressions are ugly and calculating. Neither of them have piercings or loose clothing. Dressed in nearly identical black spandex. Katsuki watches as one grabs the other and throws her onto the ground. 

The crowd roars, Katsuki feels himself grin. Woman number two gets back up, shouting insults he’s never heard before and lunges. For a moment, Katsuki thinks things have gotten out of hand. But no one steps in. He leaves after the next match. A fighting ring. He’s found himself a fighting ring.

The next day, Katsuki arrives before the night starts. Sitting on some stairs in the back. The gym mills about with the usual, three or four regulars. Eventually they leave, and the bouncer from last night waltzes in like he owns the place. There isn’t anyone else to notice when he sees Katsuki anyway. The air is stale, the gym neither warm nor cold.

He raises an eyebrow and they stare at each other for a couple moments. Before he points to the weights that had been left out. 

“You wanna stay for free, you'll have to earn it.”

Indignation rises in him, a sharp retort that he can fork up whatever cash this dump wants. Katsuki, for the first time, stops it. Nods and picks up the weights.

“Put ‘em in the back room, it's never locked. And the bars too. Then grab a cloth and wipe the ring down”

The back room is a mess, Katsuki just throws the smaller weights randomly to the ones already there. He has to roll the forty and fifties, and can only take one bar at a time. He finds a dirty cloth next to a mop bucket on the other side. The bouncer had disappeared up the stairs Katsuki had been sitting on.

He stares at the empty gym. Desolate and lonely. Katsuki bounces from one foot to another, clenching his hands and unclenching them rapidly. He flits about, double checking the ring is free of dust. Katsuki eyes the stairs, goes back into the other room and shoves the bars upright against the wall. The light flickers above him, and Katsuki reorganizes the smaller weights, leaving the heavy ones in a stack. It gives way to a dusty sink, and some cupboards in the back. He washes the cloth. Scrubs angrily at the stains in the sink.

By the time the room is clean, Katsuki is twitching in rage. The gym is still empty. He stomps his way up the stairs to see it's just one large room, a bed and a couch and table present and nothing else. Katsuki frowns. The bouncer isn't there either. He whirls around the room, searching. He hadn’t heard anyone go down the stairs.

The dusty window in the corner is latched, a slow drizzle of rain had picked up from when he went into the gym. Katsuki’s nose wrinkles and he pushes it open to see a fire escape, rusty and broken. It can’t be up to code. The bouncer is sitting on the edge within a gap of missing bars, smoking. 

Katsuki clears his throat. Nothing. The smell of smoke floats into the room with a slight chill from the drizzle.

“When’s the fights start?”

He takes a slow drag, lazily looking at Katsuki, eyes tinged red. “Why’re ya here kid?”

Katsuki snarls, “When’s the fights start?”

The exhale is long, Katsuki could be training right now. He could have been trained all evening instead of waiting for some stupid fucking nonsense. 

"Whenever they start. Build it and they shall come, young grasshopper.”

It’s utter bullshit, the rain falls slowly. More of a mist than anything heavy, droplets fall from where they form on the bars above them. The bouncer stands up, bones cracking. Katsuki takes a step back from the window, letting him swing into the room. Katsuki taps his fingers against his thighs. 

“Why are you here, Kid?”

Katsuki doesn’t know. He wants to be a hero. He wants to be number one, he could join the best training school, go to the best gyms. Instead he’s standing above a shitty little gym, with a stranger. He feels angry all of the time, rage in class, at people who deserve it, at people who don’t deserve it. He liked watching the fight last night. 

That feeling they had, the want to win. The want to hurt someone. Katsuki carries it in his hands and shoulders, the demand for more. To knock someone down rots in him. He doesn’t know why he’s here. But at the same time, Where else would he be?

The bouncer sighs, and flicks the cigarette out the window uncaringly. Brushes a hand through his ugly, ugly hair. 

“You can watch, every day at around nine pm the fights kick off. The gym has to be clean before then, and cleaned after. It usually goes until late, one or two. I don’t want to see you here every day.”

Katsuki scowls deeply. “Why not?”

“Because it’s my gym and I don’t need to let you here at all. Four days a week maximum. Take it or leave it.”

Katsuki clenches his hands, muffling small sparks. The bouncer remains unimpressed. Grinding his jaw so hard he thinks he’ll crack a tooth, Katsuki agrees.

The days pass the same, Katsuki doesn’t often stay until the end of the night, he arrives around 6pm, after dinner and an hour of training. He cleans the gym, the backroom gets more acceptable every time he’s there. He changes the light bulb in the first week. The fights keep him on edge, it's rough, it's brutal. It’s bared teeth and snarling and no quirks. Just pure unfiltered anger at each other. Katsuki never looks away. The bouncer never interferes, not when a bone is snapped. Not when a shoulder is dislocated. 

Katsuki learns why the girls on his first night had short hair, after seeing a chunk get ripped from someone's head. No one wears piercings either. The clothes aren’t supplied, it's just most wear tight clothes to avoid getting dragged. 

It reminds Katsuki of a quote from some book a girl was talking about in class, one of the people still floating about him. ‘There are no bargains between lions and men, I will kill you and eat you raw’. 

On the nights he does stay late, the bouncer stays as well. As Katsuki scrubs the ring of whatever blood or hair or teeth it had collected over the night, heart still thrumming with the excitement of a match. The man brings the weights back in, he doesn't offer any praise for the backroom. Katsuki tries not to feel slighted.

“You do have a place to crash right kid?” He said once, leaning on the ropes while Katsuki worked. “I’m not booting you to the street, am I?”

Katsuki scowls. “Course I do.”

The bouncer hums, Katsuki realizes it's been about three solid weeks and he doesn’t know the guy's name. He doesn’t ask anyway.

“You’ve been hanging around for a while, saw you about last year during the day. Don’t like home much?”

Katsuki’s parents are good parents, good people, he knows they are. His dad is soft, his mother is encouraging. They aren’t the problem. They aren’t the ones who are just wrong in most senses. Katsuki is a little too much at best, and overwhelming at worst. He feels as if he exists in extremes. 

“They’re fine.” He says hotly. The bouncer holds up his hands and Katsuki redoubles the scrubbing. 

“Alright, Alright. So why then?”

Katsuki grumbles.

“What was that Kid?”

“I don’t know why. I just like seeing the fights.”

The bouncer stares at him, the empty room seems more pronounced. The look is heavy, knowing. He nods.

“Sweep before you leave, yeah? And kid, there's always a couch upstairs if you need it.”

He doesn’t plan on using it. 

He turns fourteen, and Katsuki thinks he might be the worst person on the planet. He’s worse, all explosive hands and attitude—he knows he is. He says things he shouldn’t mean, hurts people he shouldn’t hurt. Maybe three of his friends stick around but they're flighty, having learned where they stand. Deku always seems to be sporting a bruise from him. Katsuki hates that he does it, but he doesn’t seem to know how to stop. He tells the boy to kill himself more than once, taunting him constantly.

Every time he sees Deku flinch, a part of him twists painfully. What kind of friend does this? Katsuki knows he’s being a coward, that he isn’t acting like a hero. It’s just that if he can’t find someone to take it out on, he’s going to choke on it. They were friends once. Deku doesn’t deserve Katsuki’s wrath—no one does. Knowing it doesn’t make it go away, though. Is this really who I want to be?

Katsuki’s parents give up; it’s not their fault. Some things are just born bad, and Katsuki seems to be a rotten thing. They take longer trips, and he hardly sees them anymore. His dad texts him a happy birthday and reminds him that they updated the card to limitless spending this year. Katsuki ignores it.

He spends more time at the gym. The bouncer, Yuki Kyo, Katsuki learns, starts leaving the sandbags up. Tells him more than teaches Katsuki how to throw a real punch. One night, as he walks into the gym, fuming and sparking over something he can't even remember, Kyo tells him to get into the ring. 

Katsuki gets his ass handed to him, twice. Kyo stares down unconcerned, and tells him to make sure the gym is ready for nine. It helps, a little. He sleeps on the couch that night. It’s uncomfortable, and lumpy and possibly the best sleep Katsuki has had in the last two years.

Kyo doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t mention a lot of things. Katsuki finds it reassuring. The way that they barely know anything about each other. The anonymity is consistent. Some other fighters pick up on his presence. He gets better at learning, at watching the fights. He sees openings before they happen. 

One lady offers to teach him how to take a punch. 

“Won’t do you a lot of good if you can’t keep going after hits.”

She’s shorter than him, and twice as broad, she puts more bruises on him than he can count. But she’s right. He learns how to breathe when it feels like you’re going to throw up. How it feels when someone nearly breaks your nose, and how you can ignore it. 

Kira is the only name she’ll give. She shows up every Wednesday before the fights and beats him up. Katsuki doesn’t ask her anything, she doesn't ask him either. He supposes everyone wants to be someone else in the gym. Or to be themselves, Katsuki tries not to think about it.

The only time he’s not is in the gym, he’s training, and he’s still only allowed there four days a week, and he only goes after school. 

He brings it up. Lingering around the weights. He still has to move the bars and heavier ones into the back room. But it’s only eight o’clock. He has time. 

“Can I start coming more often.” 

He doesn’t phrase it as a question, Kyo looks at him from a clipboard. But he doesn’t say no. Katsuki tries to squash the hope as he easily lifts the forty weights into the backroom. Weeks of moving them had built his muscles even more than his regular training. 

The pen taps on the clipboard. Katsuki's heart lurches with it. Kyo looks conflicted. It’s the most emotion he’s shown in the last year. 

“I’m not saying yes-“

Katsuki interrupts, “Why not! I do more around the gym than anyone, you’re only here in the evenings anyway!”

“I’m not saying yes-“ Kyo plants him with a hard stare “but I’m not saying no. If I think you’re over working, you take a break.”

Katsuki scowls, “How could I be overworked? You won’t even let me fight.”

Kyo raises an impassive eyebrow. “You didn’t ask to.”

Katsuki bristles, his palms crackle dangerously. He’s spent a year here, why wouldn’t he want to fight? It’s all he’s been able to think about. Smoke rises and he forces himself to breathe before he does something stupid, like light himself on fire. He needs to fight, he needs somewhere to channel all this rage. The cleaning and structure and watching the fights is good, but Katsuki needs more. 

“Of course I want to fight!”

Kyo regards him for a moment. Just staring. Katsuki can’t get a good read on him. But, he hasn’t said no, and Katsuki can’t fight the rising hope. 

“I’ll still be around to clean after the fights. And I can set up in the evenings!”

Kyo clicks his tongue, “Not if you get hurt in the fight.”

Kyo is talking about possibilities—ones that mean Katsuki might have a chance if he can convince him. The back of his neck feels hot, a mix of insulted and enthusiastic. Katsuki wants to shout how he won’t get hurt, but he’s seen the people who fight. 

“I won’t. You can choose who I fight if you want. I don’t give a shit.”

Kyo hums. Decided matches are unusual. Most of the time it's whoever hops into the rings. Katsuki would agree to anything to get even one. Kyo opens his mouth. And closes it. 

“You only, and I mean only, fight when I’m here. Matches with who I choose. And kid?”

Katsuki grins, heart thrumming in his palms. He’s going to get to fight. 

“And it won’t be every night.”

“-but I can come around more? More than four days a week?”

Kyo nods reluctantly. Then Kira walks in, punctual as ever and Katsuki’s weekly beating starts. 

His first match is a day later against a guy he’s never seen. Close to Katsuki's own stature. He watches as Kyo shakes his hand where he thinks Katsuki can’t see him. 

Katsuki knows the new guy was invited specifically for him, Kyo’s keeping an eye even in the ring. He can’t help the way his face pulls back into a snarl, his hands clenching. He feels babied. Like he’s being treated like a small stupid child. 

The crowd isn’t big yet, at barely quarter past nine. Katsuki assumes Kyo thinks he’s going to lose. A burning starts in his chest, a craving to feel something break under his hands. With or without using his quirk. He doesn’t stretch, or warm up. Launching over the ropes.

Katsuki isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but over the roar of blood in his ears, he’s vindicated by how his opponent blanches and takes a step back. He snarls, and waits for one second, because usually when people wait, they wait for the other to move first. Katsuki isn’t above tricks, and confusing the guy. It works.

Katsuki gets in close, and keeps his arms up. Jabs a knee up into the guys stomach, but not nearly with enough force as he’d like. An arm swings at his left, and Katsuki goes under it. There’s a pounding in his throat, the lights seem sharper. The crowd fades to nothing. Punch, dodge, punch, block. It goes on.

Sweat drips down his neck, the sickly sweet nitroglycerin filling his senses. Don’t spark off, he thinks, Everything else goes, but do not use your quirk. He hasn’t got the stamina for a long fight. He needs to make this quick or he is going to lose. Katsuki Bakugou will not lose his first fight, Kyo will never let him fight for real if he does.

He ducks under another wild swing, but he’s slower this time. His legs threaten to give out under him. His opponent—equally exhausted—takes a heavy breath and stumbles a step backward, his guard loosening. Katsuki knows this is his opening, but there’s no time to plan his next move, no room for strategy.

His chest heaves. His arms are jelly. The whole world feels like it’s shaking around him, but his instincts scream louder. Tactics aren’t enough anymore. If he doesn’t end this now, it’ll be him on the floor. And he can’t— won’t —let that happen.

Without warning, Katsuki launches himself forward. It’s a brutal, reckless move—more animal than fighter. He barrels into the guy, shoulder-first, slamming him into the ground with the weight of his whole body. The crowd gasps as they hit the mat with a dull thud, but Katsuki’s too far gone to hear it. His hands find purchase on his opponent’s shirt, gripping it so hard his knuckles turn white.

For a second, they wrestle on the floor, limbs tangled, fingers scrabbling for control. Katsuki feels a hand yank at his hair, sharp pain ripping at his scalp, but it only fuels him. His vision blurs as his fist comes down, connecting with flesh.

Once. Twice. Three times.

His fist slams into the guy’s face, the impact vibrating through his bones.

Stay down. The thought blazes in his mind, primal and instinctual. Stay the fuck down.

He doesn’t stop punching until the guy’s body goes limp beneath him, the dull thud of flesh on flesh no longer giving any resistance. It takes a minute for Katsuki to stop hitting him, to realize he’s won. The crowd is actually silent. Katsuki feels blood drip from his knuckles, bile at his throat. Kyo sits on the stairs, in perfect view of the ring, Katsuki can’t see his face. Is he going to be kicked out of the gym? Did he go too far? Was he too violent even for them?

The guy on the floor groans, and rolls on his side to spit out a tooth. At the confirmation of his survival, the crowd starts to clap. People banging on the sides demanding another match. The relief he feels, is what Katsuki imagines heroin feels like, they chant for him. Katsuki can’t catch what it is, but it feels great. The constant burn to hurt something is sated, he feels lighter than he can ever remember being. He wants it, no, Katsuki needs this. He needs the victory. To prove he’s strong, and powerful and be celebrated for it.

Kyo is cutting through the crowd, his head down as he hops into the ring. Katsuki panics for a moment thinking that even though he won, this is it. He’ll never be allowed back, this is Kyo’s friend he just beat. The crowd falls silent again. It’s times like this Katsuki remembers Kyo is the ringleader here, what he says goes. Did Katsuki do a good job, or is he an uncontrolled threat?

When Kyo grabs his hand and raises it high, Katsuki feels his breath catch. It’s like the air has been punched back into his lungs, adrenaline surging through him all over again. The crowd’s roar drowns out everything—the blood in his ears, the ache in his body. All that matters is this moment of victory.

Chapter Text

Katsuki is allowed to fight twice a week. He spends all his time at the gym, to the point where Kyo buys a pullout couch to replace the ones he’s been crashing on. He only goes home to shower and cook, shoving the rice, chicken and broccoli into several containers and putting them in the fridge in the gym.

His parents are on another month-long trip, in Brazil this time. Last he heard from them, his dad was talking about becoming a global company, or something about global investors. Katsuki wasn’t really paying attention.

Katsuki wiped sweat from his brow, the scent of iron and rubber filling the gym as he swept the floor. He was only half paying attention, his mind preoccupied with the flashcards stuffed into his bag. Anatomy and first aid, vital for passing the UA entrance exam—stuff he wouldn’t have bothered with a year ago. But now, every detail feels crucial.

He heard the familiar sound of footsteps and turned to see Kira approaching, her brow raised in mild amusement. “What’s this?” she asked, gesturing at the pile of flashcards that had slipped out of his bag. “Are you becoming a doctor or something, Kid?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice. It wasn’t like he could admit how much he wanted to impress everyone, especially with the competition looming ahead. “It’s just first aid.”

“Uh-huh,” Kira said, crouching down to pick up a few cards. “First aid, huh? Look at all these muscles. You planning on patching up your opponents after you beat them?”

“Something like that,” he grunted, returning to his sweeping. It felt like a pointless chore, but it kept him from having to explain himself. He focused on the task, but her voice broke through his concentration.

“I could help, if you want,” she suggested, brushing off her knees as she stood back up.

Katsuki paused, glancing at her. He had sparred with Kira for over a year now, and they had a rough camaraderie. Still, he didn’t know much about her beyond her name. “Could you?”

She smirked, hands on her hips. “We’ll make a game of it. I’ll hit you, you name what got hit.”

Katsuki frowned, the idea sounding ridiculous. “And when I hit you?”

“I’ll name it,” she replied, her grin widening. “It’ll be fun.”

Rolling his eyes, he conceded. “Fine. It better be worth something. I’m not wasting my time”

“Deal,” she said, stepping back and assuming a loose stance.

He stretched, muscles warming under her scrutiny. Kira’s eyes followed him, sharp and observant. “Alright, let’s see what you got. Soleus?”

“Uh... that’s the calf, right?”

She nodded, throwing a light jab that he dodged effortlessly.

"Good! Plantaris tendon?”

“Uh, above the calf?”

Kira feigned a groan, “Really? Come on, Kid! You’re going to need to know this. Put in some effort” She threw another light jab, this time to his knee. He reacted, trying to counter but missed.

“Hey! Focus!”

He gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling up. “Yeah, yeah. Semimembranosus. The one behind the knee.”

“Better! And I’m going to take it easy on you. Last thing I need is for you to bruise too easily,” she teased, throwing a few more quick jabs that he managed to dodge.

He felt the tension lift as they sparred, and soon they fell into a rhythm. She would hit, and he would name muscles, forcing himself to remember each one. After a few rounds, Kira paused, catching her breath. “Okay, how about this? I’ll throw some more real punches, and if you don’t name it, you have to do twenty push-ups.”

Katsuki shouts back, “That’s not fair! You’re just trying to make me tired.”

“Exactly! You’re not getting out of this that easy, Kid. You need to be sharp. Why do you even need this in the first place?”

He doesn’t answer. Everywhere else he has no problem announcing how he wants to be a hero, but in the gym it feels childish. Like he’s playing pretend somehow. He regularly fights people, and he wants to be a hero? They’ll laugh at him at best. 

The atmosphere between them shifts as he stays silent. She picks up on the importance of it, that this was more than just studying—this was preparation for the fights ahead. Kira stepped forward, feigning a punch to his right side. He instinctively moved, and she connected a light jab to his shoulder.

“Biceps brachia,” he shot back, surprised by his quick response.

“Alright! We’re getting somewhere,” she grinned. “Now, how about this”

As they continued, the tension of the upcoming competition started to fade away. The gym felt alive around them, filled with the echoes of their sparring and laughter. Katsuki knew he had a long way to go, but for now, he felt focused, driven by the shared intensity of their practice.

It goes wrong once. Just once. He’s becoming a regular at the fights, he draws more than he wins. People are beginning to recognize his patterns, which side he favors. It’s not an explicit rule to not use quirks, but it is an unspoken agreement. Not one person had used theirs, not even any mutants. Wings are folded shut, tails wrapped around legs. In return their opponents don’t damage them. In the ring, they simply don’t exist.

Katsuki warms up before his fights now. Waking up to constant pains, or being unable to react in the fight grates on him. He’s wearing clothes as loose as he dares to in the ring, pants a little baggy, shirt just allowing full mobility. He goes barefoot most days, even though shoes add more damage it gives him less to trip over.

It starts as usual. Katsuki is young, the youngest here. They’ve stopped holding back, stopped letting him get in close. He’s up against a woman, taller than him, leaner too. They’ve fought before, he’s won, she’s won. It's always good. Always get him his fix of bloodlust. 

They start, circling around each other. He’s ready. Pulse thrumming, the crowd buzzing, it’s everything he wants. Everything he needs. He rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers, the skin on his palms itching for action.

Katsuki ducks under her swing, landing a sharp jab to her side. He grins as she stumbles, but she’s quick, too quick. She spins back, her fist clipping his jaw with enough force to rattle his teeth. His vision blurs for a second, and the familiar heat starts building in his palms. 

No. Not here.

She lands a brutal kick to his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Katsuki reels, gasping, and that’s when it happens. His palms, slick with sweat, spark. He doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late. Katsuki’s hands twitch as the tiny explosion fizzles out, heat and smoke slipping between his fingers. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but he catches it. So does she. Her eyes flicker to his hands, lips pulling into a tight line.

The brief pause hangs heavy between them, but it doesn’t last long. She moves in again, faster this time—no hesitation. Katsuki reacts on instinct, dodging her jab, but his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. Did she see it? Was it that bad? His mind is stuck on that moment, replaying the spark over and over. He should be focusing on the fight, but all he can think about is keeping his quirk under control.

She comes at him harder, more aggressive than usual. Her punches are sharper, more precise, as if she’s testing him—pushing him to see why he’s holding back. Katsuki can feel her frustration radiating off her with every swing. What the hell’s wrong with you? Her expression practically screams it.

And she’s right.

They fight for real here. No one comes to pull punches or go easy. So why the hell is he?

When her fist connects with his side, Katsuki grits his teeth, barely stopping himself from sparking off again. It’s not just about winning anymore—it’s about control. But the more he tries to focus on holding his quirk back, the sloppier his movements become.

His opponent doesn’t let up. A low growl escapes her throat as she drives a knee into his stomach, and Katsuki staggers, the wind knocked from his lungs. She’s not just fighting to win now—she’s pissed. He can see it in her eyes. She wants him to take this seriously, to fight like he means it. Like he usually does.

“Is that all you got?” she spits, circling him, her voice low and biting. There’s a taunt in it, but mostly disappointment. She’s not shit-talking for the crowd, she’s speaking to him.

Katsuki feels the burn of shame mixed with his frustration. You’re the one who always wants a real fight, he reminds himself. You’d be pissed too.

But instead of igniting that fury inside him, it throws him even more off balance. His mind keeps drifting back to that spark—how easy it was to lose control for just a second.

She doesn't ease up, not for a second. Every punch is sharper, every kick hits harder. She’s going all out, and Katsuki knows it. It’s a stark reminder of what these fights are about—what keeps people coming back.

She’s fighting for the rush. The blood, sweat, and grit. Katsuki can see it in her eyes, feel it in every strike. She’s here to push herself to the edge, and she expects the same from him.

And he’s not giving it.

Katsuki tries to dodge another punch, but she’s too fast. Her fist slams into his jaw, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his skull. He stumbles, legs wobbling as he struggles to keep his balance. But his mind isn’t in the fight anymore. It’s still stuck on keeping his palms from igniting, on controlling the explosions simmering beneath his skin. He’s holding back, and they both know it.

She snarls as she lands another hit, this time to his ribs. “What’s wrong with you?” she snaps. The frustration is clear in her voice now, almost angry. “You gonna actually fight or what?”

Katsuki’s fists tighten, his teeth grinding together. I can’t. Not like this. Not when he’s so close to losing control again. The more he thinks about it, the more his grip on the fight slips.

The next punch comes harder, and this time it’s enough to knock him to the ground. He crashes onto the mat with a dull thud, breath ragged as he lies there, trying to catch his breath. The crowd around them is quieter now, watching, waiting to see if he’ll get up.

But he doesn’t. Not right away.

His opponent stands over him, breathing heavily, her eyes narrowed in annoyance. She looks down at him, fists still clenched, waiting for him to make a move. Waiting for him to fight back.

But Katsuki just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, his hands still trembling from the effort of holding back his quirk. His jaw aches, his ribs scream in pain, but none of that matters. All he can think about is that damn spark. How easy it would be to lose control again.

The woman huffs and steps back, disgusted. “Tch. Waste of time,” she mutters, walking away. The fight’s over, and she’s clearly disappointed. Katsuki can feel the weight of her disappointment hanging in the air as she leaves the ring. He can’t blame her. He’d be pissed too if someone half-assed it like he just did.

The crowd murmurs, the energy of the room shifting. There’s no roar of victory, no celebration. Just silence. Katsuki’s stomach twists with frustration and shame, both for losing and for holding back.

He pushes himself up slowly, every part of him aching. But it’s not the pain from the hits that bothers him. It’s the feeling that he wasn’t in control. That he let the fight slip through his fingers because he couldn’t trust himself to keep his quirk in check.

Katsuki leaves the ring without looking at anyone, jaw clenched, his fists still balled up at his sides. He can feel his palms itching again, that familiar heat rising under his skin. He needs to do something. Anything. He needs to stop this from happening again. He needs more control.

“What was that?”

Katsuki had gone upstairs after his match, head hung low. So caught in his own sulking that he didn’t hear Kyo come up. 

“I don't need to win every fucking match, do I?” He growls out. Hands closed.

Kyo remains composed, “Never said you had to. But you don’t lose like that. You don’t fight like that, what happened?”

Katsuki grinds his teeth but forces himself to answer—this is Kyo’s gym after all. He’s not going to lie to the man letting him sleep on his couch five days a week.

“My quirk”

“Your …quirk."

He grunts, “It went off in the match,” Katsuki stares at the stain on the table, waiting for Kyo to call him out, waiting for the disappointment he’s already drowning in. The silence stretches, and his fingers itch for a spark—something to match the storm in his chest. “It’s never done that– I’ve never done that without meaning too.”

Kyo doesn’t say anything straight away, Katsuki waits for the silence to break like one would wait for a guillotine to drop. 

“You can’t control it?”

He looks up sharply, Katsuki bites down the urge to shout. To him, it was everything—a crack in his control, a weakness exposed. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, not like this.

“Of course I can! Holding it back in a fight is just fucking hard.”

Kyo narrows his eyes, before relaxing. “Oh”

“‘Oh’? The fuck do you mean Oh ?”

“It’s puberty, kid. Your body is–” 

“I KNOW THAT”

“.... Are you done?” He levels Katsuki with a look, “So your quirk is going to get stronger. Think of it like a growth spurt. Not a big deal, everyone makes a mistake or two. Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal? Did Kyo see the sorry excuse for a match he just had? Katsuki can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Quirks aren’t allowed in fights.”

“Says who? I don’t make the rules”

Katsuki blinks, of course Kyo makes the rules. And no one uses their quirks here. What is he talking about? Kyo seems to understand his confusion.

Kyo leans back, arms crossed, “Kid, I’m not some authority figure here. I just opened the place. You all come here, you make the fights, you make the rules. I let you fight, sure, but that’s it.”

Katsuki’s mouth drops open, “But you let it happen, and you said I couldn’t fight. Or come here every day.”

“I never said you couldn’t fight, and you weren’t allowed because I don’t want to be charged for abduction.”

Katsuki blinks, baffled. He had always thought the gym ran on some unspoken rules. That Kyo had some say over who fought and how they fought. 

“Kid, if it's that big of a deal, wear some gloves.”

Katsuki blinks, processing the simplicity of Kyo’s solution. Gloves? It sounded stupid, too easy. He exhales, unclenching his fists for the first time since the match. Maybe he'll give it a shot.

It does work. At first, he feels ridiculous—gloves? Really? But they’re cotton, soaking up the sweat from his palms, and he can still fight without any trouble. A week later, he has a rematch with the woman. This time, he wins.

She grins around a split lip, wiping at the blood with the back of her hand. He grins back, the familiar rush of satisfaction coursing through him. Control. That's what this is.

Mondays are his least favorite. It’s the day before a weekly pop quiz on quirk history. It’s not difficult, but while Katsuki is trying to get ahead of the UA curriculum, it’s time-consuming. It means he doesn’t get to go to the gym most evenings.

Katsuki slams his locker shut, the echoes of laughter and chatter fading into a dull roar behind him. He tries to ignore the glances from his classmates, their whispers always too loud in his ears. It’s just another day, another reminder of how he stands out—not for being a hero, but for being angry all the time.

“Hey, Kacchan!” a voice calls from behind. It’s Deku, trailing after him, eyes wide and earnest.

“What?” Katsuki snaps, irritation bubbling to the surface.

“I was just wondering if you’re ready for the UA exam next month. I heard they’re gonna make it tougher this year!”

Katsuki clenches his fists, feeling that familiar heat rise within him. “Like I give a shit. I’ll crush it like everything else.” He knows he shouldn’t let get upset, but the worry in Deku's eyes makes his stomach churn. Why can’t Deku just leave him alone? Why’s he always reminding Katsuki of what he lacks?

Deku nods, but Katsuki can see the apprehension etched on his face. “You sure? I mean… I know things can get rough sometimes.”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything!” Katsuki growls, turning away before he says something he can’t take back. The last thing he needs is another reminder of everything wrong with him. Anger surges, and he grips the strap of his bag tightly, imagining the comforting weight of his gloves. He’ll be back in the gym soon, where he can channel this frustration into something useful. He has to be ready—he can’t afford to be anything less than the best.

The classroom is quiet, the teacher droning on about dates and events he’s had memorized since he was eleven. When did the Law for using quirks to interfere in the economic market come in? After the first civil movement on mutants. What does it mean? It means that people with wings can choose to fly instead of taking the bus, the law itself revolves around mutant quirks, as most did in the early days.

Katsuki keeps his feet on the desk out of boredom, leaning back in his chair. He glances around the room, noticing how his classmates scribble notes and nod along, their eyes glazing over. They don’t understand it.

It’s important to know if he’s going to be a hero. Mutants may look different, but they should have the same rights as Katsuki’s own explosions. Hell, if he can unleash his quirk whenever he wants, then they should have the same freedom. The thought ignites a simmering anger within him, a flame he struggles to keep under control.

No one talks to him, and he doesn’t talk back. He prefers it that way. The whispers and laughter from the other students feel like a different world—one he has no desire to be part of. The classroom walls are plastered with posters of famous heroes, their grinning faces contrasting sharply with the dullness of the lesson. As the teacher drones on, Katsuki feels the familiar heat rising within him, a restless energy begging to be released.

With a sigh, he pulls out a piece of paper and begins to doodle, sketching out plans for his next fight instead of taking notes. Each line he draws represents a strategy, a move he plans to perfect, each explosion sketched with the precision he wishes he could channel into his control. Half the doodles show hero moves, the other half the best way to win a fight. 

Deku says something behind him, a soft voice rising in response to the teacher’s monotone droning. Katsuki isn’t really listening, but he looks up at the sound of laughter, the collective giggles swirling around the room like a storm he can’t help but feel detached from. For a fleeting moment, he catches a glimpse of Deku, his face flushed with embarrassment, animatedly discussing some hero from their textbooks. 

Katsuki scowls, feeling a twinge of annoyance creeping in. Why can’t Deku just focus on his own path instead of trying to drag everyone else into his hero worship? 

The laughter feels sharp against his skin, a reminder of how out of place he is, even though it's not directed at him. He’s not here for fun. He’s here to be the best. To control the heat surging beneath his skin. To harness that power, to master it completely. As the laughter fades, he’s left alone with his thoughts, the noise of the classroom dulling into a distant hum.

His pencil moves faster now, his frustration translating into strokes on the page. He jots down a few ideas for a new technique, an explosive punch that combines precision with sheer force. It has to be perfect.

He doesn’t notice the teacher glancing his way until the man’s voice cuts through his concentration. “Bakugou! Care to share your thoughts with the class?”

Katsuki’s heart races. He glares at the teacher, irritation bubbling over. “Not like I care about your stupid lecture,” he snaps, his voice loud enough to draw attention. 

The room falls silent, all eyes on him. He can feel the weight of their stares, a mixture of awe and fear. That rush of anger ignites again, but he pushes it down, reminding himself that he’s not here to make friends—he’s here to train, to prepare for his future.

“Just trying to make sure you’re paying attention,” the teacher says, somewhat flustered. “You might learn something important.”

“Yeah, right.” Katsuki mutters, looking at the board. It’s not enough to fluster the teacher, he wants more. The year is familiar, but nothing happened that was significant.

He continues, staring the teacher down. “The important shit happens in the next year, anyway,  a frozen dam in America left a town without water for weeks. And as no one was allowed to use their quirks in public settings at that time, they had a drought in the middle of winter. Half the population had to move, or nearly died. There were riots and then they revisited the Unlawful Quirk Act, to the Reformed Quirk Act. Which allowed quirk usage to the general public, without intent to harm”

The teacher doesn't say anything, nodding along. Katsuki regards the wimp of a man before him. Scoffs and returns to his hero drawings. He could teach this class with his eyes closed.

As the bell rings, signaling the end of class, a few classmates float around him, eager to latch onto the buzz of his earlier comments.

“You were totally right, Bakugou!” one of them exclaims, while another mentions some ridiculous TV show that’s taken the school by storm.

Katsuki furrows his brow, a deep scowl etched across his face. Why do they always come to him? He wasn’t particularly pleasant or charming, and he certainly didn’t have time for this idle chatter. Yet, somehow, they seem to gravitate toward him, as if he were some sort of magnet. He hunches, stepping away.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, brushing past them. Their laughter trails behind him, light and carefree, but it only adds to the weight pressing down on his chest. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider, even when they surrounded him.

Katsuki steps into the bustling hallway, trying to focus on images of the gym dancing in his mind. The thrill of fighting, the rush of victory—that’s where he belonged. Not here, where laughter rang hollow and the conversations felt superficial.

He heads straight to his locker, the familiar clang of metal providing a momentary distraction. He yanks it open, shoving aside his books to grab his gym gear. A moment later, he slams it shut.

“Hey, Kacchan! Wait up!”

It’s Deku again, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. Katsuki rolls his eyes, already feeling his irritation rise. Why couldn’t the kid take a hint? “What now?” he snaps, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Deku hesitates, catching his breath. “I just wanted to—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Katsuki interrupts, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t have time for whatever nonsense you want to talk about!”

Deku’s face falls, replaced with uncertainty. “I just thought maybe we could train together sometime. You know, to prepare for the UA exam?”

Katsuki can feel his anger simmering. “You think you could keep up with me? That's pathetic.” He turns away, ready to leave Deku behind, but the kid’s earnestness is almost palpable.

“Okay, but you should still—”

“Ugh! Just drop it already! You’ll never pass the entrance exam without a quirk” Katsuki snaps, the words laced with frustration.

Deku flinches, his eyes wide, but he nods slowly. “Right… Sorry.”

Katsuki watches him retreat, that familiar mix of guilt and irritation swirling within him. Why did it bother him so much? He just wanted to be left alone to focus on his own path. But the truth was, no matter how hard he pushed people away, they always seemed to want to reach out.

He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. This isn’t the time to dwell on it. He strides away, determination flooding his veins. He needs to unleash his energy in the gym, where he can truly be himself—where he can be in control. It doesn’t matter that he usually can’t find time on Mondays, he needs it after today.

Chapter Text

He’s walking home. He has to get his stuff and grab his gym bag before going, his parents aren’t home again. They won’t be back until the end of the month after the entrance exam. Which gives him practically free reign over how he spends his time. Besides, he could probably get Kira to change from their usual medical terms to English verbs. 

It took about ten minutes to get into his gate, dragging his feet. Katsuki’s been in a bad mood since Deku accosted him. Slamming the door open and dumping his bag on the couch. He’ll do his work after he gets home, he’ll regret it but he can’t be bothered to do it now. 

He walks out the house with flashcards and his gym bag twenty minutes later. It’s still early in the evening, only about five. Cleaning the gym only takes about thirty minutes or so now that he's got it down to a science. 

He stomps down the familiar streets, opting to take a shortcut, it early enough that the ally doesn’t seem daunting. Cats down the far end rummage through the trash. It’s littered, they must have found something to snack on. 

Katsuki kicks a can near his feet, back towards the bin. At least it won’t be on the street for some dumbass kid to get sepsis from. He kicks another box down as well, it’s not much, but one less thing for someone else to do. 

Deku, he thinks bitterly, would spend the entire evening cleaning it. 

He kicks the next bottle particularly hard, it slams into the corner of a bin, spinning into a wall and opening. A dark sludge leaks out. Katsuki screws up his nose. Some people’s trash was disgusting. 

He walks on. Intending to ignore it, but the sludge seems to roll on, which is crazy considering the size of the bottle. He gets a few steps ahead of it. Katsuki hair stands up on the back of his neck. 

His palms start sweating, something is wrong, he looks down the alley to the other street, cars and bikes move on easily. The alley seems darker. The cats are long gone, the silence looms. Something is wrong. 

Katsuki whirls around, heart pounding in his chest as he stares at the towering mass of sludge looming above him. Two grotesque, swirling eyeballs lock onto him, moving unnaturally in the formless mess. His breath catches, and the air feels thick and oppressive. Every instinct in his body screams at him to run, but his feet are rooted to the spot, cold sweat slicking his palms.

"You’ll be... perfect," the thing hisses, its voice wet and rasping like it's drowning in its own mass. The sludge shifts, a grotesque imitation of a mouth splitting open as it lunges.

Katsuki’s hands ignite, explosions crackling in his palms as he braces himself, too late to dodge.

He can’t breathe. The sludge constricts tighter around his chest, forcing its way into his throat. His palms explode on instinct, wild bursts of fire and light as he tries to force it off, but the slime is relentless, adjusting, shifting to wrap around him like a second skin. He claws at his mouth, fingers tearing through the ooze for a split second of air, enough to gulp down a single, precious breath before it surges back over his face.

Get it off—get it off! Katsuki stumbles blindly, his legs barely able to carry him. He’s out of the alley now, isn’t he? He doesn’t know. His vision is dim, his lungs burn, and his heart pounds against the sludge constricting his chest.

There are screams—distant and muffled, like they’re underwater. His hands light up again, another explosion. The sludge recoils, loosening its grip for just a second. Katsuki gasps, his chest heaving as he pulls in air, wild-eyed and frantic.

Where are the heroes? Panic surges, white-hot and electric. He’s going to die here, he realizes. He’s going to die, He’s going to suffocate in the middle of the street and who’s going to tell Kyo?

The sludge is hissing above him, snarling dangerously for him to stop fighting, to hand over his body. Katsuki aims a hand up, releases the biggest blast he can, forcing more and more nitroglycerin to his palms. He’s going to die. The sludge screams, it rears back and Katsuki thinks he may have a chance, a small chance, of surviving. 

Then it slams into him, against the walls of nearby buildings, dragging him into the road. 

Katsuki's heart pounds, every instinct screaming at him to keep fighting, to survive. No! His palms light up again, explosive heat building as he forces more and more nitroglycerin to his hands. He aims a blast upward, the biggest one he can manage. The explosion roars, sending a shockwave through the sludge.

The villain screams, its form shuddering. Katsuki feels the pressure ease, just for a moment.. His lungs burn, his vision swims, but there’s a small, flickering hope—until the sludge slams into him again, crushing that hope beneath its weight.

He’s thrown into the walls of the nearby buildings, pain radiating through his ribs like fire. The world tilts, his vision blurring as he’s dragged, scraping across the ground, into the middle of the road. His breath is stolen from him again, and his muscles scream with exhaustion. Get up! Move! But his limbs feel heavy, the villain’s weight suffocating him all over again.

Please, please, please— Katsuki’s mind races, spiraling with the desperation of it. I don’t want to die. His heart hammers against his ribs. He knows he’s a miserable person, always angry, always pushing people away, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to give up. He doesn’t want to die like this.

His hands twitch, trying to gather enough strength for another blast, but the pressure is too much. His palms flicker weakly, sputtering, as the sludge tightens its grip around him like a vice.

Suddenly, the sludge shifts, forcing itself into his mouth, prying it open with an unnatural pressure. Katsuki’s chest convulses, choking as the foul-tasting slime slides down his throat. His whole body tenses, muscles burning, every instinct screaming for air. Get it off! Get it off! But he’s trapped, pinned by this thing, his power useless in the face of it.

He’s scared. Actually, properly scared. For the first time in years, Katsuki Bakugou wants someone to save him. His blurred vision catches glimpses of a crowd forming a barricade, people whispering, wide-eyed and frozen, but no one’s stepping in.

His eyes sting, wet with involuntary tears, as he struggles to cough the sludge out. They’re going to let me die. His thoughts spiral, cold dread creeping in. The heroes standing at the edge of the crowd seem hesitant, keeping their distance, unsure of how to approach. They’re not coming.

Through the haze of panic and pain, something shifts in the corner of his vision. Green hair. Familiar. Too familiar. Katsuki’s stomach drops. No, it can’t be—

Before his mind can catch up, a bag slams into the villain's shifting eyes, hitting it squarely by pure luck. The pressure around him eases, the sludge recoiling, and Katsuki gasps—precious, cold air flooding into his lungs. He’s coughing violently, but he can breathe again.

Suddenly, Deku is right there with him, clawing frantically at the sludge, his hands slipping uselessly against the viscous mass. He’s shouting something—Katsuki can hear his name, over and over—but the words blur together, drowned by the roaring in his ears. He can’t catch his breath. Can’t shout back.

Even if he could, he doesn’t know what he would say. His thoughts are a jumble of panic and anger. This stupid fucking nerd... Of all people, why Deku? Why now? 

The sludge tightens around them both, squeezing the air from his lungs again. Katsuki’s body spasms, desperate for oxygen, and his vision starts to darken. No, no, no—

BOOM.

It’s not his explosion.

A gust of wind tears through the air, and before Katsuki can process what’s happening, a large hand wraps around his wrist. He’s being pulled back, the sludge peeling away from him as if by force, the pressure around him vanishing. He gasps, drawing in ragged breaths, chest heaving like it’s the first time he’s tasted air.

He blinks, dazed, vision swimming. His ribs throb with every shallow exhale. His limbs feel heavy, like dead weight. His body wants to collapse, but something in him—pride, anger, survival instinct—keeps him standing.

He squints through the dizziness, trying to see past the chaos of wind and noise. His hands shake as he wipes his face, trying to push away the tears that threaten to spill over. Not here. Not now. He won’t let them see.

And then he sees him—All Might.

In the flesh, standing right in front of him, larger than life. His body is illuminated by the fading light, golden hair gleaming as he wrangles the sludge villain into a container like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience. Katsuki watches, breathless, ribs aching with each heave of his chest.

That smile. That stupid, fucking smile. Plastered across his face as if nothing happened. As if Katsuki hadn’t just been dragged through the dirt, suffocating, dying.

All Might doesn’t even look winded.

Katsuki’s hands curl into fists, knuckles white. A swell of anger rises in his chest, mixing with the remnants of fear and helplessness. Why couldn’t he have shown up sooner? Why does he always have to be perfect? Why? Why? Why?

Everything blurs after that. He barely registers the pats on his back from the fuckers who didn’t even try to help, their voices ringing hollow in his ears.

“You’re a champ, man,” someone says, and it feels distant.

Deku’s off getting lectured for his recklessness. Katsuki, numb and barely hanging on, drags his feet away from them all. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each one sending a sharp ache through his ribs. Are they cracked? His head pounds with the rhythm of his heart, the noise too loud inside his skull.

He doesn’t go to the gym like usual. He can’t.

He goes straight home, his body on autopilot, limbs heavy as if weighed down by lead. The second he steps through the door, he heads for the shower. He strips off his clothes and climbs in, letting the water scorch his skin. He scrubs hard—too hard, until his skin turns red, raw, and sore. But he keeps going, trying to scrub away everything: the villain’s sludge, the helplessness, the fear.

He pretends his shoulders aren’t trembling, that his chest isn’t hitching with restrained sobs. They’re not.

He stays in bed the next day. And the next. By Thursday, the weight of everything still presses down on him, and he can’t bring himself to face the world.

He hasn’t been to the gym once since the attack. He keeps telling himself it’s pointless now, that there’s no reason to push his body when his mind feels shattered. But deep down, he knows why he hasn’t gone—he doesn’t want to see anyone. Not the people who might recognize him from the news, and definitely not the ones he might recognize from the crowd that just stood there, watching.

He doesn’t want to be seen at all.

It’s stupid anyway, he tells himself. The gym, the training—what’s the point? He was never going to get better. What was he even trying to prove?

Since the attack, all he’s felt is shame. No anger, no fire, no desire to fight. Just an emptiness that gnaws at him, hollowing him out from the inside. The humiliation of being so helpless, so weak, clings to him like the sludge had.

He hates it.

He pulls himself out of bed for the entrance exam nearly two weeks later, and for the first time in his life, Katsuki is unsure about an exam. He hasn’t trained as much as he should have. He hasn’t done anything as he should have.

He pulls on a clean, unused school uniform, the black fabric stiff and unfamiliar against his skin. The collar feels wrong, restrictive. He packs a change of clothes—something black and loose, similar to what he’d wear to the fights, something more him.

The train to UA is packed, suffocating. Katsuki’s neck prickles with irritation, tension crawling up his spine. He hasn’t been out of the house since the incident, and the press of bodies around him makes his skin itch. He doesn’t want to be here.

Someone bumps into his shoulder. Too close.

He growls something low and insulting, just enough to make them stumble back, wide-eyed. His hands curl into fists. Good. They should give him space. He’ll make them give him space.

The train ride doesn’t end soon enough. Katsuki feels the walls closing in. He forces himself through the crowd to reach the platform, his heart racing as he pushes past other students, a sea of unfamiliar faces. Falling in towards the few people floating towards the gates, he can’t help but feel a wave of dread. It must be at least two or three hundred, easily, only about forty of them will get into the hero course—less depending on class space.

Katsuki rubs his hands on his middle school uniform pants, feeling very, very young and out of place all of a sudden, as he stares up at the gates. The weight of expectation presses down on him, this is what he wants, more than anything. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his head down, and walks into the school grounds, shoulders hunched. 

It's robots. The test is based on how many robots he can destroy in an hour. Katsuki feels a surge of energy course through him. Finally, something he can do. A familiar burn forms in his shoulders and chest, his heart pounding with anticipation.

He grits his teeth, the lingering shame and helplessness from the sludge villain bubbling to the surface. 

He wants to hurt something. He wants to destroy it. A bot, those useless heroes, that stupid sludge villain. The memory flashes in his mind—the suffocation, the helplessness—and his fists tighten, the faint smell of nitroglycerin sparking in the air. He needs to watch something break.

They get sent to changing rooms in groups of twenty, some people have already left. They’re quirks aren’t suited to physical challenges. Just less competition for him. He clips on a belt, it has water so he can keep sweating, electrolytes and inexplicably, his gloves. He won’t wear them, he’s not stupid. But their presence is helping, old fights coming to his mind, giving him something to focus on.

They line up, outside what looks like a gated city, a simulator really. These buildings are nothing more than hollow props, Katsuki can’t stop himself from scanning the ground first, no civilians, no robots either. 

The yellow hero opens his mouth and a loud blaring falls out. No words, it's like someone pressed a button on a soundboard. The people closest to the hero stumble back, wincing. 

Katsuki’s momentarily stunned. The noise throws him off for a split second, but then instinct kicks in. He lunges forward over the starting line, not waiting for anyone or anything. The rest of the crowd surges behind him, but they’re nothing more than background noise now.

The robots show up fast. Perfect. Katsuki propels himself into the air, slamming down on the first one with an explosion. It crumbles beneath him, almost too easily. It's not enough.

Another one approaches him, but before he can go after it, a scream cuts through the chaos. He glances over, annoyed by the distraction. Some girl, wide-eyed and shaking, is cornered by a two-pointer.

Pathetic. Katsuki snarls, disgusted by her incompetence. Did she think there wouldn’t be any fighting? They’re trying to be heroes, and she can’t even handle this?

He slams through three more bots on his way over, knocking them down like they’re nothing. Dodging under a three-pointer’s legs, he places his hand on its panel. He can feel the hum of wiring and electricity beneath his fingers. With a focused explosion, he blows it apart from the inside.

The girl screams again.

For fuck’s sake. Katsuki rolls his eyes, grabs the bot, and slams its head into the wall with a loud crash.

He glares at the trembling girl, disgust etched on his face. Without a word, he turns his back on her and stalks away. If she can’t even handle this, she shouldn’t be here. 

Katsuki is reminded why he’s so addicted to the gym. The heat in his palms, the crunch of bots under his fists—he’s grinning now, shoulders heaving, throat dry. He takes a swig from his water bottle, the taste barely registering.

An announcement crackles through the air, something about the exam nearly being over and a zero-pointer being introduced. He frowns, disappointed. That’s it?

Then he sees it.

A massive, lumbering bot, easily towering over the buildings around it. People are screaming, scrambling back toward the gate. Some stumble, others stop to help them up. Katsuki stands still, smoke still rising from his hands, watching as the robot swings its enormous arm through a building, tearing through it like paper.

That one. Katsuki bares his teeth, his palms heating again with fresh energy. I want to break that one.

Katsuki stands in the ruins of the zero-pointer, shoulders heaving, utterly alone. The massive robot lies in pieces around him, the aftermath of his destruction still smoking. He’s grinning, savage and victorious. For the first time in days, he feels a little better.

The area is eerily quiet now—no more robots, no more screams. Just silence.

He straightens, muscles aching from exertion, and marches toward the gate. Most of the crowd is long gone, but a few linger, maybe ten or so. They stare at him, wide-eyed, like they’re witnessing something unbelievable. His last explosion must have been massive.

Katsuki doesn’t blame them for their awe.

He’s covered in grease and soot, a living testament to the battle he just won. And as he walks past them, he doesn’t need to say a word. They know where they stand.

He’s accepted, obviously.

The video arrives a few days later, and Katsuki watches it with a rising thrill. Points are mentioned, and his heart beats faster as his name appears rightfully at the top.

143 victory points. 23 hero points.

What the hell is a hero point? He doesn’t care. The principal drones on, announcing that Katsuki is now the record holder for the most points in UA entrance exam history—166 points in total. His grin stretches painfully wide, pride swelling in his chest.

He’s informed that he’ll be expected to make a speech at the sports festival, introducing his class as the top-ranked student.

Katsuki sits alone at home when the news comes. His parents are still abroad—their trip extended or detoured again. It’s been six months, the longest they’ve ever been gone. He stares at his phone, debating whether to text them. Would they even care?

He decides to call his dad, at least. The hag might be in the middle of a shoot, and she doesn’t take kindly to “unimportant interruptions.”

The phone rings. Once, twice. Declined.

Katsuki frowns, fingers hesitating over the screen. Then he switches apps and types:

Got into UA. Will need new equipment for September.

There. Done. Nothing more, nothing less.

A lump forms in his throat, but he shoves it down. It’s stupid. He’s going to be fifteen in a few weeks. Old enough to know when people are busy.

His phone pings with a reply:

Congratulations, Kat! Can’t believe it’s already happened. Things have been crazy out here—time got away from us. We’ll send extra money for your gear!

Katsuki scowls, feeling a flicker of anger. They forgot? Completely? Whatever. He’ll tell Kyo next time he’s at the gym. Not that it’ll matter. UA is bound to take up most of his evenings now anyway. Their classes run late anyway. 

Shit.

The gym.

Katsuki launches off the couch, heart pounding as his eyes dart to the clock on the wall. 4:30. He still has time, but he hasn’t set foot in the gym in weeks. Would Kyo still let him fight? Would he even be welcome there?

He bypasses getting his gloves or gym bag. And just sprints straight out the door. Slowing to a jog when he gets to the footpath. Pacing down the familiar road. Will Kyo be pissed? Katsuki wasn’t employed, but still. 

He pauses upon seeing an alleyway, the one where the sludge villain was, panic crawling up his throat. The construction is nowhere to be seen, despite the damages Katsuki knows he caused. He forces a foot forward, taking the long way round. 

He stands outside the gym door, staring up at the cracked sign above the entrance. The weight of those missed weeks settles heavy in his chest. For a second, he thinks about turning around. No one cares if you don’t show up, he tells himself. Kyo probably doesn’t even remember you exist.

But he likes it there, likes what it gives him. He wants somewhere he can go back to, and the gym has been that place for the last two years. He doesn’t want anywhere else. The familiar creak, the smell of sweat and metal. The gym is deserted. 

He barely gets two steps in when he hears it—a loud voice booming from the back room. Kyo.

"Bakugou?!"

The large man stumbles out. Eyes wide, he moves faster than Katsuki has ever seen. For a second he thinks he’s going to be hit or something equally stupid before Kyo sweeps him up into his arms. Kyo grabs him without warning, hoisting him off the ground. Katsuki stiffens, squirming like he’s trying to shove away a wild animal, a startled squawk escaping him.

What the—?

“You’re alive!” Kyo practically shouts in his ear, squeezing tighter for a second before setting him down. “You— on the news kid. Everyone saw it! Then you don’t show up for weeks?—had me worried sick, kid!”

Katsuki blinks, his mind going blank. Kyo’s concern punches him right in the gut. Worried? About him? Heat rushes up the back of his neck.

“Thought you’d kick the bucket or something,” Kyo mutters, stepping back with a smirk, like he’s trying to shake off the emotion. 

Katsuki crosses his arms, trying to hide how thrown he is. “Tch. I’m fine. Just busy.” 

He shrugs, forcing his face into something neutral, though his chest tightens awkwardly.

“Busy? Busy–? ” Suddenly, Kyo pulls out his phone. “Kira’s gonna kill me if I don’t tell her you’re alive.”

 He dials, and it only takes one ring before a bored voice picks up. Katsuki eyes it, what would she care?

“What do you want?”

“He’s alive, the kids back”

“Put me on loudspeaker”

“You already are”

“Where the HELL have you been?!” Kira roars.

Katsuki rolls his eyes, even though a small part of him feels... something. He doesn’t know how to describe it. What even is this? Warmth? Relief? He wasn’t expecting it from these two idiots.

"Relax, he's here. Safe and sound," Kyo says, laughing. "See? I told you he was fine."

Katsuki snorts, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes flick to the floor as Kira curses loudly through the phone, saying she’s on her way and hanging up. 

Kyo looks at Katsuki with a raised brow. “So, what the fuck kid? Why couldn’t you stop by and let us know you’re alive?”

Katsuki shrugs again, trying not to care that it’s the first time he’s heard Kyo curse, trying to play it off. “I had to focus more on studying and training, so I got into UA.”

For a second, Kyo’s eyes widen, and then he lets out a whistle. “That’s why you were buried in those books, huh? UA? Damn, Bakugou. Didn’t realize that’s what you were aiming for.”

Katsuki shifts on his feet, unsure of how to respond to the genuine surprise and... pride? He’s not used to people reacting this way. Most people see his quirk and expect it.

Kyo grins and slaps him on the back. “Guess we’ll have to step up your training then, huh?”

“...training?”

Kyo gives him a puzzled look, ugly orange and yellow hair falling out of the short ponytail. “Don’t tell me you’re quitting?”

Katsuki had braced himself for rejection, maybe even an insult. Instead, Kyo was talking about training like Katsuki never missed a day. It didn’t sit right, but it didn’t feel bad either.

“Kid, if you’re going to be a hero, then you’ll need all the experience you can get.” Kyo says, “It is the hero course right?”

Katsuki nods, speechless. The doors slam open, and Katsuki jumps, heart racing like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Kira storms in, fuming, looking like she’s about to kill him. Without hesitation, she reaches out and grinds her knuckles into his scalp, even though they’re the same height. He shoves her off, but his chest loosens, and it’s suddenly easy to breathe in a way it hasn’t been since the attack weeks ago.

Kyo doesn’t let him fight that night. Katsuki finds he doesn’t need it. For the first time in weeks, despite the lack of fights, the usual jitters are quiet. For now, just being allowed back is enough to keep them at bay.

Chapter Text

The first day of UA comes, Katsuki wakes up early. Dresses in his room and ignores the messages from Kyo and Kira on his phone wishing him luck. They had both forced their numbers into it after his ‘disappearing stunt’. 

He is relatively annoyed, but he has a simple schedule, he’ll be in class for eight in the morning, out by three in the evening, and by five he can leave and swing by the gym most days. With the exception of Friday due to extra training going well into the evening. 

Kyo had hovered as he had filled in a timetable, the odd time he did homework in the gym’s backrooms, and mentioned that there was a calendar somewhere he could throw up. Katsuki had glowered, and told him to mind his business, but penciled it in. Saturdays were for fighting and training, Sundays he would spend studying and doing whatever. 

A green scrawl joins it, dating Katsuki’s fights and the times he’s allowed. He doesn’t write the day his parents are coming home for the first time in six months and three days, he still has about a week until they are home. Katsuki isn’t sure what he should do.

Katsuki feels like he shouldn’t be there, like he’s just been house-sitting in someone else’s life. The furniture is untouched, the fridge too organized, like he hasn’t lived here at all. It’s all too neat, too perfect, not like his. Not like a home.

He goes to UA. Dressed in the uniform he's craved for years. The collar of his shirt feels wrong, tight, like it’s shrinking by the second. He yanks it loose, memories of sludge creeping up his throat, suffocating him. He didn’t bother with the tie. 

The train is sparse, just a few early commuters with half-empty coffee cups. Katsuki stands, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular. He’s not here to relax, he’s here to buckle down and do some fucking work. And if he wants to keep on track, to have an agency straight out of the gate, he hasn’t got time to waste.

The train slides gently to a stop, and the doors hiss open. Katsuki adjusts his bag, slung over one shoulder, and stomps down the street. Older students float in packs around the gate, chatting. He overhears conversations about hero work, internships, and a few complaints about the workload.

There’s casual quirk usage, it interests him. Just being able to use your quirk to its limits, and push past them. It’s why he’s here, it's why he’s going to become number one.

Several mixed groups catch his eye—students from different courses. Business studies talking with support, general studies mingling with the heroics course. Katsuki’s scowl deepens as he takes it all in. Of course they mix. Someone has to make his gear, manage his image. He feels stupid for not realizing it sooner.

A few people scuttle out of his path at the sight of his expression. He’s never been good at relationships. Too demanding. He only accepts the best. And when people can’t keep up, their incompetence makes him snap.

He heads toward the heroics building, already forming vague ideas on how to corner the support students and figure out who’s got the most potential. His gear is going to take a beating—he’s destructive, and he’ll need someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. Power Loader’s good, but he’s got an entire course to teach, he won't even entertain the idea. So, Katsuki will want the top of the class, no exceptions.

He wanders over to his classroom, 1A. Something preens in his chest at the thought. He strides in, eyeing the few students floating around, none of them paying him any mind. He doesn’t recognize any faces from the entrance exam. He walks over to the window row and spots their names etched on top of the desks.

He drops his bag onto his desk and casually glances at the name on the one behind him.

Midoriya Izuku.

His body freezes for a beat. What. He stares at the name, feeling something hot curl in his chest. Who did he piss off? Why does the universe seem determined to make his life miserable? He’s not an upstanding citizen, but it’s not like he’s out kicking puppies in his spare time.

A burning sensation creeps into his palms. How the hell did Deku get in? Bulked up or not, the kid is still quirkless. Deku won’t last. And with any luck, Katsuki will be left to pursue his dreams in peace. In ten years, he won’t even remember the guy. 

He takes a breath, remembers the fight from a few nights ago to focus. He remembers how he had slammed his fist into the guy's torso rhythmically, and breaths with the imaginary hits. Punch and inhale, punch and exhale. It works, miraculously. 

Maybe Kira had a point when she started beating him up three years ago, maybe it was all in the breathing. 

He slumps into the chair, no teacher to be seen. Katsuki throws up his feet on the desk, leaning back. The walls are bare of posters, the windows spotless. There’s a lumpy yellow bag behind the podium. Before he can inspect it further a tall guy with glasses storms over. Red in the face. He feels a sharp spike of irritation flow through him.

Katsuki feels vindicated that they’re both becoming heroes; it means he’s going to get to punch this guy at some point.

“I am Tenya Iida,” he declares, sounding foolish with his overly formal language. “And I must insist you take your feet off of school property!”

Katsuki rolls his tongue in his cheek, a smirk playing on his lips. So many insults, so little time. “Did your old school put a stick up your ass, or were you born with it?”

The guy’s eyes widen behind his glasses, and he splutters for a moment. Katsuki can practically sense the disbelief radiating off him, and he smells blood in the water.

But before he can dig his claws in deeper, find something to target– the door shuts, drawing attention, and standing in it– the bane of Katsuki’s existence. Deku. His face pulls into a snarl automatically, across the room Deku squeaks. The yellow bag stirs. 

A tall man crawls out of it, hair disheveled and eyes half-lidded, clearly having been pulled from sleep. The class is momentarily rendered speechless, all eyes locked on the bizarre scene. Katsuki feels a growing sense of dread settle in his stomach.

That’s his teacher? For fuck’s sake.

Aizawa Sensei, who Katsuki was quickly learning to begrudgingly respect, was a hardass. He didn't pull any punches. After leading the class to a training field, he explained the first test: a quirk apprehension test. The last time Katsuki had done one of these was back in elementary school, when everyone else had their quirks too. Except Deku.

Sensei’s voice cut through Katsuki’s thoughts. "The lowest performing student will be expelled."

There goes Deku, Katsuki thinks, his smirk tugging upward. His hero career was short and pathetic. Fitting.

Katsuki was called out first, he steps forward, confidence radiating from every movement. Aizawa handed him a ball and pointed to a marker. “Throw it as far as you can.”

Katsuki could feel the eyes of his new class boring into his back. Sensei wanted far? Katsuki would give him far. He took a deep breath, winding his arm back, sweat collecting in his palms. The familiar sweet, sharp scent reached his nose. His lips twitched into a grin as he swung his arm forward, triggering an explosion.

BOOM!

The air cracked with the force, and Katsuki’s grin widened as dust kicked up all around him. Someone shrieked in the distance, and he felt the satisfying pressure push the nearby students back. When the dust settled, he could see the shock rippling through the group. He had literally blown them away.

Sensei’s expression remained as impassive as ever. He glanced at his digital reader and held it up for the class to see. “906 meters.”

Sensei’s eyes flicked up from the device, landing on Katsuki with a barely perceptible nod. It was small, maybe even dismissive, but Katsuki latched onto it anyway. Acknowledgement. Good.

Deku has a quirk. Fucking Deku has a quirk. A strong one, strong enough to shatter his bones with every use. Katsuki’s breath hitches, acid licking up his throat. The same Deku he’s known since they were three—quirkless, useless Deku—has been lying to him. To everyone.

Was it funny to him? Was Deku laughing every time Katsuki trained, every time he pushed himself to be the best, while sitting on a quirk so powerful it breaks his own body?

Katsuki’s mind races, his thoughts swirling like wildfire. He doesn’t care. He couldn’t care less. Except he does. A lot. His hands curl into fists, heat flooding his palms. What the fuck?

From the corner of his eye, Katsuki catches Sensei—no, Pro-Hero Eraserhead—watching him closely, one hand resting on his capture weapon. Katsuki clenches his jaw, his whole body trembling with the urge to lunge at Deku. To throttle him for hiding this, for pretending all these years.

Lying to him.

But he can’t. Not here. Not now. 

Only the fact that Deku didn’t perform better than him in the ball toss lets him contain his rage. He speeds through the other tests, it's a hard bullet to bite. That he’s not the best at everything. The gravity girl gets infinity on the toss, the teacher’s pet is faster, and the red one is able to do more sit-ups. Katsuki still measures in the top three. He’s never felt this type of anger. It licks up the back of his spine, his own inadequacy fanning it. 

He waits until they walk back into class, ignoring Deku’s hurt expression at Katsuki ignoring him. The audacity only stokes the flames. Beneath the desk, Katsuki pulls out his phone and texts Kyo.

I need to fight tonight.

why?? isnt it ur first day?? sumthing up?

Yes or no.

Katsuki watches the typing turn to online, his hands shaking. They’re too hot, if he’s not careful he’ll need a new phone. Kyo is typing again. The dots disappear.

k

Katsuki throws his bag into the stairway, not even bothering to go home. What’s the point? It’s empty anyway. He brushes past a few regulars who try to greet him, but he ignores them. Kyo lingers nearby, shifting awkwardly before taking Katsuki’s bag upstairs. When he comes back, Katsuki is already trying to punch his way through one of the sandbags, fists slamming relentlessly.

Wordlessly, Kyo hands him a spare change of clothes—something Katsuki must have left behind before. He storms into the changing room, still seething. It’s probably not smart to flaunt a UA uniform in a fight club, but Katsuki’s too busy keeping the explosions simmering beneath his skin from escaping. He tugs on his gloves, feeling the familiar weight settle around his fist

Hours pass in a blur. Katsuki spends the time shadowboxing, hitting the bags, anything to keep his mind off Deku. Off the betrayal. The gym slowly fills with more regulars as the clock inches closer to nine. Katsuki ignores them all, lost in the rhythm of his movements. His fists slam into the bag again and again, until his knuckles sting, the ache dulling the fire under his skin.

By the time the fights start, Katsuki is more than ready. The room buzzes with anticipation, the lights dimming slightly, and the boxing ring is cleared in the center. Katsuki cracks his knuckles, muffled by the cotton, feeling the heat pulse in his palms.

“Who’s first?” His voice cuts through the noise, low and dangerous.

Kyo doesn’t let him fight at random like the others. But Katsuki remembers Kyo saying he doesn’t hold nearly as much sway as he thought he did over a year ago. He’s seething, desperate to punch and hurt. He wants someone to grow some fucking balls and fight him.

He catches more than a few people glancing at Kyo, who stays silent. It’s clear they expect him to call the shots, but Katsuki knows Kyo doesn't see himself that way. Katsuki couldn't give a shit about the politics of the fight club. Someone steps into the ring.

She’s tall, and muscular. He’s never seen her before. Katsuki lunges at her with a singular purpose, a coiled spring of pent-up rage ready to snap. The moment their fists collide, it's clear this isn’t just a match; it's an outlet for the anger that festers inside him. Each punch is driven not by a desire to win, but to hurt—to tear through flesh and bone, to drown out the noise of his own frustration.

She meets him blow for blow, her strength formidable, but Katsuki feels detached, as if he’s watching the scene unfold from a distance. The dull thud of his fists striking her abdomen is met with the sharp gasp of air leaving her lungs, but it barely registers in his mind. This isn’t about victory; it’s about the need to vent his fury, to find release in the chaos.

With every strike, he pushes harder, losing himself in the rhythm of violence. His heart races, but it’s not excitement; it’s a cold, detached satisfaction as he feels her begin to falter. Katsuki isn't enjoying the fight—he's using it. Using her as a stand-in for the betrayal he feels, for the anger that bubbles just below the surface. He wants to see her break, wants to watch the world around him burn.

Katsuki weaves under her next punch, dodging instinctively, but he doesn’t dodge to avoid—it’s a calculated move, a moment to reset before he unleashes a flurry of blows. Each impact sends a jolt through his body, and yet, the thrill is absent. Instead, there’s only the cold rush of adrenaline and the deep-seated urge to inflict pain. He catches her with a fierce uppercut, the force of it snapping her head back, and he feels a flicker of something dark stir inside him.

He doesn’t want glory or admiration. He wants to destroy, to unleash the part of himself that feels the most alive in the wreckage. As she stumbles back, he senses a satisfaction that’s chilling. There’s no joy in this—only the urge to hurt, to take that pain and reflect it back onto those who’ve wronged him. And as her blood splatters, Katsuki can’t help but think of Deku, of the rage and betrayal that’s bubbling beneath the surface.

She gets back up, her black hair looks green. The bruising on her nose turns to freckles. Katsuki snarls. Pushing closer, he jabs her again. Her arm punches out lazily, and Katsuki catches it. Then he uses his legs to jump up, planting them on her side. He kicks off, twisting. Katsuki, for the first time, dislocates someone's shoulder.

She chokes on a scream, backing away. Katsuki doesn’t move from the ring. His fists hurt, his body hums with exertion, but it doesn’t quiet the noise in his head. Deku’s face still flashes behind his eyes. His voice is low, he doubts the cheering crowd can hear him. But the message is clear: Who’s next?

The air is cold, the night is dark. The streets are empty. Katsuki is bruised and battered, he pushed himself until Kyo dragged him out of the ring. Fight after fight. He lost track. Kyo had pushed him onto the couch, annoyed and told him to go to sleep. Katsuki had gotten up seconds after Kyo disappeared down the stairs again, grabbed his school bag and his uniform and slipped through the crowd.

It was early enough, he can still hear traffic from the more populated areas. Only about midnight, usually fights would end around one or two, but Katsuki had dominated the ring, it'd go much longer tonight. He’s not the only one who needs a fix, he knows that by now.

He closes his jacket, the zip hitting his nose. The air is biting, a sure sign winter is coming. Katsuki hates winter. He walks alone in the dark, his unfiltered rage has reduced to a simmering irritation. He gives less of a shit about Deku lying to him for thirteen years.

He walks along head down, his gloves are in his pockets. No need for them right now. He walks home slowly. He notices a short, plump woman ahead of him and frowns. She must have come off the last train, doesn’t matter.

Except it's late, and she’s alone. Katsuki is training to be a hero, he knows a dangerous situation when he sees one. She’s clutching a small handbag, wearing nursing scrubs. She doesn’t have a jacket despite the cold.

Katsuki isn’t trying to catch up to her, he’s aware of how that would look, but she’s a slow walker and soon he’s close enough to recognize her. Deku’s mom. Of course it is.

He clears his throat, she whips around, familiar green eyes wide in shock.

“Wah! What do you– Bakugou-kun?”

He nods. 

Inko Midoriya’s brows pinch, “What are you doing out so late? Aren’t your parents worried?”

He shifts, trying to be somewhat civilized, she’s never been cruel to him. “They aren’t home, I was just on a walk. Why are you out? It’s fuc- freaking dark out.”

She runs a hand through her frazzled hair, “I just got off work, it was late and I forgot my jacket in the locker. I didn’t have time to turn back, and I didn't have time to ask Izuku how his first day was– Oh! How was it?”

Katsuki responds gruffly, his palms heat angrily, “Fine, we’re in the same class.” Then slightly accusatory, “Nice quirk he’s got.”

She lets out a stressed laugh. “Yes! It took us all by surprise, so late and so.. Different from his fathers or mine.”

Katsuki pauses, eyes landing on the wedding ring she still wears. He wonders what people are saying about her, in her work. If her son has a different quirk than his father... maybe assumptions are being made. Deku’s mom is a good person, a really good person. She doesn’t deserve that, true or not.

He winces. She’s going to catch a cold. He doesn’t owe her anything. Not after what Deku pulled. But then again, she’s always been kind, always smiled at him. His fists tighten in his pockets before he shrugs off his jacket, he’s always been tall and muscular. His bag hits the pavement. He shoves the jacket towards her.

“Here. Its cold”

“Oh– I couldn’t–”

He sneers, “Just take it, my quirk keeps me warm just fine.”

A lie, the only lie he can actually remember telling. She stutters, but takes the jacket. Thanking him. They walk on together. He hates that it feels good—doing something nice. It shouldn't. He wants to be angry, he is still angry at Deku for lying. But the way her shoulders relax when he walks beside her? Katsuki couldn't walk away.

Katsuki will walk her home, just to be safe. He’s grateful for the lack of streetlights, it means she can’t see the marks littering his skin. He recalls the countless times she smiled at him, always offering silly encouragement. Now, seeing her alone and vulnerable, it stirs an urge to make sure she gets home, not for Deku, but because she’s someone who has always shown him kindness.

Sparks simmer beneath the surface, a constant reminder of the betrayals he felt surrounding Deku. But with each step beside Midoriya-san, he grappled with the unfairness of her situation, the thought of her facing whispers about her family igniting a festering irritation.

Maybe Deku hid his quirk to avoid rumors. His dad has been working in America since they were kids, before quirks. In the slim, slim, chance that Deku is an affair baby, Katsuki thinks he could, maybe, get over it. He could understand. 

He walks her to her apartment building, but doesn’t take the jacket back or say goodbye. He just keeps on walking, ignoring her calling for him. He doesn’t need that jacket, designer and ridiculously expensive. He has a bunch just like it. He doesn’t bother to look back. He doesn’t need her thanks, doesn’t need to know she made it inside. But something gnaws at him. He hates it. Hates that he cared enough to stop in the first place.

The house is quiet. Katsuki lives in a good part of town; the streetlights are never broken, and the noise is never overwhelming. Everything is pristine and trimmed. He has advantages; he knows that.

But, the house is still quiet when he lets himself in. He cleans up the small mess he left in the kitchen that morning, his movements automatic as he winces, the dull ache in his ribs reminding him of the last fight. He preps himself a bento for school the next day, crispy chili beef and rice, grateful for the simple routine. But as he places it in the fridge, he can’t shake the feeling of unease. Tomorrow would bring a new round of training, even with the bruises that mark his skin.

He climbs the stairs to his room, each step a reminder of the toll the night has taken on him. His en suite is dark, but as he flicks on the light, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. The bruises bloom across his skin, angry purples and deep reds standing out against his pale complexion. He looks away, he’s not sure how he’s going to cover that up.

Katsuki turns on the shower, letting steam fill the room. The hot water will help ease some of the tension in his muscles, but he knows it won’t erase the weight of the fights or the thought of facing Deku tomorrow. He takes a moment to breathe, feeling the warmth seep into his bones.

He crawls into bed after, hair still wet. He’s asleep the second his head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s eyes snapped open to the sound of his alarm, the harsh, mechanical beeping like a hammer against his skull. He groaned, slamming his hand down on the clock to silence it. The familiar room felt stifling, suffocating, and as he sat up, his body protested. Muscles ached, skin stinging from the bruises littering his torso like a mosaic of pain. Each sharp breath was a reminder of last night’s brutal fights.

Dammit. Last night was a mess. It had felt good in a twisted way. The raw brutality, the constant fights—one after the other—had been what he needed. But if Kyo hadn’t pulled him out, would he have stopped? He glanced down at the angry purple marks blooming across his ribs, tracing the edges with his fingertips. The pain was familiar, almost comforting. It was becoming a weekly routine.

Katsuki shoved the shame to the back of his mind. He had seen everything in that ring; the chaos and violence were expected. Kyo never interfered, yet he pulled Katsuki out? Cut his round short? On one hand, he knew he shouldn’t have fought more than two rounds—especially not when today was his second day at UA. Bruises painted across his chest, some a sickly yellow, others a deep violet. But on the other hand? He felt cheated.

He pulled on his uniform shirt, the fabric scraping against tender skin. Only a few marks peeked out around the collar, one on his cheekbone. As he glanced at the calendar above his desk, an unsettling thought crept into his mind—his parents would be home later this evening. The anticipation felt like a rock in his stomach. What would they think of him now?

Katsuki's chest tightened with the thought. It was like he was sprinting full speed but never getting any further ahead. Would they see his bruises and think he was a failure? That all the fighting had made him soft? The thought gnawed at him, eating away at his pride and confidence.

One thing was for certain: If today didn’t go his way, then something had to change. He wasn’t going to fall behind—not to Deku. Not to anyone. With one last glance at his reflection, Katsuki steeled himself. Today would be different. He would show them all.

He walks in the classroom door, ready to start whatever bullshit Sensei has got planned. The sun is offensively bright through the windows. Katsuki is early again, this time Sensei, sleeping bag and all, are nowhere to be seen. He sits at his desk, resting a hand against his ribs when they throb. A bright group seems to bounce over to him, yellow, red and pink. Katsuki can already feel the impending headache. He never liked the Teletubbies. 

“Hey, man!” says the Yellow One, he reminded Katsuki of all the leeches he knew in middle school. “So yesterday was crazy right? I really thought he would expel someone!”

Katsuki stares at him, a little disgusted at his volume considering the early time. The Red One chimes in, obviously trying to bridge the silence.

“Not that you had to worry anyway, what was it? Nine hundred meters? That's super strong, what exactly is your quirk?”

Ah, so that's what they wanted. To sniff out the competition, smart. Ruthless, Katsuki can respect the Red Ones straightforwardness. He clicks his tongue, leaning back in the chair.

“Explosion, I sweat nitroglycerin and can ignite it at will.”

The Pink One waves her hands, “Like me! I can create acid from my skin.”

As if needing to prove it, a clear slime drips from her fingertips. It’s only a few drops, but it’s enough to burn a hole into the classroom floor. Katsuki stares, curious. And with no sign of Deku, and ergo no risk of being called a hypocrite, he decides to ask a question. Oh god , is he making friends? No, he’s building bridges with potential coworkers. That’s it.

“What type of acid?” He grunts. Pinky blinks.

“What… type?”

Oh hell no. Was Katsuki surrounded by idiots?

“What type, is it hydrochloric acid?” He snaps, chemistry compositions whirling through his mind. “Sulfuric? Hydrobromic? ”

She blinks, “I think it's organic?”

Katsuki is actually rendered speechless by her stupidity. He can’t even send her a glare, she’s had her quirk all her life, and she doesn’t even know the name of her acid? The Yellow one pipes up, nervously rubbing his hands together.

“I’m electric! I mean, I can generate electricity.”

Katsuki can admit that it sounds useful, but he doesn’t think for one second that this moron knows anything about his quirk either. So he doesn’t bother. The Red One chimes in.

“I get hard”

…What?

“What?”

The Red One flushes under Katsuki’s bewildered stare before lifting up a hand. His skin ripples, ridges forming like the bark of a tree. Oh, that’s what he meant.

“What’s the use of that? You're just gonna be a shield?”

The Red Head seems to deflate slightly, and before he can stammer out a response, the Yellow One jumps to his defense. “It’s useful! He can’t even be electrocuted when he’s hard!”

Katsuki leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the throb in his ribs pulling his focus momentarily. He hadn’t expected a full-on discussion about quirks so early in the morning, especially not with these wannabe heroes bouncing around him like a bunch of hyperactive toddlers.

“You’ve sparred?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Yellow rubs the back of his neck. “Well, no—”

“Then what good is your quirk if you can’t control it?” Katsuki shoots back, unimpressed. He’s willing to bet money this kid is the definition of friendly fire.

The Red One's face goes a shade paler. “I mean, I’m still learning—”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. "Learning? We’re training to be heroes, not playing tag. You’ve gotta figure that out before you end up getting someone killed."

The two of them fall silent, and Katsuki can feel the tension in the air. He catches Pinky looking at him with wide eyes, probably trying to gauge whether he’s serious or just messing with them. The awkward silence grows.

“Maybe you should try sparring with him,” she says slowly, her voice a mix of caution and curiosity.

Katsuki just shrugs, “Not my problem.”

He leans back further in his chair, letting the discussions swirl around him while he mentally prepares for what lies ahead. Each day at UA is a new challenge, and he needs to focus. After all, there’s no room for distractions—especially not from this gaggle of shitheads.

Just then, Aizawa dragged himself into the classroom, his hair as disheveled as ever, the sound of crumpling paper filling the air as he held a sheet. The moment Katsuki spotted him, he straightened up, the oppressive weight of anticipation flooding back into the room.

Aizawa glanced around, his piercing gaze cutting through the chatter before he raised a brow—a silent command for quiet.

“Settle down. We’re starting the training battle trial today,” he announced, voice steady and authoritative. “You’ll be divided into teams and given objectives. Your goal is to learn how to work together while pushing your quirks to the limit. Got it?”

Katsuki barely registered the details as Aizawa passed around the paper. He squinted at it, scanning for his name. When he found it, his brow furrowed. He was paired with someone called Tenya Iida. Who the hell was that? Before he could ponder it further, a lanky figure approached him—glasses glinting in the fluorescent light, the guy practically radiating enthusiasm.

“Bakugou! I see we are partnered for this test. Let us do our best!” Glasses exclaimed, the determination in his voice nearly overwhelming.

Katsuki stared, deadpan. Oh, great. Another teacher's pet. But a fight is a fight, and Katsuki could do fighting. He let the guy’s barrage of basic strategies wash over him, tuning out the incessant chatter until Aizawa finally cut in.

“Go change into your hero costumes. They’re waiting in your lockers.”

Katsuki pushed himself up, eager to escape the suffocating optimism radiating from Iida. He could feel the guy’s frown boring into him as he walked away, evidently picking up on Katsuki’s blatant disinterest over the last five minutes.

“Hey, Bakugou!” Glasses calls, scrambling to catch up. “You should listen to me! Teamwork is essential in combat situations!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Katsuki shot back, a smirk forming on his lips as he strode ahead. “I’ll do what I want.”

As he made his way to the changing rooms, he could hear Iida sputtering behind him, and a wave of satisfaction washed over him. There was no way he was going to let some goody-two-shoes dictate how this battle trial would go. He was ready to blow the competition away, and nothing was going to stop him.

The atmosphere in the changing room was electric. Katsuki pulled on his hero costume—a snug, form-fitting ensemble that hugged his muscles, emblazoned with the symbol of his explosive quirk. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, hair spiked in its usual chaotic manner, a grin creeping onto his face. 

Everyone chatting animated behind him. He heard a low gasp, turning around to face the Red one again. Their lockers being next to each other. 

“Bakugou, what happened?” he asked, voice a mixture of concern and awe as he pointed to the bruises decorating Katsuki’s arms and sides, remnants of yesterday night.

“None of your fucking business.” He snaps, fitting the gauntlets. Only leaving his upper arms visible, unfortunately, both sides were littered with bruises. Whatever. With his costume now on, he stepped out of the changing room, ready to face whatever bullshit awaited him in the training battle trial.

Aizawa stood at the front, his usual messy appearance hardly changing even in the professional environment. 

“Listen up!” he commanded, and the chatter died down instantly. “Today, you’ll be participating in a training battle trial. You’ll be divided into two teams: heroes and villains. The objective for the heroes is to reach the ‘bomb’ located on the upper floor. The villains need to stop them from getting there, either by capturing them or taking them out of the fight"

Katsuki barely listened to the details, his mind already racing with strategies. Assigned to the villain team, he was set to face Deku and a girl with brown hair. Just the thought of clashing with Deku made his blood boil with a mix of excitement and unresolved anger. Even after walking Midoriya-san home, that stupid sense of betrayal lingered in his chest. Deku had hidden his quirk for years, and Katsuki was convinced it was to protect his mother’s reputation. The idea made him seethe; it felt like a personal insult.

Did Deku think Katsuki was some shallow asshole as kids? Someone to tolerate? They hadn’t been friends for years, but they were once. Was Deku always looking down on him? A hot spark flared down his shoulders, igniting a fresh wave of resentment.

“We can utilize your explosive quirk to create diversions!” Glasses explained, practically as if Katsuki was stupid. “If we draw their attention away, we can flank them and—”

Katsuki's palms crackled, and he shut up. “You focus on the girl; I’ll get Deku.”

Glasses opened his mouth to argue, doubt flickering across his face, but the sight of Katsuki’s smoking hands made him rethink. He nodded, his expression shifting from skepticism to reluctant acceptance.

The alarm blared overhead, signaling the start of the twenty-minute exercise. Katsuki rolled his shoulders, the tension coiling in his muscles. He took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline surge through him as he stepped into the dark halls, ignoring his aching ribs, leaving Glasses to guard the bomb.

As Katsuki stepped into the shadowy corridor, adrenaline coursed through his veins, igniting a fierce determination. He inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of stale air filling his lungs. It reminded him of the gym, a place where he’d forged his strength. Distant sounds of footsteps echoed—Deku and his partner were close.

He met them on the lower floors, dropping down so suddenly that the girl screamed and flung herself out of the way.

“Go on, Uraraka-san,” Deku said, taking a weak stance. “I’ll deal with Kacchan.”

She nodded, pale, and skirted around him. Katsuki let her go. Glasses should be able to handle her; she had practically no muscle. He faced Deku, an ugly snarl twisting his features. Deku raised his hands defensively.

The corridor pulsed with energy as Katsuki crashed into Deku. Fueled by adrenaline and anger, he unleashed a series of explosive punches, each one hitting with enough force to shake the walls. He danced around Deku with practiced ease, a frown etching deeper on his face. Katsuki wanted answers.

“Never thought you were a liar,” he taunted, launching a small explosion from his palm that sent Deku sprawling against the wall. The impact echoed through the building, a reminder of Katsuki’s raw power.

But Deku wasn’t down for long. He pushed himself up, determination blazing in his eyes. “I won’t give up, Kacchan!” he shouted, charging forward with renewed vigor. Katsuki felt a flicker of annoyance at the resilience he had always hated in Deku. His bruises throbbed.

“Stop avoiding this, Deku! You really are pathetic!”

With a swift move, Deku dodged Katsuki’s next strike, countering with an explosive kick aimed at Katsuki’s midsection. Katsuki barely managed to block it; the force of the blow made him stumble. His ribs cried out. He tried to remember Kira’s lessons and breathe evenly.

Katsuki saw the determination etched on Deku’s face, his brow furrowed in concentration as he prepared for the next attack. Anger flared inside Katsuki, and in a moment of reckless overconfidence, he went in close, throwing a punch without igniting his quirk.

Deku braced himself, twisting his body to avoid the explosion that wasn’t there. Katsuki’s punch caught him full force in the cheek. He stumbled back, wide-eyed and shocked. Katsuki’s heart raced; he was winning, but something about Deku’s unwavering spirit kept him on edge. He didn’t like it.

“Did you like it? Lying to everyone for years? Did you get a good laugh?” Katsuki spat, his patience wearing thin.

“I never lied to you, Kacchan!”

With a quick surge of power, Katsuki rushed forward again, this time focusing on a more straightforward attack. But in his eagerness to end the fight, he felt his overconfidence slipping. Deku grabbed him, spinning him into a wall, redirecting the blow. Katsuki cried out, unable to stop it, a surge of pain shooting across his chest like lightning.

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed, pride flaring even as the sting of the misstep burned within him. He was done talking. He was done with Deku.

But Deku refused to back down. Gritting his teeth, he propelled himself away from the blasts, channeling One For All into his legs for a burst of speed. “I’ll show you I’ve gotten stronger!” he exclaimed, charging at Katsuki once more.

Katsuki braced himself, anticipating the impact. This time, he was ready. With a swift dodge, he countered Deku’s charge with a powerful uppercut, sending Deku crashing to the ground. Katsuki felt a surge of triumph, but it was fleeting; Deku was already scrambling to his feet, pushing himself up with sheer determination.

“Stay down!” Katsuki growled.

Deku took a moment to breathe, wincing as he struggled to stand. “I’m not giving up,” he gasped, eyes blazing with resolve. “I can’t let you win this!”

Katsuki snarled, hand hovering over the pin of his gauntlet. This wouldn’t kill him—if he dodged. The pin clinked loose, and Katsuki saw the explosion before he heard it. It rattled the building, and for a brief moment, Deku vanished in the smoke and debris.

Then, out of the rubble, Deku stood again, battered but unbroken.

A sharp voice cut through the chaos, displeased. “The assignment is over. The Heroes win.”

The words hit Katsuki like a bucket of ice water, freezing his momentum mid-strike. His heart dropped, anger and frustration boiling within him as he realized the ramifications of their fight.

“Damn it!” he cursed aloud, annoyed at Glasses' inability to do the one job Katsuki had given him.

They walked out of the building, Katsuki still sparking with pent-up energy. Deku was hauled off to the infirmary. Katsuki met Sensei’s hard stare, refusing to blink. The next group moved on awkwardly toward the doors. Red, Yellow, and Pink watched him with matching frowns. Katsuki walked into a nearby hall instead.

Katsuki’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned white, his body still trembling with adrenaline. He couldn’t believe it. He’d lost. Again. To Deku of all people. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, his heart pounding in time with the rush of fury that coursed through him.

How could this happen? Katsuki thought, pacing in the dimly lit hallway just outside the training arena. He could feel his muscles still thrumming with the remnants of the fight, a twisted reminder of failure that only served to stoke the flames of his anger. God, he was stupid, what would his parents think?

He stopped abruptly, slamming his fist into the nearest wall, the impact echoing in the silence around him. The explosion of pain that followed was almost a welcome distraction, but even that couldn't quell the storm raging within. Why did I hesitate? That single moment of doubt replayed in his mind, a cruel loop taunting him with images of victory just out of reach. No, Katsuki shouldn’t have trusted Glasses, it was one job and apparently it was one job too many.

Katsuki should have put the girl down before engaging Deku, a quick slam into the wall would have been enough. Why the hell did he try the teamwork thing? 

“Damn it!” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the walls. Small sparks crackled around his palm, the remnants of his quirk responding to his volatile emotions. He wanted to unleash his frustration, to burn away the humiliation that clung to him like a second skin. He punched the wall again, a fierce explosion of energy bursting from his hand, leaving a charred mark and a smoldering hole.

“Bakugou, are you—” A voice interrupted his thoughts, breaking through the haze of his anger.

Red stood there, eyes wide with concern, his red hair bouncing as he stepped forward. He always had a way of getting under Katsuki’s skin, even when he was trying to help. The stupid grin on Red’s face faded as he took in the remnants of Katsuki’s rage.

“Back off,” Katsuki snapped, his voice sharp like the edges of his fury. “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

Red flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow, but he didn’t step back. “I’m just checking on you, man. You seemed—”

“Seemed what?” Katsuki interrupted, rage bubbling over, threatening to erupt.

Red's brow furrowed, but he held his ground, hands raised in a placating gesture. “That was a pretty intense fight. You know that, right? It was just a training exercise—”

Intense fight? Katsuki could laugh, it didn’t last longer than ten minutes. He’s had spars longer than that, if Kyo or Kira had seen that– he would be laughed out of the gym.

“Just a training exercise?” Katsuki shot back, his anger morphing into something darker, something more profound. 

He turned away, fists shaking at his sides, frustration threatening to consume him whole. He didn’t need their concern; he needed to be stronger. He needed to win. He recalls a fight, punch and breathe, punch and breathe.

Reds shifts, obviously lost. Katsuki doesn’t have the fucking time for this. His palms crackle with small sparks, flickering and popping like the fire he felt raging in his heart. He felt like a kettle about to boil over, the pressure building, the steam escaping in bursts as he fought to contain it all.

“Look, I get it,” Red persisted, unwisely. “But you can’t just keep pushing everyone away because you lost once, it’s not manly”

Lost. The word struck a chord deep within Katsuki. He’d rather be isolated in his anger, consumed by the relentless need to prove himself than loose.

“Fuck off , Red,” Katsuki growled, anger still simmering just beneath the surface. “I don’t need your lame attempt at a therapy session”

“My name is Kirishima.” Red snaps, then looks slightly shocked, like it wasn’t him who said that.

Katsuki’s heart raced, his breathing uneven as he wrestled with the words. That was a challenge, there was a fight in there, Red had thrown down the glove. Katsuki was itching to pick it up.  

Aizawa Sensei appears in the doorway as if summoned, glowering. “Is there a problem here?”

“No, sir”

Sensei looks at Katsuki, his knuckles are still bloody from where he punched the wall. He grinds his teeth angrily. 

“No."

They go back inside to watch a furry and a candy cane fight a bird and octopus. Katsuki doesn’t pay attention.

Katsuki sat alone in the dim locker room, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead in time with the heat in his hands. The others had left, changed and were talking about the assignment. The air felt heavy, thick with the remnants of sweat and his disappointment. He clenched his jaw, staring blankly at the row of lockers, their metallic surfaces reflecting his simmering frustration. 

With a sudden surge of rage, he slammed his fist into the nearest locker. The loud thud echoed off the walls, a brutal reminder of his failure. Pain shot through his knuckles, already bloody it shoots up his arm, his ribs smart but it barely registered. Katsuki was far too lost in the chaos of his thoughts. 

He leaned back against the cool metal, the adrenaline slowly draining from his body, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. The thought of being weak gnawed at him, an insidious whisper that threatened to consume him whole. His fists trembled, clenched so tight that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

He ripped off his shirt in a fit of frustration. Proof of his own lack of skill painted across his skin in blues, he went back and fought in Kyo’s gym more than once a week. Yet here he was, back at square one, facing the reality of his inadequacy. The voices of his classmates echoed in his mind—concern mixed with pity—like a mocking choir celebrating his failure.

He changes quickly, his school uniform is rumbled and he doesn't care. The thought of greeting his parents with nothing but failure burns. He doesn’t want to have lost to Deku, or to go home. He wants to fight again. But after last night? There’s no way in hell Kyo is letting him back in that ring.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, awakening something primal within him. He remembered the rush of battling without rules, the intoxicating thrill of letting go, of channeling his anger into raw, unfiltered power. He had fought opponent after opponent, and won. He had hurt and broken them, he had done a good job at it.

Katsuki stopped, his heart pounding as he considered how to get back in the ring. Thursday after his parents leave again, he’ll go back. He'll do whatever it takes to convince Kyo to let him fight again. The resolve settled in his gut, a dark promise that whispered of the choices to come.

With a grimace, he took a deep breath, suppressing the tempest swirling inside him. The underground fights called to him like a siren’s song, promising release and strength. He couldn't shake the thought as he left the locker room, his fists still clenched tight. He wanted back, he needed it.

Chapter Text

His parents are home for three days, but Katsuki doesn't say a word to them. Actually, it’s more that they don’t say a word to him. When he gets home, the first thing he sees are the unpacked bags by the door and the familiar sight of their bedroom door closed. A messy note from his dad asks for some quiet because of jetlag. Typical. Katsuki stares at the note a little too long before crumpling it up in his fist.

Fine. He was too busy licking his own wounds to push.

By morning, there’s a text saying they're going out to lunch with a friend and not to wait up. As the days blur together, Wednesday passes in the same quiet, and Thursday goes no different. When Katsuki gets home to an empty driveway, the strange tightness in his chest loosens. A little too much like relief. He scowls, pushing the feeling down.

He grabs his gym bag, shoving a water bottle into the side pocket. He’s going to see Kyo.

Kyo hasn’t texted him either, which isn’t strange… but it’s not not strange. Katsuki walks back into the gym with his head down, bracing himself for the worst. Maybe this time, he’s pushed too far. Maybe he’s finally spat in Kyo’s face one too many times. He can feel the weight of it settling in his stomach—the possibility that he might lose this place.

The gym smells like sweat and chalk, the familiar tang of iron and dust. Kyo is in the back, dusting equipment. He doesn’t even look up when Katsuki enters. That cold silence gnaws at him, and before he knows it, his eyes start to burn. He swallows hard, trying to force the lump in his throat down, but it doesn’t budge.

“Kyo?” His voice cracks embarrassingly, and he covers it with a forced cough. He shifts from foot to foot, clutching his gym bag like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Bakugou.”

He winces. Kyo’s never been mad at him before. Worried, sure. But not mad. The quiet, the simple way Kyo says his name, feels like a punch to the gut. The shame hits him low and hard, curling up inside his stomach like a weight he can’t shake.

Katsuki looks down at his feet, biting his lip. He can’t stand the silence between them. Not here. Not after everything.

“My parents came back.”

Kyo’s eyes flicked to him, the weight of that gaze unsettling Katsuki more than he wanted to admit. “...What?”

“They… they were back. I wasn’t pulling another ‘disappearing stunt.’” Katsuki swallowed roughly, knowing the excuse sounded hollow the moment it left his mouth. It was true—technically—but the truth of it didn’t make the lie behind his words any less obvious. He hated how desperate he felt, using his parents as a shield, but what else could he say? He wasn’t sure Kyo would accept anything else.

He wanted to go back, he did. But, he wasn’t sure Kyo would have let him back. Using his parents as an excuse is low hanging fruit, but Katsuki is desperate. Kyo levels him with a look, then gestures to the benches.

“Sit.”

Katsuki sits, his gym bag at his feet.

“Kid, we need to talk,” Katsuki looks down at his bag. “It’s not bad, it's just you need to know where you stand.”

Oh, he really fucked it. Katsuki is going to be kicked out. He’s never going to be allowed to fight again, or spar with Kira or—

“Are your parents gone a lot?”

“Huh?” 

Kyo keeps eye contact, and repeats the question. Katsuki’s nose scrunches.

“I guess, sure. They work a lot.”

“And they leave you alone?”

“I’m 16!” Katsuki defends. He doesn’t hate his parents for being busy. If anything he’s grateful for the freedom it gives him.

Kyo folds his arms, sighing. “No- that's not what I– Bakugou, Monday night you fought a lot rougher than usual, can we agree on that?”

He nods.

“Okay, why?”

“I-” He mulls over the words, they taste like acid. “I found out someone I know has been lying to me for years. He’s- different. Then how I thought. Made me angry.”

Kyo nods, “That’s it? Nothing else happened to you?”

Katsuki scowls, Kyo makes it sound childish, but Katsuki can't find the usual anger anywhere. Kyo sighs again.

“Bakugou, you know you can come here anytime, right?”

Katsuki pauses, unsure. Could he really? The warmth in Kyo’s voice gnawed at something deep in his chest. He wanted to believe it, but a part of him didn’t trust the words. “I can?”

“I mean it, parents or no parents. No matter what you’ve done. There’s a place for you here.”

Katsuki felt a flicker of warmth bloom in his chest, slow and tentative, like sunlight pushing through thick clouds. It scared him how much he wanted to cling to it. He nodded stiffly, fighting the mix of relief and fear bubbling inside him.

“But you have to promise me something.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever that was Monday? You don’t do it again. Fight once or twice a night, sure. I can allow that. But you do not get up there and fight until I have to pull you off.”

Katsuki nods slowly, chastened. He grabs his gym bag, and goes to get up. Kyo stands, holds out an arm to block him.

“Which is why, you’re not fighting for the rest of the week.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched in his throat, and for a moment, he thought he might explode. His muscles tensed, the words “no” bubbling up in his chest, but he forced them down, choking on his protest. Not fighting? The very idea clawed at him, setting his nerves on edge. He could feel the fire flaring up inside him, begging to be let loose, but he swallowed hard, pressing his lips together. All he could do was nod, stiff and reluctant, his fists clenching so tight he thought his knuckles might split.

“Good, now go clean up.”

Friday morning he feels better, much better. Katsuki checks his phone on the train to school, Mondays loss so far in his mind it's lost its sting. Kyo had texted him.

u comin tn?

No, I have extra training in the evening.

k

It feels nice, he only has two more days on his fighting ban. It’s not great, He’s having trouble sleeping again—his body feels like a live wire, buzzing with an energy that refuses to settle. The fighting ban gnaws at him more than he lets on. But it’s only two more days, and he’s handling it. Barely, but handling it.

He walks the now familiar route to the gate. His first week at UA is practically over. They have the classes switched around today, English followed by math followed by history. Hero training after lunch, and not just the regular two-hour block—it’s extended today. Four hours of combat drills. 

Katsuki’s heart picks up speed just thinking about it. He cracks his knuckles, eager to hit something, to prove that last week was nothing but a fluke. The rest of the class seems just as pumped, their chatter buzzing with anticipation.

As they board the bus in their hero gear, Katsuki catches a flicker of unease in the air. It’s faint, barely noticeable, but it sticks with him like an itch under his skin. It feels familiar—like the moment before the slime villain incident months ago. He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the feeling, dismissing it as nerves. He’s been waiting for this all week. Whatever’s coming, he’ll crush it.

They meet a hero called Thirteen, the space hero. She can create black holes at will, and Katsuki is morbidly curious about what would happen if someone fell into one. He doesn’t ask, though. The thought sits heavy in his mind, but he keeps it to himself.

Walking at the front of the group, Katsuki feels a rush of excitement as they enter the facility. It's massive, filled with different zones—mountains, water, a cityscape, forest. He wants to see it all, but the prickling sensation on his neck pulls his focus away. Shivers run down his spine. Something feels weird.

He doesn’t realize he’s frowning until Yellow comments on it. “Come on, Bakugou. Even you have to admit this is cool.”

Katsuki snarls back, wordless but irritated. That’s not it. It is cool, but something feels off. His muscles are tense, his senses on edge, and he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

Aizawa Sensei is watching him again. He does that a lot—always observing, always calculating. It’s not just Katsuki he watches; it’s Deku, that half-and-half bastard too. Katsuki scowls deeper, clenching his fists before shaking them out, a few quiet snaps of energy crackling from his palms. Whatever made him jittery, it needs release. It’s probably just the lack of fights.

As if on cue, a swirling black mass suddenly opens in the middle of the sand arena at the bottom of the stairs. Katsuki freezes, his eyes narrowing. The unease in his gut solidifies. This was no training exercise.

People pour out of the portal—ten, twenty, thirty—the number climbing quickly. In the center stands a pale teen covered in hands, one hanging over his face. Beside him hovers some kind of dark, shifting cloud. Katsuki’s brow furrows, bewilderment slowly turning to frustration. This is too weird.

But it only gets worse. Something else steps out, hulking and unnatural. Its body is built like a monster—muscles on muscles—but its head looks wrong. Like a bird’s skull, but with its brain exposed at the top, kind of like a monk’s haircut. Or... a hard-boiled egg.

“Is this part of the training?” some idiot pipes up.

Sensei’s voice cuts through the rising panic, ordering Thirteen to get them to safety. Glasses is already gone, running to alert the other heroes. Deku, of course, says something dumb about Sensei’s fighting style not being suited to large groups. Katsuki doesn’t even dignify it with a glance.

Sensei pulls down his yellow goggles, his capture weapon coiling around him. “You can’t be a hero with only one trick.”

Then, with no hesitation, Sensei leaps into the mass of villains, taking them down with precise, brutal efficiency. The sound of bones breaking echoes across the arena as villains hit the ground, one after another. Katsuki’s grin spreads wider with every blow.

Okay, he thinks, maybe Sensei is a little cool.

The cloud-like villain speaks, his voice somehow projecting across the arena with eerie clarity. “We are the League of Villains,” he announces.

Katsuki knows this isn’t the time to laugh, but damn, he wants to. League of Villains? It sounds like something out of a bad comic book. He stifles the urge, his fists clenched as he keeps his eyes trained on Aizawa Sensei and the villains closing in.

“Where is All Might?” the villain asks, voice cold and menacing.

Thirteen moves to engage before he can say much more, but somehow, in a twist too quick to follow, the villain uses her own quirk against her. Her form crumples to the ground, and Katsuki feels a jolt of unease creep up his spine. Maybe they really should’ve left.

Aizawa-sensei is still fighting, but Katsuki can see him slowing down. He knows all too well how exhausting fighting non-stop can be.

Pinky and a few others rush toward Thirteen’s fallen body, their panic obvious. Katsuki’s eyes flick to their stances—sloppy, unbalanced, practically begging to get knocked over. He wants to roll his eyes at how amateur they look, but before he can, a black mist rolls over the class, swallowing everything in its path.

The world distorts around him. Katsuki's gut lurches, his body dropping suddenly. He lands hard on solid ground—inside a building, disoriented but ready. Warping quirk. That’s not good.

Someone lands behind him with a heavy thud, and he barely stops himself from blasting them on instinct. It's Kirishima.

“Bakugou? What the hell just happened—” Kirishima starts, but before he can finish, several villains step out of the lingering black mist. Katsuki slams his back into Kirishima’s, fists crackling with energy.

This isn’t good either.

Katsuki’s blood hums with anticipation, eyes narrowing as the first wave of villains moves in. Kirishima is at his back, throwing a few punches, but it's clear who’s carrying this fight. Katsuki’s palms crackle with small explosions, his body poised to spring into action.

"Let’s see what you got," he snarls, blasting forward with a hard burst of energy, slamming into the nearest villain. The guy crumples instantly, knocked out cold before he even hits the ground. Katsuki’s lips curl into a grin, but there’s no amusement behind it—just raw, brutal intent.

The next villain comes at him, swinging wildly. Katsuki dodges effortlessly, sidestepping with precision, before smashing his fist into the side of the villain’s face, sending him skidding across the floor. Katsuki’s grin fades as he recognizes the guy—a regular from the underground fights. The man’s eyes widen in brief recognition, but before he can say a word, Katsuki plants a boot into his ribs with a satisfying crack.

In the club, you can be anyone, but out here they have lives– expectations. Katsuki doesn’t know these villains just because they’ve congratulated him on a fight once or twice.

"Shut up," Katsuki growls, his voice low and dangerous. He doesn’t need these idiots connecting him to the club right now. Another villain lunges at him, but Katsuki spins, using the momentum to slam his arm into their jaw, sending them reeling.

Kirishima, wide-eyed, is struggling. “Damn, Bakugou-!” he shouts, his concern creeping in despite his attempt to sound impressed.

Katsuki doesn’t respond—he’s too focused, too locked in. Each punch, each explosion is calculated, designed to incapacitate with ruthless efficiency. He’s fighting like he would in the ring, except he’s adding his quirk to it. No reason to keep himself in check now.

A blast of energy sends two more villains flying into a nearby wall, crumpling into a heap. Kirishima’s breath catches as he watches Katsuki move—there’s a brutal intensity to his fighting, like he’s holding nothing back, taking no prisoners. Katsuki cracks his knuckles, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through him. He’s in control, and it feels good.

They break through the last of the villains blocking their path, making their way back toward the sand arena. Katsuki catches a glimpse of the chaos ahead—the bird-headed Thing has Aizawa pinned, smashing him into the ground with bone-crushing force.

Katsuki’s eyes narrow in on it. His heart pounds, adrenaline flooding his veins. He’s taken down these thugs like they were nothing—but this thing is different. Stronger. Deadlier. The kind of fight that gets his blood boiling.

But then, from the corner of his eye, he sees the mist-like figure swirling nearby, pulling more villains into the chaos. A low growl escapes Katsuki’s throat. Both targets are equally tempting—one the brute force, the other the strategist keeping things coordinated.

The pale guy, standing nearby with his hand-covered face twitching, seems to have taken notice of Katsuki’s rampage. His fingers twitch in anticipation, watching Katsuki tear through his underlings with an almost feral grin. Katsuki doesn’t like the look he’s being given.

Kirishima says, panting. “You think we should—”

“Shut up, I’m thinking!” Katsuki snaps, the decision hanging heavy. Birdie or Misty. Take down the heavy hitter, or cut the head off the snake keeping the fight going. Kyo really shouldn’t have banned him from the fights– because Katsuki wants.

His eyes lock onto the Thing. He makes his choice. With a snarl, Katsuki charges toward the creature with reckless abandon, adrenaline flooding his system. He can feel the raw, pulsing power radiating off the beast, its muscles coiling under its skin like a nightmare made flesh. It’s a challenge. Another Zero-Pointer. Another sludge villain. Another hurdle in Katsuki’s godforsaken life.

“Bring it on, you overgrown freak!” he shouts, the familiar heat of his quirk burning in his palms as he launches himself forward. It reacts instantly, swinging a massive fist down with brutal force. Katsuki is quicker, rolling to the side just as the ground explodes in a spray of sand from the impact.

But it’s fast. Faster than it has any right to be. Katsuki’s blood roars in his ears as he weaves through its attacks, barely managing to stay ahead of the monstrous strikes. He’s laughing, he realizes. The sheer thrill of it has him laughing—he cuts it off quickly. Even for him, that’s a little too insane.

Explosions tear through the air as he aims for its midsection, but it doesn’t even flinch. Katsuki grits his teeth, frustration bubbling up as another punch whistles past his head, close enough to make his hair stand on end. He catches a glance of Kirishima out of the corner of his eye, holding off a few lesser villains and looking worried.

“You’ve gotta hit it harder!” Kirishima yells, glancing back toward Katsuki, but he’s only half-listening.

“Shut up! I know what I’m doing!” Katsuki growls back, determination surging through him. Katsuki has a talent for finding where is hurts. His eyes flick to the things exposed brain. Bingo. It’s obvious now, but getting there won’t be easy.

The creature swings again, and this time Katsuki barely rolls out of the way in time, the wind from the punch nearly knocking him off balance. He stumbles, and it turns toward him, its grotesque grin spreading as it realizes it’s close to landing a hit.

Just as Katsuki is about to make his move, he hears a shout from behind him.

“Kurogiri!” The hand guy cries.

The voice cuts through the noise of the battle, and Katsuki glances back just in time to see Aizawa activating his quirk, his eyes locked on the mist-like villain. Kurogiri is caught off guard, his warping quirk faltering, and the mist begins to recede from the arena.

For a split second, hope flares up inside Katsuki. They might actually pull this off. But his attention snaps back to the bird-thing as its fist comes crashing down on him. Katsuki barely manages to block it with his forearms, but the impact rattles him to his core, sending him skidding back. His arms are screaming in pain. He shakes it off, refusing to go down that easily.

“Come on!” he growls, forcing himself back onto his feet. He rushes forward again, but the thing is learning, and isn't that interesting, it anticipates his move this time, swinging low. Its fist slams into Katsuki’s side, sending him flying into the wall with a sickening thud. Pain flares through his ribs, sharp and unforgiving, but he pushes past it. Breathe and punch.

He’s not done. Not yet.

Katsuki drags himself up, sweat pouring down his face, his body on fire with exhaustion. The creature is relentless, its speed and strength almost too much to handle. Each strike is closer than the last, and Katsuki can feel himself slowing down. He’s running out of time.

He braces himself for another round, but it barrels toward him, faster than he can react. He knows, in that instant, that he’s out of options. He’s screwed.

But the blow never lands.

One second he’s staring down the fist of death, the next he’s standing back beside his class, panting, across the arena. Confusion and disbelief flood him as he tries to process what just happened. His eyes flick to Aizawa, who’s being held up by Deku and some green-haired girl, his arm clearly broken but alive. Katsuki looks back to where he was, and his heart skips a beat.

All Might.

The Symbol of Peace is trading blows with it, their movements so fast it’s almost impossible to follow. The sheer power in each hit reverberates through the air, and Katsuki can only stand there, panting, watching the battle unfold.

How the hell did Katsuki not die instantly? 

And suddenly, it’s over.

The bird—the thing—is gone, hurled into the side of a mountain like a broken doll. All Might stands tall, alone, his fist raised high and clenched in victory. The dust is still settling, but the fight has been decided. Katsuki’s eyes track the path of destruction left behind by its body. There, in the distance, its grotesque form lies motionless in a crater carved into the rock. A pitiful wreck compared to the force of nature it had been moments ago.

Katsuki feels a wild grin stretch across his face, unbidden and unstoppable. He tries to smother it—tries to act like this isn’t the most thrilling thing he’s ever seen. But the grin won’t die. His heart is still hammering in his chest, his blood still pumping from the fight. His muscles scream in exhaustion, and the bruises from the thing’s hits throb, but he can’t help it. He loves this. The rush, the danger, the overwhelming power of it all.

This is what being a hero is about. This is why he fights.

All around him, the chaos begins to settle. Other heroes storm the area, their presence calming the scene as they round up villain after villain. Katsuki watches as the main villains, however, are nowhere to be seen. His classmates—those who can still stand—gather around, some battered and bruised, but alive. Kirishima is panting beside him, clearly shaken but giving Katsuki a wary thumbs-up.

“Dude, that was intense,” Kirishima says, his voice shaky but filled with a kind of awe. “You okay?”

Katsuki snorts, waving off the concern, still grinning. “I’m fine,” he mutters, flexing his sore hands. His arms still buzz with leftover adrenaline, the aftermath of the battle settling into his bones. He glances at the rest of his classmates, scattered around like survivors of a warzone. The fear that had gripped the group earlier is starting to fade, replaced with weary relief. Kyo’s never going to believe this.

A few minutes pass before the school staff gives the all-clear. It’s official—the fight’s over. They’ve won.

“Students,” a voice crackles over the speakers. It’s one of the heroes, directing the aftermath. “You’re all cleared to go home. The authorities will handle the cleanup and the capture of remaining villains. Parents and guardians will be notified of the situation, and apologies will be issued for the incident.”

Katsuki barely hears the last part, too caught up in the aftermath of his own thoughts. He doesn’t care about the apologies, or the phone calls. What he cares about is the fight. About how he held his own, even against that thing. How he’d almost won.

Almost.

He scowls, a flicker of frustration tugging at the edges of his high. He hadn’t finished it. All Might had swooped in and saved the day, as always. Katsuki’s fingers curl into fists, a spark of his earlier rage resurfacing. He’d been so close, but he wasn’t strong enough. Not yet.

As the other students start to shuffle toward the exit, Katsuki remains rooted to the spot for a moment, staring at the distant crater where the Thing lies. He’s not thinking about the apology calls or the aftermath that Principal Nezu will be dealing with. He’s not worried about the school’s image or the scandal this will undoubtedly cause.

What lingers in his mind is the fight—the thrill of it. And the fact that next time, it won’t be All Might who ends the battle. Next time, he’ll be the one standing tall, fist raised, with the enemy defeated beneath him.

He knows Nezu will try to smooth things over with the parents, but Katsuki isn’t worried. He hasn’t spoken to his parents in months—maybe a year. His old man’s a ghost, and his mom is even busier. Nezu’s little apology tour isn’t going to make any difference in his life.

And if the school calls? Whatever. Katsuki doubts they’ll even get a hold of them. They’ve been MIA for at least six months, and considering they just left yesterday? Principal Nezu can try to play peacemaker all he wants, but there’s nothing to smooth over when it comes to his family.

It’s just him. It always has been. And that’s fine.

Katsuki finally begins walking, joining the others as they file out of the battlefield, their hero costumes battered and dirty. The fight may be over, but in his mind, it’s only just beginning. That place was enough of a shit show to get him his fix, and Katsuki nearly feels calm.

He replays the fight in his mind. Could he have gotten to the head? Maybe shoved his hands into mushy brain matter and detonated? Who knows? He’s not sure, but he hopes he gets the chance to figure it out. Next time.

Katsuki practically skips out of the place, the adrenaline still surging beneath his skin. Kirishima is talking animatedly to his friends—most likely explaining the fight to those who hadn’t been close enough to see. As if synchronized, they all turn to look at him, faces a mix of awe and something else. Maybe fear.

Katsuki is in such a good mood, he doesn’t even glare. He just walks past them, smirking, heading for the gates with a spring in his step. With the fight behind him, even the weather seems that much nicer. The sky’s clearer, the air’s crisper. And Katsuki, for once, feels like maybe—just maybe—everything is as it should be.

Chapter Text

Katsuki spends the entire weekend in the gym with Kira, grinding through hours of training. The gym has become his second home, especially with Kyo sick upstairs. He doesn’t go near the room. He doesn’t want to risk catching anything, but truthfully, Kira keeps him more than busy enough anyway.

“Having fun becoming a hero?” Kira’s voice cuts through the clanking of weights.

Katsuki grunts, running a towel across the steel bars. His grip tightens as he thinks about the Nomu, that towering monster of a villain. Despite the bruises still marking his skin, he can't help but grin. Facing something that strong had been exhilarating. Almost dying? Even better.

He’s grinning wider now, the towel forgotten in his hand.

“...Kid.” Kira’s voice pulls him back. She sounds cautious, wary. “What’s got you so happy?”

Katsuki drops the bar back onto the rack with a heavy clang. “Villain attack.”

 “At U.A.?” Kira repeats, startled.

“Yeah, what’d I just say?”

“I got to fight—” He stops short when he sees how her face drains of color.

“Bakugou,” Kira’s voice sharpens, her body tense, “what the hell are you talking about? Your class was attacked at U.A.? Are you okay?”

Before Katsuki can even scoff, she’s grabbing his arms, checking him for injuries. She’s squeezing his shoulders and wrists like he’s hiding something broken.

Katsuki jerks his arm away, annoyed. “I said, I’m fine. It wasn’t even a real fight, okay? All Might made sure of that and I’ve taken harder hits in my sleep.”

His words are hot, defensive, as if the very idea of someone worrying about him irritates him. He can hold his own—he’s been holding his own for two years now, ever since Kira started training with him. 

“You sure?” Kira’s voice softens just a little, but her eyes are still sharp, like she’s seen him downplay his bruises one too many times.

“Yeah,” he says “I’m sure.”

She watches him for a second longer before nodding. “Alright, kid. If you say so.”

Katsuki turns back to the bars, wiping them down again, but his mind is still on the Nomu. Kira’s reaction? Already forgotten. He tries to change the subject, something lighter, it’s not something he does a lot. But, Kira and Kyo worry easily, and that’s not Katsuki’s problem but he supposes they’re friends?

“The sport’s festival is coming up.”

“Yeah? You gonna take part?”

Katsuki nods, “First years are next Friday, they leave the weekend to Second and Third years.”

He watches as Kira stacks the weights haphazardly, resisting the urge to fix them immediately. It’s a stupid detail, but the mess irritates him. Katsuki will end up fixing them later, which will prompt her to call him a perfectionist like it’s a bad thing. 

“You think you’ll win?”

“Obviously, half those extras can’t even hold a stance. Nevermind take a punch,” he says, though there’s a flicker of doubt buried deep. The Nomu hadn’t been easy to keep up with—and neither will his classmates, once they’re all fighting for real.

Kira blinks, leaning onto a rack. “Why you?”

“The entrance exam, I set a record.” His palms grow hot at the memory, the undeniable victory. 

“Jesus kid, above and beyond huh?” Kira laughs a little, “I’ll sit down with Kyo and we’ll watch it together.”

The words should mean nothing. They shouldn’t even register. But they do. Somewhere deep in his chest, they hit like an unfamiliar punch—one he’s not sure how to block, he shouldn’t feel anything about it. They’re not his family. Not really. But the thought sticks, buzzing at the back of his mind like an annoying fly he can’t swat away.

Monday lunch is a different type of torture. Kirishima and his groupies have decided that they can indoctrinate Katsuki into their friendship. Any protest Katsuki makes is bulldozed over. So, in the end, they surround him at his table in the cafeteria. Still yammering about the attack.

Lunch was supposed to be a break. Forty-five minutes of silence, a chance to shove some food down his throat before heading to the gym. But no—he’s surrounded by a pack of idiots who apparently can’t take a hint. It’s worse than anything he’s faced in training, or the ring. 

Kirishima circles back, repeating the same conversation. Again. It grates on Katsuki’s nerves. They’ve already talked about this. Twice. He’d rather be anywhere else—smashing through training dummies or pounding his fists into something solid—than sitting here, listening to them rehash everything like they’re still scared. 

“I mean, it was insane to suddenly be surrounded by actual real villains?”

Yellow and Pinky nod rapidly in agreement. He’d heard the same comments a dozen times already, but they wouldn’t stop yammering. No matter how many times he tried to ignore them, they always found another angle, another way to bring it up. Didn’t they have anything else to talk about? Yellow waves his hands as he speaks, nearly knocking his fork to the ground. 

“Not that you had to worry, you had Bakugou right there next to you.” Yellow laughs, “All you had to do was stay out of the splash zone!”

Pinky grins, “Bakugou, you didn’t even hesitate with that Nomu, how the hell did you keep up with it?”

Kirishima chimes in, “Nevermind the Nomu, you should have seen him tear through the ones we got warped with.” He punches the air. 

Katsuki can’t believe it. The only person in class he respects, the one guy who actually has some guts, is such a fucking loser. Kirishima means well, sure—but damn, sometimes he’s just too earnest for his own good.

But Kirishima does have guts, Katsuki has to admit. It’s the only reason he puts up with him at all.

He scoffs quietly, though Kirishima doesn’t notice. Pinky’s black eyes gleam at the sound, picking up on Katsuki’s reluctance.

“Oh? Tell me more, Kirishima,” she says, leaning forward with way too much interest.

God, this is going to drag on forever, Katsuki thinks, already repressing the urge to groan as Kirishima starts to recount the scrap, step by step, like they’re reviewing game footage. Katsuki tunes out for most of it—he was there. He doesn’t need a play-by-play of his own damn fight.

“-it was so manly. I can’t imagine fighting that fast, my moms freaked out when they heard about the attack, if I had been the one to face down that thing? They would have stormed U.A.”

Yellow and Pinky laugh, nodding and slapping each other's arms. Katsuki rolls his eyes, his parents probably don’t even know. He doubts they’d care anyway. At this point, Katsuki thinks he counts as estranged. They would only be annoyed if Katsuki fucked about, like if he blew up something expensive. Or maybe not, considering how well the business is going. 

Yellow speaks through a mouthful of rice, the cafeteria bustling around them with laughter and chatter. It comes out muffled, and Katsuki's hands twitch with the urge to shut it for him. “How’d your parents react?”

Katsuki grimaces, his jaw tightening as he glares until Yellow finally shuts his mouth and swallows. “Fine.”

Pinky whistles, “Fine? Just fine?”

He shrugs, trying to shake off the uncomfortable thought. But Kira’s worried gaze flashes through his mind, her fingers pressing against his arms, checking for injuries. It’s a weight he’s not sure how to carry. She’s not his mom—but the way she acts sometimes? The time he’s spending in the gym is fucking with his head. 

“I don’t know,” he says, hoping to end this line of questioning. “They probably didn’t even hear about it.”

Kirishima frowns, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean? It’s everywhere. It was on the news. How wouldn’t they know?”

That’s true, and Katsuki can picture the headlines flashing across screens. But he’s pretty sure his parents are in Germany right now—or Belgium, maybe. One of those places that he couldn't care less about. The thought of them barely registering his existence feels all too familiar, a dull ache that he pushes down.

It’s fine. Katsuki is mostly over it. Kyo and Kira are enough to fill the void his parents left behind. He knows there's some name for what he’s doing—attachment issues or some shit. But as long as he keeps his boundaries firm, never letting Kira or Kyo know the extent of his thoughts, everything should be fine.

He can manage this. After all, they’re not his parents. Not really. Just a couple of people who care a bit too much for their own good. And if he can keep it that way, then maybe—just maybe—he won’t have to face the complications that come with feeling like he belongs somewhere.

The group is still staring at him, confusion etched on their faces. Katsuki reminds himself that this could be good practice for the interviews he’ll eventually have to face as a hero.

“They aren’t in Japan.”

Pinky flicks a look at Kirishima and back at Katsuki. “You’re a foreign student? Like Aoyama?”

Who the hell is Aoyama? Someone in their class? Katsuki frowns at her, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Is she actually that clueless?

“No, they travel for work.”

Yellow chimes in, “And they couldn’t come back?”

Katsuki bristles at this line of questioning. It feels like they’re trying to trap him. His palms heat, a familiar annoyance rising. He rolls his shoulders and abandons his half-finished lunch. “They just left again. They were here last week.”

Kirishima leans forward, an unusual seriousness in his demeanor. “Last week? Like Monday?”

Katsuki thinks about it, noting how tense Kirishima is. “...Yeah, they got home that evening.”

He regrets the words as soon as he says them. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Kirishima’s expression darkens as the implications sink in. Katsuki had gone home furious after losing the previous week, and then he’d shown up Tuesday covered in bruises for training. He can’t explain that it was because he had gone about seven rounds in an illegal fighting ring.

Fuck. How does he even backtrack from this? What could he say that wouldn’t sound like a total excuse? How do you convey that you're not abused, without giving away illegal activities?

Kirishima’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth. “Bakugou, is there something going on?”

Pinky and Yellow sit silent, picking up on the serious demeanor, but Katsuki can’t tell if they have the same assumptions.

“No” He growls out, being too defensive would confirm it, but Katsuki is naturally defensive. Fuck.

The rest of lunch drags on in stilted silence, Pinky and Yellow trying to pick up the pieces of the conversation, but it’s strained and hollow. Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists, and he couldn't shake the feeling of them watching him—waiting for him to break. 

Katsuki wants to force them to understand, he’s not some abused kid– he’s more capable than any of them, he’s a good fighter and he's strong. The ring is proof of that. But he can’t tell three heroics course students that he takes part in illegal fights at least three times a week.

He stares down at his untouched lunch, wishing he could push all these thoughts away as easily as he could clear the ring.

As Sensei announces the details of the upcoming sports festival, excitement ripples through the classroom. Less than two weeks away, the festival promises to be a chance for them to showcase their skills and secure internships—a crucial step into hero society. Katsuki can barely contain his anticipation, his heart racing at the thought of the brutal, sanctioned fights that await. This is his moment to shine, to prove just how strong he is.

Aizawa Sensei dismisses them early, with a warning not to slack on their training.

Katsuki’s fingers twitch, itching to unleash his power. The air crackles around him as he envisions the crowd, the thrill of battle, the unmistakable feeling of victory washing over him like a wave. He can almost hear the roar of the audience as he dominates his opponents. He can’t wait to wipe the smug looks off their faces.

As class ends, Katsuki gathers his things, barely listening to his classmates chatter about strategies and hopes for the festival. His mind is elsewhere, focused on the glory he’s going to seize.

Someone opens the door before him, a girl with black hair and weird ears. She pauses, stepping back. Most of their year is gathered outside Class 1A’s door. A tall purple haired guy is standing slightly forward. Katsuki glares at the crowd over his classmates head.

It feels like the start of a night at the gym. There's a tension in the air, someone has to move first. Someone has to give. Katsuki locks eyes with the purple guy. Having to look slightly up at him has his palms crackling, his chest tight.

At some point his classmate had fallen back towards her friends, Katsuki stands in the door alone. 

Purple stares back, deadpan. He looks bored. Katsuki can see a tension though, there’s a grudge here. He knows it.

“Did you know?” He begins, Katsuki stares him down. “Based on the results of the U.A. Sports Festival, General students can join the Hero course.” He seems to ponder something, Katsuki knows it's an act. “The reverse is also possible if the Hero Department students performance is subpar.”

He drawls the last word, savoring it. Whispers whip through the small crowd, his classmates seem unsure behind him. Katsuki knows better than to flinch at a bluff by now. He steps forward, Purple doesn’t move, but the people behind him do. 

The best way to bluff, is to not bluff. It has served Katsuki well. His threats are real. The gathered crowd scatters out of his way as he leaves the building.

He’s fucking humiliated. The Sport Festival– where he was supposed to have a real win. Where the entire fucking country was watching, where Kyo and Kira were watching. And they chained him up, with a fucking muzzle. 

The echoes of laughter and disbelief still ring in his ears, a mocking crowd that won’t fade. He can’t shake the image of Todoroki standing across from him, cool and collected, refusing to unleash his flames. It felt like a betrayal—a taunt wrapped in the guise of a fight. This was his moment, the time to prove he was stronger than anyone expected, yet here he was, stripped of that chance and left feeling like a goddamn joke.

He’s curled up on Kyo’s bed, instead of moping on the pull-out couch. He’s barely moved in the last thirty-six hours. He can’t escape the weight of what happened, replaying the moment over and over in his mind. He lost again. Not just the match, but any chance at respect in hero society. 

Kira didn’t say anything when he showed up, wet from the rain. She didn’t even ask where the medal was, which is rotting at the bottom of a river. She let him in, dripping everywhere and into the apartment. Kyo had slept on the couch that night. Katsuki couldn’t even feel sorry over the overwhelming shame. 

The sound of the rain tapping against the window becomes a rhythmic reminder of his failure. Memories flood back—Todoroki’s indifferent gaze, the snickers from the audience, the constricting chains that felt more like a mockery of his strength than a restraint. He can almost hear the commentators, their voices dripping with disbelief as he was dragged away, a broken hero in a spectacle that was supposed to showcase his prowess.

Kira sits on the edge of the bed. She’s not saying anything, and Katsuki hates, hates, hates. Mostly himself. Chained up like a fucking animal. Like a goddamn villain.

The silence stretches painfully, a thick fog that only amplifies his turmoil. Her quiet gaze seems to bore into him, as if she can see right through the wall he’s desperately trying to build. He wants to scream, to shatter the stillness with his fury, but all that comes out is a low growl of frustration.

It’s deeper, he knows. Under the embarrassment and anger lies the fear. When Katsuki woke up, chained and drowsy, he was terrified. A bone-chilling fear that had him wanting out. The tightness of the chains, the cold metal of the muzzle clamped over his mouth, had felt like a suffocating nightmare come to life. It reminded him of the sludge villain. Of course it did. The festival crowd had flickered to the crowd from that day—familiar yet alien, their excitement twisted into something darker. Watching him, always fucking watching.

Katsuki didn’t even know where he was until they had sunk the podium again, hiding the champions. Once his hands were freed by Cementoss, he had taken off, an instinctual drive to escape, to flee from the eyes that bore into him like daggers.

Sensei was there too, lurking in the background, and Katsuki couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal that lanced through him. He had faced the Nomu in the USJ, the one that Sensei couldn’t. He had fought with everything he had, pushing through the pain and to buy them time. And yet, here he was, humiliated in front of the same crowd, stripped of his dignity and strength, left feeling small and stupid.

A hand lands in his hair, he flinches. It pauses, before Kira is softly running her hands through his spikes. 

“I’ve always liked your hair.” Katsuki doesn’t even bother responding, Kira continues anyway. “It’s nice, gives you that extra inch. Once I burned off half of mine trying to figure out how to style it as a teen.”

She sighs, the sound heavy with sympathy. The door from the stairs opens slowly, and Kyo wanders over, his expression a mixture of concern and determination as he sits next to her.

“Is he okay?” Kyo asks, his voice low.

“Still not talking.” Kira’s fingers work through Katsuki’s hair, a soothing motion that he finds oddly comforting despite his storm of emotions.

Kyo leans forward, trying to catch Katsuki’s eye, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet the worried looks of his…. his people. “You know, it’s okay to be upset about what happened,” Kyo says gently. “You put everything you had into that fight.”

“Everything?” Katsuki finally snaps, his voice hoarse from holding back his emotions. “I didn’t put shit into that fight. Neither did the fucking popsicle. That wasn’t a fucking win– it was a cop out”

Kyo frowns, looking at Kira. “Bakugou. You did win, just because–”

Katsuki scoffs, bitterness flooding his words. “What good is that? I didn’t win in a way that matters. Everyone saw it. The whole country watched me get dragged off like some pathetic joke.” 

Kyo purses his lips, “Kira, go down stairs.”

Kira pauses, the hand leaves his head. Katsuki continues to sulk as she leaves. The rain had subsided, but the oppressive silence in Kyo’s apartment felt heavier than ever. Katsuki lay curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the wall, lost in his own thoughts. He needed to wallow in this humiliation; it was all he felt he had left.

“Go away,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No can do, kiddo” Kyo’s voice was firm, resolute. Katsuki felt the bed dip as Kyo moved next to him. “You’re coming with me.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. The weight of his shame held him down, and he wasn’t ready to face anyone—especially not the crowd that had witnessed him fight here night after night, no doubt would recognize him.

“I said, you’re coming with me.” Kyo’s hand gripped Katsuki’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Get up. Now.”

With a grunt, Katsuki pushed himself into a sitting position, glaring at Kyo with all the defiance he could muster. “Why the hell would I want to go anywhere?”

“Because you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Kyo stood up, crossing his arms as he regarded Katsuki with a piercing look. “You’re not a fucking loser, and it’s time you realized that.”

Katsuki’s breath quickened, anger flaring in his chest. “You don’t get it! I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can, kid.” Kyo’s voice cut through the air, firm and unwavering. “There’s power in choice. Who are you going to choose to be: Bakugou Katsuki or some little bitch?”

The words stung like a slap. Katsuki snarled, adrenaline surging as he moved to lunge at Kyo, the instinct to fight overriding his shame. But Kyo was quick, grabbing his arm and yanking him to his feet. The sudden movement surprised Katsuki, and he stumbled slightly, trying to regain his balance as Kyo propelled him forward.

“Come on!” Kyo urged, dragging him down the stairs and through the thrumming crowd. Katsuki felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, a warning signal blaring in his mind. The gym buzzed with noise; the sound of laughter, shouts, and the echo of fists hitting pads filled the air, a cacophony that grated against his nerves.

As they neared the ring, Katsuki hesitated, a wave of dread crashing over him. Kyo must have sensed his hesitation because, without warning, he shoved Katsuki into the ring, sending him stumbling forward.

“Hey!” Katsuki growled, regaining his footing just as a sharp whistle came from Kyo’s mouth, demanding attention. The noise in the gym quieted, all eyes turning to them, and Katsuki felt the heat of shame creep up his neck. Flames flickered across his body, the urge to run clashing violently with his need to fight.

“Has anyone here?” Kyo shouted, his voice steady, cutting through the silence. “Got a problem with the kid fighting.”

Katsuki’s heart raced. The murmurs from the crowd buzzed in his ears like a swarm of bees, doubt creeping in. But Kyo continued, unflinching. “The same kid that has beaten most of you.”

A few moments of silence hung heavy in the air, the crowd exchanging uncertain glances. Katsuki could see the mix of curiosity and hesitation, but he felt the thrill of challenge flickering within him, urging him to rise above the embarrassment. A lanky kid steps in the ring. 

“Is there a problem?” Kyo pressed, narrowing his gaze at the other kid. “Because if you think Bakugou doesn’t belong here, then come and prove it!”

Katsuki’s anger ignited at Kyo’s words. It was a challenge, a dare, and as he stood there, he could feel the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders. This was his chance. For a second, he didn’t care about proving himself– he just wanted to hurt someone like he had been hurt.

“I’ll fight,” The lanky kid says. The declaration felt like a lifeline, a spark igniting the fire within him. Kyo nods, and hops out of the ring. 

The kid stands there, lazily. Adding insult to injury. “So what's it like? Being tied up like a–”

Katsuki doesn’t let him finish. He launches forward, a blur of motion fueled by frustration and determination. The boy’s eyes widened as Katsuki’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the mat. Cheers erupted from the crowd, the roar of excitement washing over Katsuki like a wave, drowning out the remnants of his humiliation. 

But Katsuki wasn’t finished. The boy scrambled back to his feet, but Katsuki charged at him, tackling him to the ground. They hit the mat hard, and Katsuki wasted no time, grappling for control. He pinned the lanky kid beneath him, fury blazing in his chest.

“Get off me!” the kid shouted, thrashing beneath Katsuki’s weight. But Katsuki wasn’t listening. He rained down punches, each blow fueled by the anger and shame that had been festering since the festival.

Katsuki felt every hit connect—flesh against flesh—until the kid’s defenses crumbled. The cheers of the crowd faded into a dull roar, but all Katsuki could focus on was the satisfaction of seeing the kid’s face contort in pain.

“Thought you could take me, huh?” Katsuki snarled, his voice low and dangerous. He shifted his weight, driving a knee into the kid’s side, and watched as he gasped for breath.

The lanky kid tried to push him off, but Katsuki wasn’t letting go. He gripped the kid’s shirt, pulling him up just enough to deliver another hard punch to his face. Each hit was cathartic, an outlet for all the pent-up frustration from his recent failure. This wasn’t just a fight; it was a declaration.

The crowd was alive now, shouting encouragement, but all Katsuki could hear was the rush of blood pounding in his ears. He was tired of feeling weak. Tired of being humiliated. As he threw another punch, he felt a rush of power coursing through him, filling the void that the festival had left behind.

Finally, the lanky kid went limp beneath him, a look of shock on his face as he surrendered to the relentless assault. Katsuki stood up, breathing heavily, his heart racing, and the gym erupted into cheers.

“Anyone else?” Kyo called out, a grin spreading across his face as he surveyed the crowd. “Because this kid isn’t going anywhere!”

Katsuki stood tall, chest heaving, and looked around at the audience that had once doubted him. There was no shame now—only victory.

Chapter Text

Katsuki narrowed his eyes at the stack of offers. Only a handful of names worth his time. The rest? Trash. If they weren't in the top ten, they had nothing to teach him. He wasn’t about to waste a week learning useless shit from nobodies. He needed people who knew what they were doing, people who had power and weren’t afraid to use it.

A search and rescue team, Wild, Wild Pussycats. The lowest out of ten, and it’s tempting. A lot of open space to train and four mentors in one. Katsuki could see himself improving fast out there, honing his speed, strength, and reactions in ways a city couldn't offer. But...searching and rescuing? No. A week spent chasing after lost hikers and pulling cats out of trees? He’d go insane. He wasn’t here to hold hands and babysit. He needed fights—real ones. 

Gang Orca is another option, Katsuki thinks. He's powerful and intimidating but still knows how to maintain an image. Katsuki overheard someone in class mention taking an internship with Gang Orca, maybe it was the frog girl. But it’s too much water, he couldn’t use his quirk and when he did, it wouldn’t be worth shit. Explosions didn’t work well when they were dampened by half a damn ocean.

Yoroi Musha is, for lack of a better word, a waste of time. He’s a skilled fighter, and highly experienced. But the only reason he’s in number eight is because his patrol, his section of the city, is crawling with crime. Thugs and wannabe villains too weak to make real trouble. Katsuki didn’t need some relic showing him how to throw punches. He had the ring for that. He wasn’t looking to deal with street-level trash—he needed someone who could teach him how to take down real threats.

Best Jeanist. Number four. It wasn’t just the rank—it was the reputation. The guy had led long-term missions, taken down entire networks of villains, and his agency was recognized everywhere. Katsuki might not care for the flashy image stuff, but Jeanist wasn’t just talk. His quirk didn’t seem strong on the surface, but the way he used it? Deadly. Efficient. Katsuki could respect that. He could work with that.  

A voice perked up behind him, interrupting his thoughts as half the class floated around the room, talking about internships. Katsuki let the offers fall back into a messy pile. The only name that stood out was Best Jeanist. No contest. He’d be an idiot to pick anyone else—not that there was any real competition. He could hear the others scrambling to find decent offers while he was sifting through the best of the best.

“Where do you think you’ll go, Midoriya?” It was Uraraka, the girl who’d actually given him some trouble during the Sports Festival.

Deku stuttered out something pathetic, as usual. “Gran Torino.”

“Oh, cool! Didn’t he work with All Might?” Uraraka asked, sounding genuinely impressed.

Katsuki’s lip curled. Deku? He was getting offers from people tied to All Might now? What a joke.

Before he could dwell on it, red hair swam into his vision, cutting through Deku’s babbling.

“Hey, Bakugou!” Kirishima greeted him with a wide grin, always cheerful, always annoyingly upbeat. “Lotta offers, huh? Have you chosen one yet?”

Katsuki met his eyes, voice flat but firm. “Best Jeanist.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping in genuine surprise. “Really? That’s so manly!”

Before Katsuki could respond, the other two extras—Kaminari and Mina—jumped in. He was starting to learn more about them, whether he wanted to or not.

“You’re gonna become a model, Blasty?” Kaminari grinned, clearly amused by the idea.

Katsuki didn’t even dignify that with a response, just leveled him with a sharp glare.

Mina chimed in next, unfazed as usual. “I’m going with Toy-Toy! She’s really smart, so I hope I pick up some things.” She paused, then glanced at Katsuki. “What’s yours again?”

Kirishima jumped in before Katsuki could answer. “I’m going with Fourth Kind!” He beamed, clearly proud of his choice.

Katsuki frowned, something tugging at the back of his mind. He vaguely remembered Kyo and Kira discussing Fourth Kind... something about a lawsuit for putting his hands on interns— violently. Well, whatever. At least the guy wasn’t soft.

Then Kaminari spoke up, grinning like an idiot. “I’m going with Selkie, with Asui!”

Katsuki turned to stare at him. “What?”

Kaminari blinked, his grin faltering. “What? Selkie’s great! He gets tons of arrests.”

Katsuki took a deep breath, already feeling his patience thinning. “Sparky,” he began slowly, his palms crackling softly, “your quirk is electricity.”

“Yeah, so?” Kaminari replied, still oblivious.

Katsuki clenched his teeth. “Water conducts electricity, dumbass. You use your quirk out there, and you’ll fry everyone within thirty feet.”

Kaminari’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “Oh... crap.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ll... I’ll just go... fix that.”

Katsuki watched him scramble out of the classroom to catch the robot with their accepted offers. What an idiot. But at least he’d stopped the guy from electrocuting himself—and probably half the agency—out of sheer stupidity.

Katsuki walked into Best Jeanist’s agency with his usual confidence, shoulders squared, head held high. But the second he stepped through the door, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. The place was pristine, polished floors, sleek modern furniture... and full of tall, skinny blondes. Every single person in the office seemed to be a carbon copy of Best Jeanist himself—perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect smiles. Katsuki’s lip curled.

What the hell is this? he thought, scowling as he took in the staff. Was this a hero agency or a damn fashion show?

He knew a thing or two about the fashion industry—his parents were knee-deep in it, after all. But heroes? Heroes didn’t give a crap about looking pretty. Heroes were supposed to be strong, efficient, and ready to fight. Yet here he was, surrounded by people who looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine instead of the front lines.

It grated him in all the wrong ways, people should be evaluated on their abilities, not their fucking looks. Katsuki is actually a little disappointed. 

“Katsuki Bakugou, right?” A tall woman with platinum blonde hair approached him, all smiles and neatly pressed clothes. Katsuki barely glanced at her before looking away, unimpressed.

“Follow me,” she said, her heels clicking on the tile as she led him down a spotless hallway. “Best Jeanist is ready to meet with you.”

Katsuki grunted in response, hands jammed into his pockets. He avoids looking at people, keeping his eyes trained on the women's heels as they clack clack clack down the hall. Impractical. 

The office was as sleek as the rest of the agency, with large windows overlooking the city. Best Jeanist stood at his desk, hands clasped behind his back, his perfectly styled hair not a strand out of place. Performative, Katsuki thinks he should have gone with the Pussycat’s.

“Bakugou,” Jeanist greeted, his voice calm and measured. “I’ve been looking forward to this. You’re quite talented, but there’s... much to be done.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed, already bristling at the tone. That's an insult, Katsuki isn’t sure how, but it is. Jeanist is using the same tone as Katsuki does in the ring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeanist stepped forward, his gaze scrutinizing. Looking over his hero costume, loose pants, heavy gauntlets and spiky hair. Katsuki doesn’t like it.

 “Your talent is undeniable. But your appearance, your demeanor—they need work. A hero represents more than just power, Bakugou. They need to inspire trust, respect, and—”

“Are you serious?” Katsuki interrupted, his voice low but dangerous. “I’m here to fight villains, not walk down a runway.”

Jeanist’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle tightening of his jaw. There it is, Jeanist isn’t used to being challenged, tough shit.

“A hero’s image is important, Bakugou. The public needs to see you as a symbol, not a threat. You lack polish.”

Katsuki’s fists clenched at his sides, his patience already gone. Polish? He hadn’t come here to be lectured on his damn looks. Heroes aren't symbols, they’re people who are willing to do what needs to be done, win the fight that needs to be won. Heroes shouldn’t be prancing around for the public's approval.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Jeanist continued, his tone still maddeningly calm. “During your time here, I will be correcting these flaws. If you want to become a true hero, you need discipline—in every aspect.”

Katsuki’s teeth ground together, the urge to blow something up rising fast. “I don’t need correcting. I’m already stronger than half the idiots out there.”

Jeanist raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the outburst. “Strength alone isn’t enough.”

The words hit Katsuki like a slap in the face. He could feel the anger bubbling up, but before he could retort, Jeanist held up a hand. Strength isn’t enough? It’s a pretty fucking important factor, and in the heat of a fight– It’s the only thing that matters.

“Today, you’ll start with office duties. There’s a lot to learn about the inner workings of an agency, and it’s important you understand that hero work isn’t just about fighting. You’ll patrol tomorrow. For now, you’ll be assisting with the filing system and deliveries. Start by taking these reports to the infirmary.”

Katsuki’s eyes flashed. Office work? Filing? He was practically vibrating with rage. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He was supposed to be on the streets, fighting villains, not running errands. But he snatched the files out of Jeanist assistant’s hand without a word, his expression a mask of barely contained fury.

Katsuki stormed through the halls, barely bothering to acknowledge the people he passed. They all looked identical anyway. He was fuming. Filing reports, bringing paperwork to the infirmary? He might as well be an errand boy. His quirk crackled faintly at his fingertips, but he forced himself to stay calm. Just get this over with.

The infirmary was tucked away at the back of the building, quieter than the rest of the agency. Katsuki shoved the door open and stepped inside. The sterile smell hit him immediately—disinfectant, medicine, and a faint scent of fresh linen. Equally fashionable staff moved about, the sheets were white, the curtains white. Not a single thing was out of place; it was ridiculous.

A guy, probably barely nineteen, wearing a white lab coat. Katsuki stopped dead in his tracks, eyes narrowing. There was something familiar about him—too familiar. He was tall, lanky and sporting a black eye. Katsuki felt his heart drop to his ass, it was the guy he beat the shit out of after the sports festival.

Katsuki stood frozen in the doorway, mind racing. The guy blinked in surprise, and recognition flashed in his eyes before they darted around the infirmary, as if hoping the other nurses wouldn't connect the dots.

“Aw shit,” he said, his voice unsteady. Then louder “I—uh, I think I can show you where those files go.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes, suspicion flaring. Katsuki hadn’t even said a fucking word. The guy wrings his hands, walking down another hall, this one empty. Katsuki follows, simply because they both had things to lose.

The guy rubbed the back of his neck, trying to act casual, but the tension in his posture was evident. He led them into an immaculate file room, where not even a speck of dust dared to settle.

He turned sharply, standing a little too close for Katsuki’s comfort. His voice slightly panicked “You can’t say anything about it, okay?-- If Best Jeanist finds out– I’ll lose my job.”

Typical. Of course, someone working in this place craved real action. Katsuki wasn’t about to judge—he knew the ring was the best place for that. It was the complete opposite of the Jeanist Agency.

“What’s your name.” It’s not a question, but Katsuki needs to call him something other than ‘the guy’ and there isn’t a single defining trait in the building.

“Chiharu Mio.” Chiharu’s eyes dart around nervously.

Katsuki felt the weight of his own choices pressing down on him. He didn’t trust this guy, not one bit. But part of him also recognized a strange kind of camaraderie in their shared secret. It didn’t mean he was ready to let his guard down, though. If anything about fighting ring got out, they were both fucked. 

“Fine,” Katsuki replied, eyeing Chiharu with a mix of suspicion and reluctant understanding. “Just remember, if you breathe a word about me, it won’t end well for either of us.”

“Oh trust me, I know,” Chiharu said, trying to sound more confident than he looked. “Now, where do you need to put those files?”

They became friends. Sort of. Katsuki found the other nurses annoying with their patronizing questions and their insistence on asking him to “take a deep breath” before disinfecting a wound, as if he were some three-year-old who didn’t understand how to handle pain. Chiharu, however, was different. He was efficient and didn’t waste time with niceties; he snapped on blue gloves like a seasoned pro, ready for whatever came next.

“What happened this time?” Chiharu asked, barely looking up as he sorted through supplies. “Villain attack?”

Katsuki glowered, irritation simmering beneath his skin. “Truck.”

“Pardon?” Chiharu raised an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

Katsuki clenched his jaw, reliving the moment. He had gotten hit by a truck—an embarrassing story, to say the least. It had happened during the evening patrol while Best Jeanist droned on about how heroes with a reputation for being trustworthy had better compliance rates. Katsuki had tuned him out, too distracted by a group of kids playing hacky-sack in the park.

That’s when the delivery truck rolled down the road, moving under the speed limit like it was the safest thing in the world. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but something caught his eye—a toy rolling into the street. A small girl stepped between cars, oblivious to the danger, and Katsuki felt his heart lurch as she ventured into the road, right in front of the truck.

He was nearly there by the time Best Jeanist had noticed him disappearing from his side. Hearing the concerned call turn urgent was a little satisfying, but it didn’t matter; he had to act. The driver slammed on the brakes, panic etched across his face, but Katsuki knew what he had to do. If he pushed the girl out of the way, what good would it do if she fell and got hurt anyway?

Instead, he pulled her into his body, taking the brunt of the hit. A sharp crack echoed in the air as they rolled, the world spinning out of focus for a split second.

When it was over, he found himself on the pavement, the girl safe beside him. He was fine in the end—just a few bruises and an ugly dent in his left gauntlet that he was bummed about. The truck driver was shaken but unharmed, and the little girl, though rattled, had escaped the incident without a scratch.

After her mother finished thanking Katsuki, Best Jeanist approached, horror written across his face. He’d apologized profusely, then sent Katsuki home for the day after ensuring he got checked out.

Chiharu looked at him with a mix of concern and disbelief. “You took a hit from a truck? You’re insane.”

Katsuki shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, but still…” Chiharu trailed off, shaking his head with a laugh. “You’re going to give me a heart attack before my shift is over.”

Katsuki felt a flicker of warmth at the banter, but he pushed it down. “Just get me the report,” he replied, his tone brusque but not unkind.

Chiharu rolled his eyes but grinned, the tension in the room easing a little. “Alright, alright. I’ll get the files. But I swear, if you take another truck hit, I’m locking you in the infirmary for your own good. Who else is going to beat me up?”

Katsuki couldn’t help but smirk back, no one else was around. Chiharu was alone on the evening shift. “You.. going tonight?”

For now, maybe having Chiharu around wasn’t so bad after all.

Chiharu was a cheating bastard, and Katsuki wanted him dead. He sat on the edge of the makeshift ring, seething with rage. Katsuki felt a heat rise in his cheeks, an embarrassing mix of irritation and something he refused to label as admiration. 

The atmosphere was electric with the sounds of the underground match—the shouts of the crowd, the dull thud of fists hitting flesh, and the unmistakable rush of adrenaline in the air. But Katsuki’s anger had little to do with the fight itself; it was all directed at Chiharu.

That cheating bastard.

Katsuki couldn’t believe he’d let himself be distracted by Chiharu’s charm and quick wit, only for him to pull that kind of bullshit in the ring. He had expected a fair fight, but there Chiharu was, throwing low blows and using every dirty trick in the book to win. With a cocky grin plastered across his face, Chiharu had played to the crowd, delivering a final punch that sent Katsuki sprawling to the mat.

“Just what the hell was that?” Katsuki muttered under his breath, glaring daggers at Chiharu, who was basking in the glory of his victory.

“Hey, a win’s a win, right?” Chiharu shot back, brushing off Katsuki’s disdain with that infuriatingly cheeky smile as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You should’ve seen your face—”

Katsuki scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, still disgusted. “You spat in my fuckin’ face.”

Chiharu chuckled, clearly unfazed by Katsuki’s fury. “All's fair in love and war, gorgeous.”

At that moment, Kyo and Kira strolled over, their expressions teasing as they took in the scene. Katsuki felt like he’d rather be hit by another truck than deal with their relentless ribbing.

“Look who made a friend!” Kira called out, elbowing Kyo, who was barely suppressing his laughter.

“Shut it,” Katsuki snapped, his irritation flaring once again. “I don’t need your bullshit right now.”

“Seriously, though,” Kyo continued, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Chiharu’s got some moves. Maybe you should take notes. That’s the first match you’ve lost in a while.”

Katsuki’s palms felt like they were on fire, the heat creeping up as if he were about to unleash an explosion rather than face his own childish embarrassment.

“Shut it.”

Chiharu shrugged, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “At least I’m not getting my ass kicked out there. I’ll see you tomorrow, Bakugou. Just try not to get into too much trouble, alright?”

Katsuki huffed and nodded, trying to sound indifferent. “Hmph. Whatever.”

As Chiharu turned to leave, Kyo couldn’t help but stare at Katsuki, his voice incredulous. “Absolutely not! He’s way too old for you!”

Katsuki shot Kyo a withering glare, but a flush crept up his neck, betraying his irritation. “Shut your mouth, Kyo!”

Kira leaned against the ropes, shaking with laughter, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, look at you! Getting all flustered over a little friendly competition!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Katsuki barked, but the defensive edge to his tone only added to the amusement in the air.

“Look at you, all worked up over nothing,” Kyo said, a smirk creeping onto his face. “You’re practically blushing.”

“I’m not!” Katsuki shouted, his voice rising, but the heat in his cheeks gave him away. He felt his shoulders rise defensively toward his ears, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Chiharu paused, glancing back at Katsuki with a smile that only fueled the fire within him. Katsuki clenched his fists, struggling to contain his emotions as Chiharu slipped out of the ring and into the crowd. He was supposed to be focused on his training, not getting distracted by a damn flirt. That’s all that Chiharu was anyway, Katsuki wasn’t delusional.

The match became mere background noise as Katsuki replayed the moment Chiharu had smirked at him after that cheap shot. It felt infuriatingly personal, and it was, he had wanted to put his fist through Chiharu’s face, but other fighters had jumped into the ring while Katsuki was down.

“See? You’re already softening up,” Kira said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Shut it,” Katsuki grumbled, turning away to watch the next match. Kira and Kyo exchanged knowing looks, elbowing each other and waggling their eyebrows. Katsuki couldn’t help but think of the similarities between them and Mina and Kaminari.

Fucking hell.

The pit of his stomach twisted uncomfortably as he tried to push the thoughts away, but they lingered like an unwanted itch. The match was just background noise to his racing thoughts. Chiharu was fun to fight, when he wasn’t cheating, but with only a few days left in the internship, Katsuki couldn’t afford to get tangled up in anything more than rivalry.

As he watched the fighters in the ring, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Chiharu had changed the game, he didn’t feel the same way after the other matches. He wasn’t barley stated, craving more. He was nearly relaxed. The match wasn’t brutal. It was fun. He wasn't even really hurt.

Chapter Text

The last day of Katsuki internship is fine. He gets to see a little more action, actually round up some bad guys, even if he does make some children cry. Best Jeanist doesn’t fall to his knees for forgiveness over the fact that Katsuki is competent, but he had dropped the preaching and the lecturing within the last two days. Or maybe he thinks Katsuki is a lost cause. Probably that actually.

Which is why it's a kick to the balls to find out from Mina, who heard from Uraraka, that Glasses tried to murder a villain. Katsuki’s first instinct is to be impressed—Glasses went from straight-laced to taking down villains by any means necessary. But the realization slams into him like a punch: Glasses wasn’t just pissed off—he was going for premeditated murder. 

Katsuki scowls, the thought swirling in his mind like a bad taste. He didn’t know how to feel about it, because this wasn’t the kind of reckless rage he was used to. It didn’t disappear with a quick fight, that rage had to last.

Hero’s like to push the idea that they don’t kill. Katsuki is well aware that’s not the truth. It’s part of it, having to make the hard call. Weighing lives. But he knows sometimes, sometimes, the villain is better off dead. He just didn’t think anyone would decide it on their own time. He’s always imagined it as a heat of the moment thing, when your back is against the wall and it's clearly you or them. But to actually think about it, again and again, and decide that someone should die? Katsuki’s not sure he could.

Mina had then informed the group chat, one Katsuki had been added against his will, that Deku had figured it out and gone to stop him, and somehow called Icy-hot to get in on the action. Katsuki blinks at the screen as Kaminari and Kirishima spam messages of how shocked they are.

Katsuki has to wonder... Would he have stopped him? Stain had paralyzed Glasses’ brother—crippled a hero whose entire career depended on running. If someone had done that to him, to someone like Kyo or Kira—ripped apart their future—what would he have done? Katsuki could feel the burn of anger just thinking about it. He wasn’t sure he would’ve stopped. No, he was sure he wouldn’t. He’d want them dead.

The hero killer had claimed that he was ‘purging’ the hero world. Katsuki could agree that several heroes are corrupt fuckers. But the people they save, are still saved. Whether they do it for money or fame or righteousness.

He wasn’t entirely sure he would have stopped it. Katsuki thinks of it on a deeper level on the train home, rain pattering against the windows. That was Glasses’ older brother. What would Katsuki do if someone hurt Kyo like that? Or Kira? Would he be any different?

Katsuki twists his hands in his lap. He’s already pretty violent, Katsuki knows he is. The fights have escalated. He’s fighting about twice a night, three times a week. He’s there more than he’s not. Katsuki has taken to dislocating shoulders, wrists. He’s broken a hand, two ribs and more noses than he can count. That’s all him, just him. Katsuki doesn’t know what he’d be like motivated. 

It gets to his stop. The doors hiss open, Katsuki stands with his bag, sliding off the train easily. The walk to his house is quick, and he drops his stuff in the entryway. He’ll move them later. 

He tries not to think about Glasses. Ignoring his buzzing phone, he doesn’t know if the guy will be coming back to U.A. Would he be allowed? How does one be a hero and break the law– oh. Oh. That’s.. Exactly what Katsuki's been doing for the last three years. He sits down heavily on the white couch.

Sure, he hasn’t killed anyone. But neither did Glasses’, technically. Katsuki could actually be worse, Glasses’ had done it for a reason. Katsuki, he just likes to hurt people. In an illegal fighting ring, against the law. He goes to a hero school. If anything ever gets out? He’d be done. And after the sport’s festival? He only has to give them a reason.

His phone buzzes again, he risks a glance. It’s Chiharu, asking if he’s going to the ring tonight as a celebration of finishing his internship. Katsuki feels himself start to grin, he’s won once, lost once. He’s ready for a rematch, he wants to get out of his head. It takes longer than usual to get out of the house, his limbs heavy with fatigue from U.A. 

But the trip to the gym is quick, the fresh air gives him a break from the doubt circling his mind. The rain has stopped so Katsuki only has to focus on avoiding deep puddles. He wants a fight, a good one. Chiharu only won the last match because Katsuki was trying to wipe the spit out his eyes, he still shivers with disgust thinking about it. A cheap trick like that would only work once, Chiharu better bring his best tonight.

When Katsuki gets to the gym, the fights have already started. The smell of sweat, blood and steel in the air. He weaves through the crowd, but he can’t find Kyo, Kira or Chiharu. A match is going on and Katsuki hasn’t got anything better to do than watch. He gets closer until he can see in. It’s Chiharu fighting, Katsuki sees. 

He’s up against a small girl, but she’s fast and seems to have more skill than the blonde boy. Her tank top is black, or maybe its red, the lights are just dim enough that exact details are hard to make out. Chiharu doesn’t seem to be winning, he can’t get a hold on her. Katsuki is going to revel in it later. 

There’s a usual, expected, amount of trash-talk in these fights. It entertains the crowd, and sometimes it works, enraging fighters into making mistakes. Katsuki knows, having both used it and fallen for it. It’s always insulting, it has to be to work.

The roar of the crowd is loud, and Katsuki can see Chiharu's lips moving. But he only catches the end of it. 

“--Vertical for results, or are you too stupid to figure that one out?”

Katsuki doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But a man next to him lets out a low curse, the girl Chiharu’s fighting flies towards him, which evidently is what he wanted. Chiharu grabs her by the hair. Katsuki knows the fight is over, he just has to finish it off. He turns to the man, and taps him on the shoulder, speaking over the crowd. 

“What did he say?”

The man glances at him, trying to decipher Katsuki’s question over the noise. Before pointed at the girl, her torso. No, not her torso, Katsuki realizes, Her arms. Covered in thin white lines. Fuck, did Chiharu really go that far?

A shame floods Katsuki, does he even have a right to disapprove? He knows he’s done the same to Deku– worse to Deku. But it still seems wrong. Katsuki isn’t looking forward to fighting Chiharu as much anymore. He actually feels sick. 

Chiharu drops the girl, bruises spreading across her face already. What was it he had said?: ‘A win, is a win’. Katsuki didn’t notice how much he disagreed with that before, he had assumed Chiharu had been cheating specifically to beat Katsuki. 

The fights aren’t necessarily clean here, but Katsuki had a distant respect for the fighters. The willingness that everyone who steps into the ring is going to give it their all. The idea that Chiharu doesn’t? It doesn’t sit right with him, the unease curls into annoyance in his chest. Any lingering affection for him is stamped out, Katsuki doesn’t want to be around someone like that. 

He leaves early, still unable to catch Kyo or Kira. He sends them a text, he’s got too much homework to come tonight. He’s left on delivered, but Katsuki doesn’t really care much. They’ll see it when they see it.

As he trudges home in the dark, he thinks back to the fight he lost with Chiharu. It had been childish, nearly playful at the time. He had brushed off the cheating, but seeing him fight against someone like that? Cross that line? It makes his fists clench, it makes him grind his teeth. 

He breathes fog into the cool night. Trying not to think of how he did the same thing to Deku. He feels some of the disgust direct itself inward. He.. Katsuki doesn’t like what he did, he never has. He may have gotten a twisted pleasure in the moment, but he regretted it almost instantly. But, now, seeing it from another view? He actively hates it. He hates that hating it makes him a hypocrite. 

Katsuki had spent the better part of a month perfecting his strategy of avoidance. He was good at it—ignoring Deku came naturally after years of pushing him away. It was a clean divide in the class, the people who talked to Deku and the people who talked to Katsuki. An unspoken rivalry, his side or Deku’s.

And for a while, it worked. He could forget. Forget Deku, forget the shame that clung to him every time he thought about their history.

But, of course, all good things had to come to an end.

Aizawa-sensei partnered them for a written assignment, and Katsuki felt the walls closing in. He had no choice but to endure Deku’s proximity in class. The quiet scribble of pens on paper, the occasional murmur of students working together—these sounds filled the silence between them. Katsuki focused on his half of the project, every stroke of his pen like an attempt to bury his thoughts, to drown out the voice that nagged at him whenever Deku was near.

Deku, predictably, made several attempts at conversation, his voice soft and tentative, like he was afraid Katsuki would explode at any second. But Katsuki ignored him completely, shutting down every word, every glance. He wouldn’t give Deku the satisfaction.

It should’ve ended there. But it didn’t.

After school, Deku managed to catch up to him, trailing behind like some annoying shadow. Katsuki could feel his presence, the weight of it pressing on his back. He walked faster, his teeth grinding in irritation, but Deku was persistent.

“Kacchan, wait!”

Katsuki didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want anything to do with Deku. His chest tightened with a familiar mixture of emotions—shame, guilt, anger—all swirling together like a storm he couldn’t control. Anger at Deku for being a liar. Anger at himself for ever being gullible enough to believe him.

“Kacchan!”

That name. It still cut through Katsuki, sharper than he liked to admit. He whirled around, a snarl already fixed on his face, the type of expression that made people flinch. Deku flinched too, predictably, but didn’t back down. Katsuki wanted to hurt him. Wanted to see him flinch more, to bleed, to feel the same ache inside that Katsuki carried.

“What?” His voice was rough, laced with hostility.

“I... we...” Deku hesitated, clearly struggling to find the right words. “Kacchan, you’ve been ignoring me, and we need to finish the project together. We have to work as a team.”

Katsuki scoffed internally. A team? They were supposed to be a team now? After everything? After the years he spent making Deku’s life hell, ripping him apart at every opportunity, insulting him, destroying his things—and Deku was upset that Katsuki had been ignoring him? He should’ve been glad. He should’ve wanted Katsuki to leave him alone, to finally get some peace. But no. Deku just kept dragging them back into the mess, like some invisible chain still tied them together.

“I did my part,” Katsuki snapped, his palms heating up with the familiar tingle of his Quirk, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He could feel the sweat building, tiny explosions fizzling just beneath the surface. He wanted to burn it all away. “You do yours. Or do you want to lie about that too?”

Deku’s face fell, and Katsuki felt a sick sense of satisfaction for a split second before it curdled in his gut.

“Kacchan, I’ve never lied to you,” Deku said, his voice small but firm. “I really didn’t have a Quirk.”

Katsuki scoffed, louder this time. Earnest. Always so fucking earnest.

It made his skin crawl. Quirks didn’t just fall out of the sky. They had lineage, logic, a history written in your genes. Deku had been a quirkless nobody for eleven years. Then one day, he shows up with a power no one in his family had? It didn’t make sense. It never made sense. Katsuki had spent months trying to wrap his mind around it, but every explanation Deku offered only felt like another layer of lies.

“I’m not wasting my time on your bullshit,” Katsuki muttered, turning to leave. He was done. He wasn’t going to waste any more breath on whatever story Deku was spinning now.

“Kacchan, wait! I was given it!” Deku shouted after him.

Katsuki stopped in his tracks. His mind blanked for a second, then fired up with a mix of disbelief and rage. Given it? Quirks weren’t something you could just hand out like candy. They were part of you, embedded deep in your bones. Katsuki whirled around, ready to tear into Deku with every sharp word he had.

But Deku was standing there, looking... desperate. Like he had just revealed something huge, something he wasn’t supposed to say. And suddenly, Katsuki didn’t know what to think. What if... what if Deku wasn’t lying this time?

What if he was telling the truth?

It was insane. Completely batshit crazy. But it would explain everything. The Quirk, the sudden power, the reason Deku hadn’t had it before. Katsuki clenched his fists tighter, feeling the tiny pops of sweat igniting against his skin. He didn’t know whether he was angrier at the idea that Deku had kept this from him, or at the possibility that this whole time, Deku might have been telling the truth.

Maybe he was just tired of feeling like an idiot. Maybe Katsuki just wanted an explanation. He let out a slow breath, the steam from his Quirk fizzling out along his forearms.

“From who?” Katsuki demanded, his voice harsh but quieter now, the rage simmering under the surface. He needed answers. He needed to know if any of this made sense. Because if it did—if Deku wasn’t lying—then maybe everything Katsuki had been holding onto, all the anger, all the guilt, had been for nothing.

Deku’s eyes met his, wide and uncertain. But there was no hesitation in his voice when he finally spoke.

“All Might.”

Katsuki’s fists pounded relentlessly into the punching bag, each hit sending ripples through the heavy fabric, the chain creaking with the force of his blows. Sweat poured down his back, clinging to his skin in rivulets, and the familiar scent of caramel filled the small gym space—a byproduct of his Quirk mingling with his exertion. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts, and his body moved with mechanical precision. Punch, punch. Punch, punch. Over and over, like he could beat the swirling chaos out of his mind.

Kyo watched from across the gym, where he was half-heartedly sweeping the ring, his eyes flicking back to Katsuki every now and then. He had tried, multiple times, to get Katsuki to take a break. "You've been at it for over an hour," he’d said, but Katsuki ignored him, brushing off the concern like it was nothing. He didn’t have time for breaks. Not when his thoughts were racing, spiraling into a mess he couldn’t untangle.

All Might had chosen Deku.

The thought repeated in his head, gnawing at him, growing louder with every punch. Chosen Deku. It echoed in his chest like a hollow drum, filling the space with resentment, with frustration, with an ugly sense of betrayal. Katsuki couldn’t shake it. It was like a splinter lodged deep in his mind, impossible to pull out.

Punch, punch. Punch, punch.

His hands stung from the impact, knuckles reddening, but he welcomed the pain. It was better than thinking. Better than acknowledging the truth that had been dumped on him. All Might had passed on his Quirk to Deku.

Not to Katsuki. Not to the boy who had idolized him, who had spent his entire life training to be the best, to stand at the top. No. All Might had chosen Deku—weak, quirkless Deku. On the same day Katsuki had been attacked by the sludge villain. That moment had felt like a pivotal point, like the world had shifted under his feet. But he hadn’t realized then, hadn’t known, that while Katsuki had been fighting for his life, All Might had been making his decision.

Choosing Deku.

The punching bag groaned under the force of another blow, swinging wildly. Katsuki’s teeth ground together as he pushed harder, ignoring the burning ache in his muscles.

All Might had saved them both. That day, standing there, larger than life, the Number One Hero had pulled them from the brink of death. Katsuki remembered the way his heart had swelled with reluctant awe, seeing his idol in action. This was what a hero looked like. Katsuki had thought that maybe, just maybe, he had caught All Might’s attention, that he had proven his strength by surviving that attack.

But no. Within days of that moment, All Might had passed down the legacy of One For All—not to Katsuki, but to Deku.

Deku, who hadn’t done anything special. Deku, who had been quirkless for eleven years, who had spent his childhood looking up to Katsuki with those wide, worshipful eyes. Deku, who Katsuki had always dismissed as nothing more than an extra.

And now Deku was the chosen one.

Punch, punch. Punch, punch.

Katsuki’s movements grew more erratic, more forceful. He could feel the anger boiling up inside him, mixing with something far uglier, something that made his chest tighten with shame. Jealousy. He was jealous. And that made him even angrier. For the first time in his life, Katsuki was ashamed of his own anger, because he knew exactly where it was coming from.

He wanted to be the one All Might had chosen.

Not Deku. Him.

All Might wasn’t just any hero. He was the hero. The Number One. The strongest. The one Katsuki had looked up to for as long as he could remember. All Might had been his hero too. And now, knowing that he had seen something in Deku that he hadn’t seen in Katsuki? That hurt more than Katsuki wanted to admit.

His fist collided with the bag again, a sharp crack echoing through the gym. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as if it was trying to escape the frustration he couldn’t release. He wanted to scream, to punch until the bag split open, to somehow make this feeling go away. But it stayed there, festering inside him like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Why wasn’t he enough? What had Deku done to deserve that kind of power, that kind of recognition? What had he done wrong?

Kyo finally spoke up, his voice hesitant but firm. “Bakugou, you’re going to destroy that bag if you keep this up.”

Katsuki ignored him, his fists still flying. But Kyo stepped closer, leaning against the ropes of the ring, his brow furrowed with concern. “Seriously, man. You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

The words barely registered in Katsuki’s mind. He didn’t care about burning out. He didn’t care about anything other than the anger that kept tightening around his throat like a noose. He threw another punch, his vision blurring with sweat and exhaustion.

Why Deku? Why not me?

“Bakugou!” Kyo’s voice snapped him out of it, his tone sharper this time. Katsuki stopped mid-swing, his chest heaving as he glared at the punching bag. He could feel Kyo’s eyes on him, waiting for him to explain, to say something, but what was there to say? That he was pissed because his hero had chosen someone else? Because he wasn’t good enough? Because jealousy had taken root in his gut and refused to let go?

Katsuki’s fists unclenched slowly, the heat in his palms dissipating as he finally stepped back from the bag. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his jaw tight, his thoughts still circling around All Might and Deku, over and over again.

He didn’t say anything to Kyo. He couldn’t. The words would never come out right. Instead, he grabbed his towel, slung it over his shoulder, and turned away from the gym equipment, the weight of his frustration still pressing heavily on his shoulders.

The thing that gnawed at him the most, though—the thing that wouldn’t leave him alone—was the gnawing, nagging truth that All Might had seen something in Deku that he hadn’t seen in Katsuki.

And for the first time in his life, Katsuki wasn’t sure if he could handle that. He has to wonder, Is All Might right? Katsuki has spent the better part of three years beating people up, simply because it makes him feel better. It makes him feel strong.

He made Deku’s life hell. If All Might knew none of that when he chose Deku, then maybe it’s just something wrong with Katsuki. Maybe he, at his core, when you take away all the violence and all the mistakes, is still not good enough. Not good enough to be a hero, not good enough to even be looked at by All Might. 

Katsuki must be missing something. He must have been born without it, whatever everyone else seems to have. He doesn’t know fix that.

Katsuki knows he’s sulking. He hates it, but there’s no denying the dark cloud hanging over him as he sits at the lunch table. His usual energy is gone, replaced by a brooding silence. Kirishima, Mina, and Kaminari sit across from him, chatting away about something pointless—he can barely bring himself to pay attention to the conversation. His focus is on the untouched meal in front of him, a bento filled with Mapo tofu. Normally, he’d dive into it without hesitation, savoring the spicy heat that burned away every other sensation, but today, his appetite is nonexistent.

He picks at the tofu with his chopsticks, pushing it around the container, the aroma doing nothing to entice him. The familiar, sweet caramel scent of his own sweat lingers in the air, clinging to him in a way that makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. That’s why he loves spice—he needs the burn, the heat, something intense enough to drown out the sickly sweet smell.

Kaminari glances at him, clearly noticing the lack of enthusiasm, the way Katsuki has barely touched his food. His voice cuts through the chatter. "Hey, Kacchan, you gonna eat that?" There’s a hopeful tone in his voice, and Katsuki can already see Kaminari’s eyes lighting up at the thought of taking his meal.

A small, grimacing smirk tugs at the corner of Katsuki’s mouth, but he forces it down before anyone can notice. Kaminari, the idiot, has no idea what he’s asking for. The Mapo tofu would probably destroy him—Katsuki loves the fire, thrives on it, but for someone like Kaminari, it’d be like swallowing molten lava.

Without a word, Katsuki pushes the bento across the table, an unspoken challenge hidden in the gesture. His lips stay pressed in a tight line, suppressing the urge to tell Kaminari he's about to regret it. But there’s a part of him, however small, that finds the whole thing amusing. Watching Kaminari suffer through that much spice might be the only bright spot in his day.

Kaminari’s face lights up as Katsuki pushes the bento across the table. "Sweet! Thanks, man!" he says, grabbing his chopsticks with far too much confidence. Kirishima raises an eyebrow, clearly amused but not intervening. Mina leans forward, grinning wide, already anticipating the chaos about to unfold.

"You sure about that, bro?" Kirishima asks with a chuckle, though there’s no real warning in his voice. Kaminari waves him off, dismissing the concern with a careless shrug. Kirishima must have caught Katsuki’s grin.

"Pfft, how bad can it be? It’s just tofu, right?" Kaminari pops a large chunk into his mouth without hesitation, the steam still rising from the dish. For a second, the table goes quiet, everyone watching, waiting for the reaction.

Kaminari chews thoughtfully, and at first, he seems fine. "See?" he mumbles through a mouthful, waving his chopsticks like he’s won some great challenge. "Not that—"

Then it hits. His eyes widen, the smug grin evaporating as the heat registers. "Oh, my god—" he gasps, his voice suddenly hoarse. He coughs once, twice, and then frantically reaches for his drink, knocking it over in the process. The table erupts into laughter. Mina’s practically in tears, slapping the table as she howls, while Kirishima just shakes his head, grinning from ear to ear.

"Bro, are you okay?” Kirishima laughs, leaning back in his chair as Kaminari desperately tries to fan his burning mouth, sweat already breaking out on his forehead. 

Kaminari’s face flushes a bright red, and he opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp. Mina hands him her water bottle, still laughing, and Kaminari downs it in one gulp, his eyes streaming. "Dude!" he chokes out between coughs, "What is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?!"

Katsuki leans back in his seat, watching the spectacle with barely concealed amusement. The corner of his mouth twitches upward into a small, satisfied smirk. "You asked for it, dunce-face," he mutters under his breath, though there’s no real malice behind the words.

Kaminari wipes his eyes, finally able to breathe again. "That was like… eating pain," he says, his voice still raspy.

Kirishima claps him on the back, shaking with laughter. He’s grinning at Katsuki. 

As the laughter dies down and Kaminari’s breathing returns to normal, the tension around the table seems to ease. Even Katsuki, despite the storm brewing inside him, feels a small lift from the distraction. It's a fleeting moment, but for just a few minutes, things feel almost normal—like there’s something other than the weight of his own thoughts dragging him down.

He gets up, shoving the bento box into his bag. Kirishima frowns. 

“You good, Bakugou? I’ll watch your bag if you’re going to the bathroom”

Katsuki shakes his head. His left gauntlet is still dented, not destroyed, which means he has to bring it to the support course students himself. Katsuki doesn’t say this though, but at Kirishima's frown he pauses. 

“I’ve got to go to the support course.”

Kirishima nods, but he still looks unsure. Katsuki doesn’t care enough to ask why. Kirishima tends to get in his own head a lot, Katsuki can only help by giving him a target to take his frustrations out on. Mina and Kaminari will have to step up for the rest of that. 

He stops by the changing rooms, to grab the broken gauntlet. He makes his way to the support building. Smoke is coming out of a window, as a few students stand outside the window. Shooting ideas at each other as to why something or the other exploded. Whatever is in the classroom shows no signs of extinguishing. 

Katsuki kind of loves the chaos the support students bring. Even he found it funny how the pink-haired girl used Glasses to promote her own brand. Hatsume Mei was the definition of cracked in the head, but god, she was a genius. 

Katsuki shoves his way into her workshop, ignoring the distant explosions, having gotten familiar enough with her at this point. She was the only one he let touch his gauntlets, other than himself. 

He clears his throat, the girl had been hunched over some gadgets or the other, soldering away. She looks over, Katsuki feels like bringing up the fact that she should be wearing eye protection or tie her hair back. Or take any safety measures. 

But this is her workshop, and he’s asking her a favor. So it’s better he doesn’t. 

“What did you break?” She says, Katsuki throws the gauntlet in front of her. She isn’t upset or annoyed, just curious. Building something he can’t break is a challenge, and Hatsume likes to solve problems. 

“Blunt force trauma?”

He nods and grunts. “We have a final coming up by next week. Can you have it ready?”

She hums, tapping her fingers over the dent, tracing the small cracks present. Some forgotten project sparks in the corner and she moves towards it quickly.

“I can. I can have it ready tomorrow. What’s the final on? Is it practical? Nevermind you can have it on Monday. I have some ideas I’d like you to look over.”

Katsuki tries to keep up as she bounces between topics. She turns a screen towards him, with a blueprint. It looks like the way his gauntlets collect his sweat for a big explosion, except this one must be a separate piece. It looks like it should be mounted on his shoulders. She could be building him a machine gun.

“How long will it take you to build?” 

Hatsume hums. Tapping away and pulling up more blueprints before clicking back. Her first project starts to smoke. She simply frowns at it until the smoke stops. Then she starts soldering again. 

“The week.”

Katsuki leaves, dodging broken pieces and scorch marks in her shop. If Hatsume says it’ll be a week, then it’ll be a week. Nothing more, nothing less. Plus, he wants to see what bullshit advancements she’ll make. 

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. He could barely hear anything over the rushing in his ears, like a storm building inside him. He couldn’t shake the question that had been gnawing at him since Deku blurted out his stupid secret.

So he’d pulled Deku aside before class. The sun was barely in the sky, painting it pink and orange. The campus was still mostly empty, but Katsuki had questions.

“Why,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, “would All Might give his power away?”

Deku sat across from him on the bench, jittery, like he was trapped in some kind of interrogation. He kept fidgeting, eyes darting around the empty courtyard. They’d made sure no one could overhear this conversation, but it didn’t make a difference. Katsuki could feel the tension crackling between them like static.

“All Might has been fighting All for One—” Deku started, but Katsuki didn’t let him finish.

“I know that, you idiot!” Katsuki snapped, his voice rising. His palms started to prickle, the faint scent of nitroglycerin filling the air as he fought to keep control. Deku had already explained the mythic mastermind, stealing quirks and trying to kill any One for All holder. Katsuki didn’t care.

“Why the hell did he give it up? Why pass it on? Why you?”

Deku flinched, shrinking back like Katsuki had thrown an explosion at him instead of words. Katsuki hated that reaction—the weakness, the fear. The strongest hero’s power, and Deku still flinched at a raised voice.

“I…” Deku’s voice wavered, and Katsuki could feel his temper fraying, hanging on by a thread. “In the battle, All Might was… hurt. Really bad. Half of his organs were destroyed, Kacchan. He couldn’t… he couldn’t wield One for All anymore. He was looking to pass it on.”

Pass it on. Those words echoed in Katsuki’s head like a bomb going off. He gritted his teeth, barely able to contain the roiling frustration building in his chest. The truth settled over him, heavy and suffocating.

All Might—the unbreakable symbol of peace, the man who always stood at the top—was broken. Human. Katsuki hated how that felt. Hated how it made him feel—All Might wasn’t indestructible. If All Might was already broken, what would it even mean when Katsuki finally surpassed him?

Katsuki’s heart hammered in his chest. “So he’s running on fumes,” he muttered, almost to himself, piecing together what Deku had said earlier. “All Might can’t fight much longer, can he?”

He barely registered Deku’s answer. His mind was already spiraling, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. All Might wasn’t supposed to lose. He wasn’t supposed to need someone else to take his place, especially not someone like Deku.

His fists crackled with small bursts of explosive energy, a few sparks escaping before he clamped them shut. That weakling was supposed to carry on All Might’s legacy? The thought made Katsuki’s blood boil. He glared at Deku, the heat in his chest rising, turning everything red at the edges.

“All Might’s broken. Is that it?” Katsuki’s voice was low, venomous. “He’s done, and now he’s passing his leftovers to you?”

Deku flinched again, and something about that reaction, that constant flinching, made Katsuki want to lash out. His muscles tensed, and he stood abruptly, fists still clenched, his whole body trembling with barely contained fury.

“You—” His voice came out sharp and bitter. He couldn’t even finish the thought. He turned away, teeth grinding in frustration. How was this fair? How did this make sense?

Katsuki stormed off without another word, his footsteps heavy and quick. The further he walked, the hotter the anger burned inside him. He didn’t even look back at Deku, who was still sitting on that bench, silent and useless. Whatever. He’d deal with that nerd later. Right now, they have an exam to get through.

They stand outside a cityscape. It's gray and dull, only meant to function as the concept of a city, to give them an idea of how to move within one. The tall, lifeless buildings cast long shadows in the artificial light, and the streets are empty save for the wind that whistles through the narrow alleys. There’s no sound of life, no city hum. It’s cold. Silent. Katsuki scowled at the sight, his sharp eyes scanning the area.

The gate itself looms nearby, about fifteen feet wide, an imposing structure that’s supposed to be tempting. Katsuki supposes it’s meant to make them feel like escape is an option, that they could bolt and run. But he knows better. He knows that in a real fight, you don’t run. You fight until you win. Or you don’t get up.

The whole setup feels like a mockery. This gray husk of a city is nothing like the real thing, just a playground for them to run through like they’re kids at recess.

He tugs at the edges of his gloves, making sure they’re secure, his mind already racing ahead. He could feel the air practically buzzing with the nerves of his classmates as they stand in line. He doesn’t care about that. 

Hatsume had arrived early, bringing his fixed gauntlet and a small black box to fit onto his shoulder. Katsuki had been instructed to hit a button located on his belt to activate it, and not to worry about the control, she had made it automatic. 

“Keep your eyes open,” Sensei had said earlier, his voice calm, neutral. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Katsuki’s been through enough of Aizawa Sensei’s training to know it’s never that simple. It’s a mind game, always is with Sensei. Makes them sweat, makes them think they’re circling the drain. He’s done it before.

He watches the first few matches unfold in front of him. Each team gets their opponent revealed just before the fight begins, each team handed their own personal nightmare. It's like the team ups were designed to put them at a disadvantage. 

Kirishima and that sugar freak—what’s-his-name—were up against Cementoss. Kirishima is best in close combat, Katsuki knows this isn’t a good pair up. Cementoss traps them in layers of concrete, and even though Kirishima hardens his body as much as he can, there’s no getting through. The other one powers up with his sugar rush, but he’s worn down fast.

Every match. Every failure. Katsuki’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he frowns, crossing his arms as he watches.

“They’re all getting crushed,” Kaminari mutters from behind him, rubbing the back of his neck, anxious energy bleeding through. He tries to play it off, but Katsuki can hear the tension in his voice. He’s paired with Mina against Principal Nezu. They didn’t stand a chance.

Katsuki doesn’t answer, his eyes locked on the latest fight as another pair of classmates go down. He reminds himself of something he learned a while ago. Aizawa Sensei has lied to them before. Failing here doesn’t necessarily mean you fail the exam. It’s all about pushing them, making them think they’re on the edge of failure. He’ll most likely assign a fuck ton of extra training at the camp they’ve been promised.

...Probably. 

Still. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, seeing the few people he tolerates taken down one by one. Maybe if Katsuki is feeling generous, he’ll start beating strategies into Kirishima’s head later.

But none of it matters. His mind is already moving ahead, calculating. It’s not about the others. It’s about his fight. About winning. He won’t lose. He never loses.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, Aizawa steps forward again, calling out the final pair. Katsuki barely reacts as Aizawa calls out their names—he already knew. The class had thinned, leaving only him and Deku standing. It was obvious.

“Katsuki Bakugou. Izuku Midoriya.”

The class murmurs, tension thick in the air. His palms itch with anticipation, not just for the fight, but because he knows—this one’s different. There’s going to be no room for mistakes, no room for anything less than everything he’s got.

“And your opponent—All Might.”

Well, fuck. 

Katsuki and Deku stood side by side, facing the looming gray cityscape. The lifeless buildings cast long shadows under the artificial light, the empty streets stretched ahead, cold and unwelcoming. Katsuki rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowed, scanning the desolate scene. Every part of him buzzed with anticipation.

“You know we can’t win this,” Deku muttered beside him, his voice tight with nerves. He shifted on his feet, already glancing toward the massive gate that marked their supposed “escape” route. “We should run for the gate, Kacchan. It’s our best shot to pass.”

Katsuki snorted, his eyes flicking toward Deku. “Run?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Deku’s supposed to be the successor, Katsuki thought bitterly. How the hell is he gonna earn that by running away? His palms crackled with energy, tiny explosions popping in his hands.

“We’re up against All Might!” Deku urged, frustration creeping into his voice. “He’s... He’s the best, Kacchan. We can’t fight him head-on.”

Katsuki turned fully to face him, sneering. “I don’t care if it’s All Might or God himself. You wanna run? Fine, go ahead.” His hands flexed, small bursts of nitroglycerin sparking from his palms. “But I’m not running.”

Deku opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue as a powerful gust of wind blasted through the arena. They both tensed.

All Might appeared at the far end of the street, standing tall, the wind of his arrival sending dust and debris swirling around his imposing figure. His smile was wide, but the weight behind his gaze was unmistakable. He wasn’t going to hold back. The heavy weights on his wrists glinted in the light, meant to slow him down—though Katsuki figured they'd only add extra force to his hits.

Katsuki’s heart raced, his pulse thundering in his ears. The heat in his chest wasn’t just from the coming fight—it was from the tangled mess of emotions All Might stirred in him. Anger. Jealousy. Self-loathing. He hated himself for caring about it, choosing Deku, the knowledge that Deku is ahead of Katsuki right now. All thanks to All Might.

This wasn’t just a test anymore. It was personal.

“Leave if you want, Deku,” Katsuki growled, his gaze locked on All Might. His fists clenched tight, palms sparking. “But I don’t run from fights just because they’re tough.”

Before Deku could respond, Katsuki shot forward, propelled by an explosion. Deku cursed under his breath and scrambled after him, but Katsuki was already on the move.

The fight began in a blur of speed and violence.

Katsuki didn’t hold back. He launched himself into the air, explosions firing from his hands as he shot toward All Might’s head. All Might dodged effortlessly, his speed almost impossible to track, but Katsuki twisted mid-air, firing another blast to close the distance.

All Might’s fist shot out, faster than Katsuki could react. It slammed into his side, sending him crashing into the ground with a bone-rattling thud. Katsuki hissed in pain, scrambling back to his feet, the taste of blood in his mouth. But he pushed forward again, his vision going red at the edges. He didn’t care about the pain. He didn’t care about Deku’s advice or the damn gate. He wanted to win.

He hit the button on his belt. The black box behind him unfolded—Hatsume’s invention—swiveling automatically and letting off precision blasts. They weren’t the strongest, but they gave him an edge.

Then, out of nowhere, All Might’s next punch crashed into Katsuki’s chest, sending him skidding across the ground, the rough pavement tearing at his skin. He coughed, blood spattering the pavement, but through it all, he grinned, his teeth stained red.

I’m not thinking straight, Katsuki knew. He was acting like he was in the ring, lost in the familiar haze of combat. He was focusing on the best way to hurt All Might. This wasn't how he was supposed to act in U.A. He should retreat, head for the gate. But he wasn’t going to. The adrenaline clouded his judgment—punch, breathe, and hit harder.

“All Might was… hurt."  Deku’s voice echoed in his mind. “Really bad.”

Katsuki saw it now. All Might, subtly leaning away after each punch, shielding his left side from the air pressure. Subtle, but not subtle enough. Katsuki knew how to win. His teeth ached in his skull. 

He stood, chest heaving, body throbbing with pain, but his mind was clear. He locked eyes with All Might, the gun on his shoulder humming, syncing perfectly with his rhythm.

Kira’s voice echoed in his mind: “When they’re close enough to hit, they’re close enough to lose”

When All Might rushed him again, Katsuki didn’t dodge. He let the punch hit, his body screaming as All Might’s fist slammed into him. But he held on, gripping All Might’s arm tightly. With a twisted grin, he yanked himself close and pulled the pin on his gauntlet.

The explosion detonated point-blank against All Might’s left side, sending shockwaves through the air. All Might let out a shout, clutching his side. Katsuki snarled, satisfaction blooming dark and hot in his chest.

But he didn’t stop. He pulled the second pin, another explosion ripping through the air. All Might couldn’t dodge. No matter how strong, a Class A explosive at point blank was too much—even for the Number One Hero.

Katsuki hit him with a flashbang—then another. Blinding light and deafening noise overwhelmed All Might’s senses. Katsuki could see it—the disorientation, the struggle. This was his moment. His arms ached, he was overworking his quirk.

Katsuki’s heart pounded, each beat thundering in his chest. He stood toe-to-toe with the Symbol of Peace—the one man everyone thought was invincible. And yet, here All Might was, crumbling. 

Katsuki’s lips curled into a savage snarl. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. This was payback. Not just for choosing Deku, but for everything All Might represented—the impossible standards, the unreachable heights. The constant reminder that Katsuki wasn’t there yet.

But now, for the first time, he saw the cracks.

Deku’s frantic voice came from behind, trying to reason with him. “Kacchan, wait! You don’t have to—”

Katsuki didn’t turn around. His eyes stayed locked on All Might. “Shut up, Deku!” he snapped, his voice hoarse.

He advanced, wrapping the capture tape around All Might’s arms in one swift motion, tightening it until the Symbol of Peace was forced to pause. The tape wouldn’t hold for long, but it only needed to last a few seconds.

Katsuki stood over All Might, breathing heavily, staring down at the weakened hero. The thrill of victory rushed through him, but it wasn’t as sweet as he thought. Beneath the rage and satisfaction, there was something hollow. Something wrong. 

This wasn’t how he wanted it. Not really. Not like this.

All Might lifted his head, still smiling, despite the pain etched in his face. “You’ve grown strong, young Bakugou,” he said, his voice calm, there was a wheeze to it. Blood leaked down his chin.

Katsuki’s fists clenched. He wanted to scream, to throw another punch, to erase that damn smile. But something stopped him. The weight of everything—the fight, the jealousy, the frustration—hung heavy between them. And suddenly, none of it felt like enough.

He looked at his trembling hands, bloodied and bruised, the gauntlets still buzzing. His breath came in ragged bursts. The thrill of battle was fading, replaced by something far heavier.

This wasn't a victory. Katsuki knew victory in the gym. In putting everything into the fight and coming out on top. This had been hollow. 

Deku caught up, panting. “Kacchan, we did it,” he said, cautiously, eyes wide as they took in All Might, bound and beaten. “We… we passed.”

Katsuki barely heard him. He’d won. They’d won. But it didn’t feel like winning. Something was wrong with it, with him. He turned away from All Might and stalked toward the gate, his movements stiff, every part of him aching, rage bubbling inside him but it felt muted.

“You didn’t do shit,” Katsuki snarled, shouldering Deku on his way towards the gate.

As he walked away from the area, from All Might, from Deku’s nervous relief, Katsuki couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside him had cracked. He’d beaten the Symbol of Peace—but it didn’t feel good. Surpassing All Might was supposed to be his life goal.

It shouldn’t have been that easy.

The gym was quiet, the air stale and a little too cold for comfort. Katsuki shuffled inside, the familiar scent of rubber mats and sweat filling his nostrils. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh glow that only amplified the emptiness of the space. Katsuki wasn’t there to fight tonight; his arms ached from the moment the exam had ended. He felt drained, every muscle heavy with exhaustion. The fight with All Might had taken more out of him than he anticipated, and the lingering disappointment twisted in his gut like a cold knife.

He’d always idolized All Might, seeing him as the embodiment of strength and heroism. But now, after witnessing the cracks in that invincible façade, Katsuki couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal. All Might wasn’t who Katsuki thought he was. He was human—getting older, slower. The realization stung, and Katsuki felt anger simmering beneath the surface. He should have lost that battle.

As he leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the punching bags, Kira moved around the gym, busily organizing weights and equipment into the backroom. Her movements were fluid and practiced, a rhythm that reminded Katsuki of how dedicated she was. She was there before him, and she would be there after him, a constant in the chaos of his life. He found comfort in that, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Katsuki cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled around them. “I came to let you know about the upcoming training camp,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Kira paused, turning to face him, curiosity lighting up her features. “You’re going where?”

“It’s two weeks long,” he explained, crossing his arms as if to shield himself from her gaze. “We don’t know where. It’s for security.”

Kyo, who had been quietly stretching nearby, frowned, folding his arms over his chest. “And you won’t be able to contact anyone at all?” His tone held a hint of concern that Katsuki couldn’t ignore.

Katsuki shook his head, a wave of frustration washing over him. “Nope. No reception.” The weight of isolation settled heavily on him, a stark reminder of how much he relied on their presence.

Kyo pursed his lips, clearly worried. “Just… be careful, okay? I mean it.” There was a sincerity in his voice that Katsuki rarely heard, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

As Katsuki turned to leave, the gym felt emptier than before. The thought of being cut off from everything he knew, the fights, the routine, gnawed at him. He stepped toward the door, feeling Kira and Kyo’s eyes on him, a comforting yet heavy weight.

“Bye, Bakugou,” Kira said, her voice light but tinged with an underlying worry.

He paused, hand resting on the door handle, idly scratching at the old red paint. The familiar gesture calmed him for a moment, grounding him in the present. Katsuki took a deep breath, feeling the tension coiling in his chest. “...Katsuki,” he said, quietly. It felt strange to say, but it was a step he needed to take. No, it was a step he wanted to take.

He risked a look back at them, his heart pounding slightly in his chest. They looked soft—caring, even—an image that stood in stark contrast to what Katsuki knew they were capable of. 

“Goodbye, Katsuki,” Kira said, a gentle smile spreading across her face.

Katsuki felt a flicker of warmth at her words, something he wasn’t used to acknowledging. He offered a small nod, allowing a hint of a smile to break through his usual scowl. “See you later,” he replied, before finally stepping out into the cold night.

As the door swung shut behind him, he glanced back through the window, seeing Kira and Kyo standing together, a shared sense of camaraderie enveloping them. The sight felt like a lifeline, a connection he had fought against for so long. He shook his head, dispelling the unexpected warmth in his chest, and walked away, determination settling in. Maybe the camp wouldn’t be the worst thing. 

Chapter Text

The bus ride felt interminable, every bump in the road jarring Katsuki from his thoughts. He leaned against the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to ignore the chatter of his classmates around him. The sun was setting slowly; it had taken them the better part of the day to get out of the city and into the remote area where their training camp would be.

Kirishima and Mina were seated behind him, while Kaminari, sat beside Katsuki. Kaminari is lost in conversation with a girl across the aisle about some new band, leaving Katsuki in blissful silence. Meanwhile, Kirishima and Mina kept themselves entertained with complaints about the grueling training they expected.

“—Bakugou wouldn’t be a very popular hero, ribbit.”

The comment cut through the hum of conversation, catching Katsuki’s attention. He turned his head slowly toward the frog-like girl, narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t tired enough to let this slide. Kirishima glanced back, picking up on the tension, and Mina’s voice trailed off mid-sentence. Katsuki could feel his scowl deepen, his gaze locked onto her. His voice, cold and sharp, silenced the other conversations around them.

“Hah?”

Kaminari shifted uneasily next to him, his easygoing attitude suddenly tense. Katsuki didn’t care. He didn’t take kindly to being insulted—especially not in public. The frog girl met his gaze, blinking slowly, unfazed.

“Hey, man,” Kaminari tried, his voice a cautious attempt to defuse the situation. “I’m sure she didn’t mean…”

Katsuki shot him a look that shut him up. He didn’t need anyone speaking for him. His focus returned to the girl, who only tilted her head, her calm expression making his fists itch.

“Bakugou is aggressive, ribbit. It’s only going to scare people.”

Katsuki’s hands twitched, every nerve itching to respond. He didn’t even try to keep the growl out of his voice. “What would you know about being popular? You’d be lucky to end up as a sidekick.”

Her calm cracked, her frown tightening, but she didn’t look away. He leaned forward slightly, a biting edge to his voice. What will hurt? Where can he press?

“You think you have what it takes to be a top hero? You’re just another face in the crowd—barely worth a second glance.”

The bus fell into an uncomfortable silence. Mina shifted nervously, glancing between Katsuki and the girl. Kirishima gave him a nudge from behind.

“Ease up, man,” he muttered, trying to cool things down.

The girl’s stare lingered on Katsuki a moment longer before she looked away, pointedly fixing her attention on the window. Something acidic curls in his chest, and Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek.

He wishes he was in the ring. He wishes he had something to hurt, without a lick of guilt. Kyo’s gym is starting to feel like the only place Katsuki can win anything in the way he wants to.

They motor on slowly and through winding, dark mountain roads, the bus comes to a stop. Aizawa Sensei motions for them to disembark. Katsuki is one of the first off, taking in the jagged peaks and dense forest stretching out before him. The mountain air was cool and sharp, filling him with a faint thrill—no city buildings to worry about, just open space where he could push himself as far as he wanted.

The other students murmured in awe as they looked down at the training camp below, visible in the dusky twilight. Its rustic layout was tucked into the forested mountain like it had been carved out just for them. But something seemed off. Why were they stopping here on the mountainside, so far from camp?

A sleek black car pulled up, and four people emerged—the Wild Wild Pussycats, a team of pro heroes with more mountain-rescue experience than almost anyone else. Katsuki recognized them, though he couldn’t immediately recall all their names. The leader, a woman in bright pink, waved at them cheerfully as she introduced the group to the class. Katsuki could have interned with them, maybe he should have.

As the introductions wrapped up, one of Katsuki’s classmates—a girl with long dark hair—raised her hand. “Isn’t it getting late? Shouldn’t we get back on the bus and head down?”

His classmates glanced at each other nervously. Katsuki's hair stood up on the back of his neck. Something was up. A woman in green bounced forward gleefully. Katsuki’s stomach sank. His palms started to sweat, suddenly the mountain seemed a lot more daunting. 

She grinned, clapped her hands together and slammed them into the ground. For a moment, nothing happened. Katsuki looked at Kirishima, confused. Then a loud crack echoed into the air, a few of his classmates stumbling. And all at once, the ground fell from under them. 

Katsuki’s quirk sparked immediately, launching him into the air. He could slow his own momentum. But avoiding the rocks was the problem. Giant chunks of mud crashed down recklessly. Smashing into each other and sending sprays of dust into the air. 

He spotted Kirishima bouncing off rocks with his hardening quirk, eyes bright with excitement. Mina, meanwhile, slid down expertly on her acid, leaving a smoking trail on the rocks in her wake. But Kaminari? A total mess. Arms flailing, he tumbled dangerously close to a jagged outcropping, no control over his fall.

“Damn it!” Katsuki muttered, blasting himself toward Kaminari. He grabbed him by the collar just before he could collide with the rocks, Kaminari clinging to him for dear life, wide-eyed.

“Th-thanks, man!” Kaminari stammered, his voice shaky.

“Shut up!” Katsuki barked, his voice cutting through Kaminari’s nervous laugh. He planted his feet attempting to balance them both and slide down, sending sharp blasts toward any rocks that got too close.

The group crashed into the forest floor, kicking up damp leaves and dirt around them. Katsuki picks himself up, letting Kaminari flop on the ground, and looks around as his classmates scramble to their feet in the dim light. Shadows crept along the edges of the forest as the sun started to disappear. Katsuki brushed dirt from his arms, wincing at the dull ache in his muscles from his quirk use.

Nearby, groups started forming as students checked on each other, some helping to dust one another off. Katsuki counted his three and started marching toward the tree line. The sooner they got to camp, the sooner he could sleep.

A sudden scream pierced the air, and a small purple figure burst from the bushes, yelling as he darted toward them.

“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” he screeched, ducking behind Kirishima. “They’re going to eat me!”

Katsuki frowned, just barely stopping himself from asking who this “they” was, when a loud clacking echoed from the underbrush. The shadows shifted, and grotesque, insect-like creatures emerged from the trees, massive and buzzing, their sharp mandibles snapping as they approached. One creature lunged, and Katsuki instinctively blasted it back, sparks igniting the forest in a flash of light.

“They’re disgusting!” Mina cried, sending out a spray of acid toward another creature.

Kaminari, looking pale, released a surge of electricity, zapping one of the creatures and watching as it twitched before collapsing. It crumbles to dust.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” he yelled, dodging another snapping jaw.

“Stop whining and fight,” Katsuki snapped, blasting another creature as it charged. He grinned, adrenaline kicking in. “Unless you wanna get eaten!”

It was gross, and Katsuki was sure they would all be covered in dirt by the end. But he was still grinning as he punched his way through the bugs. Kirishima, already in his hardening form, barreled into a creature, knocking it into a tree. Katsuki blasted the head off of one that tried to take a bite out of Mina. The woman who dropped them must be using her quirk to create these things.

“Now this is what I’m talking about! Keep going, we can push through!” Kirishima called.

As they fought, Katsuki’s irritation grew at the shrillness of some of his classmates’ voices. After a few chaotic minutes of battling their way through the creatures, the forest finally gave way to a clearing, where a rustic lodge sat, dimly lit against the night sky. The Pussycats stood waiting at the entrance, watching their approach with smug, knowing expressions.

“Welcome, everyone!” The leader greeted them with a grin, looking utterly unbothered by their bruises, scrapes, and dirt-streaked faces. “How was your journey through the Forest of Beasts?”

“How was—what?” Kaminari panted, collapsing onto a log and looking up at her, incredulous. “What kind of… training camp starts with ‘fighting for your life in the dark’?”

A good one, Katsuki thinks.

The large man with a mane of hair, chuckled. “Consider it a warm-up. You’ll need the stamina where you’re going.”

As the heroes went on about the goals of their camp, Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. The group didn’t look like they’d be getting rest anytime soon. His stomach growled, and he spotted the table behind the Pussycats, loaded with supplies. He stalked over to the supplies, exasperated, ready to grab something when the leader pointed at him.

“Oh, don’t touch that yet! You’ll be cooking for yourselves tonight.”

Katsuki’s eyes twitched, and several people moaned about how tired they were. Mina looked between them.

“Can we cook together?” Mina says brightly, grabbing Kaminari and Kirishima’s arms and pulling them into a makeshift huddle. She doesn’t even wait for their answer before bouncing on her toes. “Please?”

Kaminari and Kirishima grin and nod, leaning into the huddle. Katsuki rolls his eyes and turns back to his own station, already gathering the basics—rice, spices, chicken, broth. Whatever. He’d make something quick and easy and let them do their thing.

But as he reaches for the cutting board, Kirishima suddenly leans over his shoulder, too close.

“What are we making, Bakugou?” Kirishima asks, voice cheerful.

Katsuki hesitates, realizing Mina and Kaminari have also come up behind him, waiting like it was obvious they’d all be cooking together.

He grunts, feeling a bit thrown off. “Soup.”

“Isn’t that a bit complicated?” Kaminari asks. Katsuki blinks at him, soup is possibly the easiest thing to make. Mina looks unsure, rubbing her hands together. 

“Do you know the recipe?” She says. 

Katsuki glared, grabbing an onion and tossing it to Kirishima a bit too forcefully. “Fucking course I do. You got a problem with that?”

“No way, man,” Kirishima said with a grin, trying to back him up. “You’re just… full of surprises.”

Katsuki snarls, “Sparky, go to that countertop. That’s ours now. Raccoon Eyes, get two pots, a ladle and a frying pan.”

They mock-saluted and smoke drifted from Katsuki’s hands. Kirishima, at least, was helpful, carrying the bags of vegetables and meat to the counter alongside him. The whole setup looked almost like an outdoor kitchen—Katsuki had to admit, it was decent.

Kaminari handed him a ladle with a slightly sheepish grin. “Uh, thanks, by the way… y’know, for saving me back there. Pretty sure I’d be one with the rocks right now if it weren’t for you.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, slapping Kaminari’s hand away and assigning him to peeling duty, since he’d probably just make a mess of chopping. It wasn’t long before he realized all three of them had no idea what “chop into even pieces” meant, either. He practically had to hand-feed them instructions while he tried to keep things in order. Kirishima was the only one allowed to stir the pot.

“Tch,” Katsuki muttered as he poured water into the pot, setting it to boil. “Next time, don’t be an idiot.”

From her perch on the countertop, Mina watched him with a curious glint in her eye, swinging her legs idly. “Hey, Bakugou?”

He grunted in response, carefully measuring cumin into the simmering pot.

“How’d you know all this stuff, anyway?” She looked genuinely curious, not mocking for once, and her question made him hesitate for just a moment.

Katsuki considered snapping at her—that he knew how to cook because he wasn’t a total idiot like some people. But after a beat, he turned the pot to a low simmer. “Trial and error.”

Kirishima stirred the soup again, watching it closely to make sure it didn’t boil over. “You cook a lot?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki said shortly, shrugging.

Kaminari grinned. “Honestly? That’s kinda cool, man. My mom still won’t let me into the kitchen without supervision.”

Katsuki’s hands stilled, caught off guard. “Your mother still cooks for you?”

The question hung in the air, and Kaminari blinked, rubbing the back of his head. “Uh… yeah, she does. Every night, pretty much.” He chuckled. “I mean, she does trust me with knives, but she’s all over it.”

Katsuki looked away, focusing on the soup, stirring it in slow, measured circles as his thoughts churned. Kirishima slows his stirring. Katsuki’s other classmates seem to be fighting, or trying to figure out how to cook. 

“Hey… Bakugou?” 

Katsuki hums, throwing some herbs in and the chicken to let it soften, before turning to Kirishima. The cold air was nice on his overworked shoulders, it wasn’t too late. But the stars were out, only the lamps in the area as any good light source.

“You never talk about your family.”

Katsuki frowned; he didn’t talk about them because there wasn’t anything to say. His gaze fixed on the bubbling broth. He could feel Kirishima watching him, waiting for some response. Kaminari had gone back to cleaning, though his movements were slower, quieter, as if he didn’t want to interrupt. The night had settled in, a heavy blanket of stars above, and only the small circle of lamplight around them broke the darkness.

He tossed in another handful of herbs, letting them spread through the soup, their scent mingling with the steam rising from the pot. Kirishima cleared his throat, obviously hesitant to press further, but Katsuki knew that look; he wasn’t going to let it go without a response.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Katsuki said gruffly, focusing hard on the liquid. “Family’s… whatever.”

Kirishima leaned his elbows on the counter, though he didn’t seem hurt by the sharpness in Katsuki’s tone. He just watched the soup simmer, as if giving him room. “Gotcha. I mean… if you ever wanted to, you know we’d listen.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened as he let Kirishima’s words sink in, irritation prickling at him. Did they think he’d start pouring his heart out over soup? His hands were already itching to shut the conversation down with something sharp—but the words never came out. Instead, he focused on the steam, on the scent of the herbs, and the low sound of the broth bubbling. He didn’t need to explain anything. Not to them.

Mina spoke softly, “My parents are separating.”

Someone across the courtyard laughed loudly about their half-burnt attempt at some kind of stew. Katsuki paused, turning the heat down even more. He.. didn’t know that. He didn’t ask, but they were sort-of-friends? Katsuki wonders if he needs to start actually putting in some effort with them.

“Are you alright?” Kaminari says, but he’s wiping out the pots, and cleaning the knives. Like he’s somehow giving Mina privacy despite being less than two feet away from her.

“It’s hard. Things are gonna change and I don’t think I’ll be ready for it” Her shoulders are tense, the air feels a lot tighter than before. Kaminari and Kirishima nod, but they don’t press. Mina looks at him. Katsuki’s tongue feels like lead.

“They aren’t bad,” he finally grumbled, eyes fixed firmly on the simmering broth, his shoulders tense as if bracing himself. “Just… never around. But I’m not fucking inept. I can take care of myself.”

The quiet stretched, thick with a mix of their voices and the simmering soup. Katsuki’s words hung there, unexpectedly raw, and the way his gaze stayed fixed on the pot made it clear he was saying more than he intended to. Mina gave a soft nod, her face unreadable but her shoulders slightly more relaxed.

“I get it,” she murmured, her voice subdued. “Sometimes… even when people are around, they’re not really there, you know?”

Katsuki grunted in agreement, not trusting himself to look at her. A bitter taste rose in his throat as he stirred the soup, but for once, he didn’t try to shove it down. He poured it into four bowls. 

Kaminari passed Mina a bowl, leaning back against the counter with a grin. “Well, you’re already doing better than the rest of us here. I mean, look at this—it’s basically a five-star meal compared to whatever they’ve got cooking over there.”

A little reluctant smile tugged at Mina’s lips. “Guess we make a pretty good team.”

Katsuki glanced around, watching as they all dug into their bowls. He could feel the tension easing as the rich scent of soup mingled with the chilly air. He didn’t have a family worth talking about, didn’t know how to handle Mina’s broken one, and didn’t give a damn about revealing any of that to them. But here, standing under the stars with his classmates, the warmth of the soup spreading through them… it almost felt good.

The sun was barely up when the shrill whistle from the Wild, Wild Pussycats tore through the camp, dragging them all out of bed. The previous night’s campfire was still fresh in their minds, the warmth of the food, the rare camaraderie, but the early morning wake-up was anything but comforting. Katsuki felt the weight of exhaustion as he lined up with his classmates, groggily blinking the sleep out of his eyes, a light scowl settling across his face.

The Pussycats were in full swing, explaining each student’s individual training regimen. As they outlined the brutal exercises, Katsuki’s attention sharpened. This wasn’t any run-of-the-mill workout. It was tailored to push each one of them to the edge of their quirks, their comfort zones—everything.

Mandalay’s voice cut through the morning mist. “Todoroki and Bakugou,” she called out, gesturing to the two of them with a firm nod. “You’ll need independent training. Your quirks are… let’s say, a bit too volatile for team exercises.”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened, but he was used to working alone. Hell, he preferred it that way. He glanced at Icy-Hot, who offered a tired nod, and they parted ways, each going to their assigned areas. Katsuki didn't nod back, the bastard was still on his shit list. 

A steaming barrel sat at the far end of the training field, removed from the others, emitting enough heat that he could feel it radiating even from a few paces away. He furrowed his brow, approaching it with equal parts suspicion and intrigue. His classmates were scattered nearby, a few of them casting curious glances in his direction. Kirishima and Mina exchanged nervous looks, whispering among themselves. He ignored them, his mind zeroing in on the challenge before him.

“Fuck am I supposed to do with this?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow.

The leader of the Pussycats, Mandalay, bounced over, a mischievous grin plastered across her face. “Your quirk needs sweat to work, doesn’t it?”

Katsuki gave a quick nod, a flash of interest sparking in his eyes as she gestured to the steaming, bubbling water in the metal basin.

“You’re going to keep your hands in there as long as you can,” she explained, her grin widening as she noted his shifting stance, the flicker of interest in his eyes. “Then, aim high and release everything you’ve got.”

Katsuki felt a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. It was so simple, so punishingly direct—it was exactly his style.

He stepped forward, sizing up the barrel, feeling the rush of heat coming off the surface like a wall. The steam spiraled into the air, coiling around his arms as he hovered his hands just above the water, taking in the intensity of the heat. With a slight twitch of his jaw, he took a deep breath, bracing himself. And then, he plunged his hands into the boiling water.

The heat was immediate, searing, and for a split second, he thought he might have to pull back. But then he set his jaw, holding firm as the pain rushed through his hands, up his arms. He gritted his teeth, using the discomfort to fuel his resolve, to keep his hands submerged.

Seconds passed, each one feeling like an eternity, the pain intensifying as his skin grew hotter. The boiling water forced sweat to bead along his forehead, trickling down his temples, but that was the point. His quirk depended on his sweat, and this would force him to produce it fast—pushing his limits the way he’d always wanted.

Katsuki counted down in his head, waiting for the threshold where he’d have to pull his hands free. Finally, as his muscles began to tremble with the effort, he withdrew his hands. Steam billowed up from his fingers as he opened his palms, a satisfying ache throbbing through his skin.

He aimed his hands skyward, feeling the stored heat prickling just under the surface, his entire body coiled like a spring. This time, he wouldn’t hold back. Every ounce of frustration, tension, and pride surged through him, a condensed ball of energy waiting to be unleashed.

With a fierce cry, he ignited his palms, releasing an enormous blast into the sky. The explosion burst forth, lighting up the early morning air with a fiery glow, the force so intense it rattled the nearby trees. Katsuki could feel the heat lingering on his skin, the aftershock vibrating up his arms, and he knew this was exactly what he’d come here to do: push himself to the limit.

His classmates were watching, stunned, exchanging uneasy glances. Some looked impressed, a few—maybe a little worried. But he barely noticed. The familiar ache in his hands was almost satisfying, a reminder that he’d done what he’d come to do: push himself harder than anyone else would dare.

“Not bad,” he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers with a smirk as he stepped back.

Mandalay’s approving nod wasn’t lost on him, Katsuki looked down at his hands, the skin red and raw, his shoulders aching from the exertion. Katsuki grinned, and shoved his hands back into the boiling water.

Katsuki rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion drag at him as he stood with the rest of Class 1-A, barely able to focus on the Pussycats' animated explanation of the "Test of Courage." The day had been brutal, and his muscles ached from hours of boiling-water quirk training, not to mention the post-dinner cleanup that no one else seemed to get roped into.

Now, on top of it all, Aizawa Sensei had snatched away the few classmates he might’ve actually wanted around tonight. He scowled at the memory of Sensei pulling Mina, Kirishima, and Kaminari away for remedial lessons. Typical, he thought with a sharp huff. He was left without even a halfway decent partner, stuck with nothing but nerves from his classmates and whatever lame traps Class 1-B had managed to set up.

Katsuki's eyelids felt heavy as Pixie-Bob went over the rules, her voice cutting through his fog of exhaustion, snapping him back to reality.

“You’ll have fifteen minutes,” she was saying, “to grab a card with your name from inside the forest. And if Class 1-B scares you, they win a point.” She grinned, clearly loving the challenge she’d set up.

The whole setup was starting to feel more like a chore than anything else. Still, a part of him, buried under the tired scowl and his aching hands, bristled at the challenge. Class 1-B scaring him? Yeah, right. Let them try. Maybe he’d even turn this game around on them just for fun.

“All set, Class 1-A?” Pixie-Bob called out, looking between them.

Katsuki noticed the half-nervous, half-excited looks on his classmates’ faces as they lined up to head into the trees. Deku looked way too serious for something this simple, and Icy-Hot was deadpan as usual. He rolled his eyes, stifling a yawn that made him feel even more irritable. His body was dragging, his hands were still sore from training, and his temper was barely hanging on after a long day without a break.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the game, and Katsuki trudged into the forest with a muttered curse. Each step he took seemed to echo through the dark trees, the shadows swallowing the path ahead of him. His senses were on high alert, but his body was begging for sleep. This game was almost beneath him, but he couldn’t help feeling that sliver of determination creep in, the part of him that refused to back down, even if it was a stupid test.

Katsuki's focus drifted, thinking about how his classmates were stuck with Sensei instead of out here with him. At least if Kirishima were around, he’d have someone to laugh at the stupid scares with or shove forward as bait. Instead, he was out here alone, irritation and exhaustion settling in his bones as he moved through the dark.

“Like a damn babysitting camp,” he muttered to himself, pushing a low-hanging branch out of the way.

“Watch out for that root.”

Katsuki swallowed a shout, turning to find Icy-Hot had followed him into the woods. The boy blinked at him, Katsuki felt his irritation rise. In the distance he could hear his classmates screaming. Losers.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I think we should stick together in this trial.” Icy-Hot says.

Katsuki ground his teeth, feeling his exhaustion rise alongside his irritation as Icy-Hot fell into step beside him. Couldn’t he even get a quiet walk to deal with this ridiculous excuse for training? He moved forward, intentionally brushing past branches so they'd snap back in the bastard’s face, but the other boy easily sidesteps them, unfazed.

Maybe if Katsuki ignored him, he’d take the hint. 

“Midoriya speaks of you a lot,” Icy-Hot says out of nowhere, his tone even.

Or not. Katsuki’s scowl deepened, immediately prickling at the mention of Deku.

“Like I give a damn what that nerd’s yapping about,” he shot back, clenching his fists just enough to feel his sore hands protest. The ache almost felt good, grounding him in the present as he trudged through the shadows, stepping over roots and ducking under low branches. He’d been so close to tuning out the constant drone of his classmates’ distant yelps and laughs, almost able to pretend he was alone—until Icy-Hot had opened his mouth.

A pause, and then Icy-Hot tried again, keeping up easily with Katsuki’s pace. “You work hard. Even today, you trained longer than anyone.”

Katsuki frowns. That almost sounded like a compliment. What was he getting at? 

“Why do you give a shit?”

Todoroki didn’t bite, instead, he just shrugged, his gaze fixed ahead. “Midoriya is insistent on how amazing you are. I would like to know if he’s correct”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, brushing off the comment, but Todoroki’s words echoed faintly. It wasn’t like he’d done anything special; he’d just done what he had to. 

He was strong because he made himself strong, pushed himself harder than anyone because he wasn’t about to be left behind. Of course Deku would think he’s amazing, everyone does. Katsuki doesn’t need some shitty hand-me-down quirk, he does it all on his own. 

“What, are you here to give me a damn pep talk?” Katsuki sneered, finally stopping to face Icy-Hot. He was done with him shadowing his every step. “I don’t need one, especially not from you.”

Unfazed, he simply crossed his arms. “I don’t think you do.” 

His face remained impassive, but Katsuki saw something there, like he was watching him closely, trying to understand him. “You are very egotistical.”

The bluntness catches him off guard and Katsuki snorts, starting to turn away.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, ready to drop this conversation. Yet, as he resumed his march, Icy-Hot kept pace beside him. 

Katsuki and Todoroki trudged deeper into the forest, silence settling between them like a fragile truce. The only sounds were the crunch of twigs underfoot and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Katsuki’s mind drifted, exhaustion making the edges of his thoughts blur, and he let his guard drop for just a moment. He looked around the trees for any sign of the namecard.

Then, out of nowhere, a shriek pierced the quiet, followed by a rush of movement. Katsuki’s muscles tightened instinctively as he spun around, his hands sparking to life. But before he could react, a Class 1-B student sank up from the shadows, their face lit by a dim, eerie glow from some hidden flashlight. The figure lunged forward, arms outstretched and growling, their voice warped to sound monstrous.

“Got you! ”

Todoroki jumped slightly, and Katsuki’s heart rate spiked, the adrenaline momentarily jolting him awake. They both froze. Katsuki let out a soft sound, and they all stood in the dark staring at each other. The student rubbed his neck, and sank back into the ground embarrassed.

But once his mind caught up, he scoffed, rolling his shoulders. Todoroki exhaled loudly, rubbing his hands together, frost had settled on his knuckles.

Katsuki sneered, “You got scared from that–? ”

He cut himself off. A heavy feeling in his gut. Katsuki glanced around the forest, genuinely unnerved. Icy-Hot stopped to look at him, almost concerned. Something felt weird. 

And then, without warning, a voice filled his head. But it wasn’t a student or teacher. It was a familiar, telepathic hum that drowned out all other sounds and froze him in place. Mandalay’s voice spoke to them, calm but laced with a deadly urgency that immediately sent a chill through him.

“Everyone, listen carefully, ” her voice echoed in his mind, somehow both quiet and as loud as thunder. “The League of Villains is here. They’re in the forest. They’re after a student called ‘Kacchan’, you have all been given permission to defend yourselves. Please make your way back to the main camp as fast as possible, and don’t go alone! ”

The realization hit him like a punch. The League of Villains, here, right now, in the same forest as his classmates, as Deku. His mind scrambled through scenarios, trying to process why the hell anyone would want him.

-a student called Kacchan. 

No one else uses that dumbass nickname. Somehow, Deku encountered a villain, and passed the message onto Mandalay. A second chill hit him when he thought of the league, what if they brought Nomu’s? All Might wasn’t here to save them.

How the hell did they even figure out where the training camp was?

Icy-Hot’s hand on his shoulder snapped him back to the present. “Bakugou,” he said quietly, his voice tense, “we need to get back. Now.”

Katsuki’s face hardened, determination flaring up, pushing down the cold feeling crawling up his spine. 

“I fucking know that” he growled, already turning back the way they came. 

The exhaustion that had weighed on him all day was gone now, burned away by raw adrenaline. He had to keep his head, had to think through the panic clawing at him. He's fine, all they had to do is get back to camp. He picked up the pace. 

“Bakugou, slow down!” Icy-Hot called, sounding winded as he struggled to keep up with Katsuki’s rapid pace. Katsuki threw a glare over his shoulder.

“Speed up ” he shot back, his voice edged with an urgency he couldn’t shake. 

Icy-Hot’s expression was tense but focused as he kept pace beside him, his breathing irregular. Suddenly, Katsuki was yanked back. His heart leapt.

“What the hell-”

Icy-Hot pointed ahead of them. Blue flames sped through the forest, jumping from bush to bush easily. The fire easily reached well over four feet. Katsuki could feel the heat even across the distance. The crackling echoed into the now empty forest.

“Fuck.”

“We’ll have to go the long way around.” Icy-Hot stated.

“I know.” 

Together they turned, at a slower pace than before. How close were they to camp? Where were the villains? 

Kacchan.

Hearing that dumb nickname in Mandalay’s telepathic message had rattled him more than he’d admit. Deku had been close enough to the villains to get a message through, meaning he was already neck-deep in trouble. Typical. Katsuki’s grip tightened, his knuckles whitening as he shot a glare through the trees. 

The minutes stretched painfully, every shadow turning into a threat, every rustle making his fingers itch to blow something up. Katsuki heard a thud, he slowed momentarily. Icy-Hot continued on in front of him. Katsuki looks up, was there someone in the trees? 

He squints, what was that–

Katsuki stands, bile rising in his throat as disorientation sweeps over him like a wave. His head pounds like a drum, and he struggles to gather his thoughts. Where the hell is he? What’s happening? How did he get–

A hot hand grips the back of his neck, yanking him backwards before he can even turn to see who it is. Panic surges as he catches a glimpse of Deku in front of him, flanked by his classmates further back. Each one wears an expression of horror that sends a chill down his spine. Deku is missing a shirt; his arms are marred with deep, angry wounds that twist Katsuki’s stomach into knots.

“GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!”

Katsuki’s balance falters, and suddenly he’s pulled into a cold mist. The chill seeps into his bones, and he barely has time to choke out a warning, desperation lacing his tone.

“Don’t come—”

Katsuki stumbled through the cold mist, disorientation swirling around him like a fog. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and smoke, and the flickering neon signs cast an eerie glow over a rundown interior. Where was he?

His heart raced, fueled by adrenaline and confusion. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The hand around his neck moved to his shoulder, trying to restrain his arms. Katsuki turns in an instant, and sinks his teeth into the arm. 

Blood pours into his mouth, a copper scent filling his throat. Katsuki bites down harder.

“Fuck– Get him off!”

Before he could react, flames erupted from his left side, the intense heat forcing him back against the grimy wall. Katsuki hissed, instinctively raising his arms to shield himself. The flickering light illuminated the scene around him, revealing a handful of villains lounging in the dim space. One of them, a girl in a school uniform, sat on a barstool, cackling at the chaos. Where was he?

“Where the fuck am I?” 

“Nowhere!” a masked man cheerfully piped up, his jovial tone jarring against the oppressive atmosphere. But then he abruptly switched his demeanor, contradicting himself. “—Our hideout.”

Katsuki snarled, his hands popping with explosive energy as he scanned the dimly lit room. The flickering neon lights danced ominously across the walls, illuminating the chaos around him. A figure with one hand covering his face stood up from a shadowy corner, an unsettling calmness radiating from him.

“Bakugou Katsuki. I am here to offer you a place within the League of Villains,” he announced, his voice dripping with a mixture of arrogance and dark allure.

“Like hell I’d join you!” Katsuki spat.

How dare they? How— who the fuck did they think they were? Rage burns through him, he wipes at the blood dripping from his chin. His hands crackle, smoke drifting up his forearms. The sparks growing effortlessly.

“Are you so sure?” the Hands replied, amusement creeping into his tone. “You could be so much more than just a hero in training. We could give you power, freedom—everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed, fists clenched tightly. “I don’t want anything from you! I don’t need your bullshit!” 

“Think about it. The heroes don’t care about you. They’re using you. But we? We see your potential. Imagine unleashing your full power without restrictions.”

Katsuki roared, frustration boiling over. He lunged forward, ready to take them on. He wouldn’t be manipulated or cajoled into their twisted ideology. Certainly not by some joke of a villain. 

Hands let him get close, reaching out a hand lazily. Katsuki isn’t stupid, he’s willing to bet that Hands’ quirk is touch related, from what he can remember from the USJ attack. He’s not waiting around to find out. 

Katsuki’s training kicked in as he ducked under Hands’ grasp, adrenaline surging through his veins. He automatically grabbed the villain’s wrist, twisting it sharply. With a swift motion, he snapped it over his knee, the satisfying crack echoing through the bar. A move he practically invented in Kyo’s ring. 

Hands gasped, stumbling backward as he clutched his injured limb, a mix of surprise and pain etched across his features. But Katsuki didn’t give him a moment to recover; he pressed forward, fueled by a relentless fire.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Katsuki taunted, his voice dripping with derision. He felt the heat of his explosions building within him, ready to erupt at a moment's notice. The bar’s dim lighting cast eerie shadows around him, and he thrived in the chaos, every ounce of his being focused on the fight.

“Kurogiri!” Hands screamed, cradling his injured arm as Katsuki prepared for another strike.

Before he could launch a counterattack, a thick, swirling black mist erupted in front of him, obscuring his vision and swallowing the room in a shadowy veil. The acrid smell of smoke filled his lungs, making it harder to breathe. Katsuki cursed under his breath, instinctively stepping back to regain his bearings, but it was too late. 

The mist coiled around him, pulling him into its depths like an inescapable trap. Panic flared inside him, but he forced it down, focusing on the heat of his palms, ready to unleash an explosion at a moment's notice.

It’s the slime villain all over again. Katsuki can’t burn air, can’t defend himself. He crashes into a wall, and braces himself on it. A sharp pain in his shoulder. A hand grips his hair, Katsuki growls at the ache. His head is slammed into the wall, and Katsuki sees stars. He lashes out blindly, trying to hit something— anything. There’s a shout, another flash of blinding heat, and Katsuki's head is lifted again. This time, he blacks out. 

Katsuki’s eyes fluttered open, a dull ache throbbing through his skull as he took in his surroundings. The edges of his vision were blurry, but the dim glow and the stale smell of the rundown hideout were unmistakable. He tried to move, only to feel the bite of metal against his wrists and ankles, chaining him to the chair. Great. He tugged at the restraints, testing their give, then gave a harsh laugh.

"These rusty-ass chains? Really?” he sneered, his voice hoarse but laced with defiance. 

Across the room, Hands’ face twisted with irritation as he cradled his freshly splinted wrist. Katsuki grinned at the sight, the memory of snapping that wrist over his knee flashing through his mind like a small victory. Hands’ patience, it seemed, was thinning fast.

“Big bad villains,” Katsuki mocked, his heart pounding. “And you’re all terrified of some brat in a uniform. Must sting to get your ass handed to you by a first-year.”

Hands’ eyes narrowed, lips pulling back in an annoyed sneer. He nodded to Smokey, who produced a remote, aiming it at a dusty television in the corner. The screen flickered to life, tuning into a press conference. Katsuki was glad they couldn’t see his hands shaking.

“We thought we’d catch you up on recent events,” Hands said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “You’ve been gone a while now, after all.”

The TV showed Aizawa Sensei standing at a podium, reporters firing questions as he glowered back at them, visibly exhausted. “The heroes are doing everything in their power to locate Bakugou Katsuki. We will not stop until he is safe. Rest assured, every hero on the scene is dedicated to finding him.”

Katsuki’s glare didn’t waver, even as he heard the doubt the reporters tried to cast in their questions. Sensei’s voice cut through, solid and unflinching, refusing to back down. That stubborn loyalty only made Katsuki’s heart beat harder, and made his resolve dig deeper.

Katsuki started to grin. Maybe they wanted him to think that the general public had given up on him. That he’d be spiteful. But, when has Katsuki ever cared what others thought?

“You idiots.” Katsuki gasped, in awe at their stupidity.

They gave him hope. Aizawa Sensei said they would not rest until he was found. Katsuki believed him. Katsuki had been operating on the opinion that he'd be escaping alone. Blood dripped down his face. Maybe it was the head injury, but Katsuki couldn’t help but laugh.

Hands’ face twisted in barely restrained fury. He muttered something to a guy with some truly unfortunate skin, and the school-girl, before stalking out of the room.

Katsuki felt a rush of satisfaction, though it was short-lived. As the door shut behind Hands, Patches strolled closer, his steps slow and deliberate, a dangerous grin spreading over his face as he rolled up his sleeves. Katsuki caught the flash of a bite mark on his arm, blood still dripping slowly. Katsuki went cold, he stopped laughing. Sweat was gathering in the contraption his hands were in, if he sparked, he could end up ripping his own hands off.

“Well, well,” Patches drawled, letting a blue flame flicker to life in his palm. “You’ve got a big mouth, don’t you?”

The school-girl perched on the bar, giggling, her eyes gleaming as she methodically flipped a knife in her hands. Katsuki’s jaw clenched, his brain telling him to brace himself. To play nice until the heroes got here. Instead, Katsuki spat on Patches shoes.

Katsuki’s spit landed on Patches’ scuffed boot with a satisfying splat, and he felt a surge of defiance, even as his wrists ached against the metal cuffs. He braced himself, expecting a blow, but Patches just tilted his head, studying him with a gaze that was equal parts amusement and malice.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” Patches murmured, his tone disturbingly calm. The blue flame in his hand flared, casting eerie shadows across his scarred face as he crouched down to Katsuki’s level. The heat radiated from his palm, and Katsuki felt a prickle of sweat gathering at his temples.

Katsuki’s mind whirred, forcing down his instinct to explode his way out. Patches seemed almost uninterested, like he was bored of this, like it was a chore.

“You look real tough, all tied up like that,” Patches continued, his tone mocking. “Y’know, we took inspiration from that little festival of yours.”

Katsuki’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “You think some blue fire and a face full of staples are gonna scare me? Throw yourself off a bridge”

The girl on the bar giggled again, her laughter high-pitched and disturbingly gleeful as she toyed with her knife, tracing the tip along her wrist before flicking it back into her grip.

“Oh, I like him,” she chimed, her eyes bright with the excitement of a cat toying with a trapped mouse. “Do you think Shigaraki would be mad if I carved a little something into that face?”

Katsuki’s glare never wavered, but he forced himself to stay silent. Sensei’s words echoed in his mind—they wouldn’t stop until he was safe—and he clung to that resolve. He wasn’t going to take anything lying down, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to give them any satisfaction. Patches leaned in, the smell of smoke and scorched fabric hanging heavy in the air. 

“Let’s see how long that mouth of yours lasts,” he said, his tone bland. He raised his hand, flames crackling.

As the flame licked closer to his face, Katsuki twisted his head to the side, his skin prickling under the wave of heat. He felt sweat bead on his temple, then slide down his cheek, like the first strike of humiliation. But he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of flinching.

Patches’ remained indifferent, face passive. Like he didn’t care who he was hurting, like he was just going through the motions. Weirdly, it reminded Katsuki of Icy-Hot. He flicked his fingers, and the flames jumped closer, a sudden rush of heat so close it singed the edges of Katsuki’s hair. Katsuki’s breath caught, and he gritted his teeth, clenching his fists so hard he felt his nails digging into his palms. 

The school-girl leaned in, her face practically gleeful as she watched him suffer. “Ooo, let me have a go! Just a little slice—let’s see if you’re as pretty inside as you are outside!” 

She traced a fingertip along his jaw, and Katsuki wrenched his head back, disgusted. He tugged again at his restraints, testing them. The heat still lingered on his skin, and the nausea from his head wound hadn’t let up.

“Get your hands off me, you freaks,” he spat, but the desperation behind the words felt too close to slipping out. 

Patches' face darkened, and his fingers ignited again, this time lower, near Katsuki’s side. He felt the searing heat draw closer, and though he knew his shirt would protect him for a few moments, he braced himself, gritting his teeth as the flames licked the fabric. A sharp burn shot through his side, the fire crawling over his ribs.

Katsuki forced a grin, though the pain was searing. He let out a laugh, raw and hoarse. “That all you got, you fucking failure?”

But the words took more out of him than he expected, and he could feel himself faltering. His vision blurred, and the edges of the room went hazy. Katsuki fought the nausea rising in his throat, the pain screaming through him, threatening to knock him under. 

Katsuki knew he hit a nerve because Patches paused. His face twisting into a dark frown, before stepping back. The relief was short-lived. Punch and breathe.

“Toga.” Patches drawled, “Do what you want.”

The girl giggled again, clapping her hands as if watching a show. Patches flipped his coat on, and left through the same door Hands did.

He tasted blood in his mouth—maybe he’d bitten his lip—but the coppery tang was almost welcome, grounding him. It reminded him he was still here, still himself. The girl stepped forward.

“Get on with it, freak,” he spat at her, his voice fierce even as his wrists ached against the metal cuffs.

She traced the tip of the knife along his jaw, just grazing the skin. Her voice took on a dreamy, sing-song quality. “You know, I wished we could have had Izuku, but Shigaraki was so insistent on it being you.”

Her grip shifted, and she pressed the blade a little harder into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. Katsuki inhaled sharply, the sting fueling his anger.

Her rambling was almost more infuriating than the sting of the blade. Even kidnapped Katsuki couldn’t get away from Deku.  Katsuki forced himself to keep his breathing steady. keeping Kira and Kyo’s training mantras in his head. Punch and breathe. He’d be okay, pain is temporary.

She leaned in closer, his knife tracing skin from Katsuki’s face. “Not laughing anymore?”

Katsuki glared at her, eyes blazing with fury. Even with his blood dripping, even with his body screaming from the burns and cuts, he wouldn’t give them what they wanted. The heroes would find him, he'd get out. And until then? He’d be a living nightmare for every single one of them.

Hands is monologuing again, the grating sound of his voice just another layer to the agony pressing in on Katsuki’s senses. He doesn’t bother to listen. It’s all the same—the threats, the promises, the twisted attempts to convince him that they’re on the same side. That he’d be “better off with them.” He’s lost count of how many times they’ve tried this. Every few hours, a different tactic. Torture, promises of power, threats that they’d track down his family, finish off his mother, his friends—hell, maybe even his entire school. At least they’re creative.

“--join our part and–,” Hands was saying, his voice dripping with his usual manic insistence. Katsuki barely stifled an eye-roll.

He shifted slightly, the movement scraping his wrists against the metal cuffs, reopening old sores. A fresh trickle of blood slid down his arm, joining the smears already staining the grimy floor below him. His body ached everywhere, burns and cuts layered over bruises and barely-healed gashes. His head throbbed from getting it smashed against the wall in their latest recruitment tactic, vision still swimming at the edges. It felt like he’d been here forever, each day another endless loop of pain and failed attempts at manipulation.

Logically he knows it hasn’t been more than two days. But the time is blurring, he needs to get out, and soon . Katsuki forced himself to look around the room, taking in the darkened corners and flickering lights, the smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes thick in the air. Hands stood across from him, still rambling on, his posture stiff with frustration. The others—Patches, the schoolgirl with her wicked grin, and the one with smoke for skin—were scattered around the bar like they were watching some casual entertainment. The sick smiles on their faces made Katsuki’s blood boil. They were waiting, hoping he’d break. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“Are you even listening?” Hands snapped, irritation breaking through his calm, steady façade. 

Katsuki turned his gaze slowly, meeting Hands’ stare with a look of complete indifference. The corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smirk, barely there, but enough to send the message. He didn’t say a word. It was ridiculously easy to piss him off. Hands behaved like a child, he wasn’t used to not getting his way.

Hands’ face contorted, a flicker of fury passing over his pale features, but he quickly masked it with that irritating calm. He folded his arms, continuing his monologue as if Katsuki’s defiance was a minor inconvenience. Katsuki barely heard it, every word like white noise, as meaningless as the buzzing of a distant fly.

“…If you’d just join us, all of this could be over. Think of the power you’d have, the strength you’d gain—”

“Do I look like I need your help to be strong?” Katsuki’s voice was low, cutting, and sharp as broken glass.

Hands’ expression tightened, the calm slipping again. “You’re strong,” he admitted, the words dripping with reluctant admiration. “But strength is meaningless without purpose. Without us, you’ll waste away as just another tool of the hero system—”

Katsuki snorted, shaking his head slightly. “I’d rather die a hero than live a coward like you,” he spat, voice seething with disgust. “Keep talking. It just makes me hate you more.”

That did it. Hands’ face twisted into a mask of rage, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides, his hands hovering dangerously close to Katsuki’s face. For a second, Katsuki braced himself for another round of searing pain, but instead, Hands dropped his hand, his lips curling into a sick smile.

He stepped back, turning to the others. “Toga.”

Her face lit up, eyes gleaming with a twisted joy. She skipped forward, her knife catching the dim light, and tilted her head to study him, as though she were sizing up a particularly interesting piece of art.

“Finally! I finally figured out what your blood tastes like!,” she chirped, twirling the blade between her fingers. “Caramel!” 

She pressed the edge of the knife to his collarbone, tracing it lightly along his skin. Katsuki gritted his teeth, body screaming in protest, but he refused to look away, eyes fixed on hers, burning with defiance. The pain was sharp, but he’d learned to embrace it, turning it into fuel. He could almost hear Kyo and Kira in his head, telling him to focus , to remember that pain was nothing more than a test, a hurdle to overcome. He hoped he wasn’t going crazy.

The knife bit deeper, a stinging line of red opening up along his collarbone. School-girl let out a delighted giggle, her face lighting up as though he’d given her some kind of gift. Katsuki kept his breathing steady, refusing to let his discomfort show.

“You know,” she said, voice lilting, “if only you were more like Izuku… So sweet and polite. You wouldn’t even be in this position!”

The mention of Deku made Katsuki’s anger flare white-hot, his body tensing against the cuffs. Even here, chained and broken, they couldn’t stop dragging Deku into it, like a twisted comparison meant to chip away at him. But it only fueled his resolve.

He forced himself to think back to the gym, to those endless hours of Kira pushing him, beating his body into submission until he could barely stand. Pain is just a distraction. Focus on what’s next. He’d get out of here. He’d survive, if only to make sure every one of these maniacs paid for what they’d done.

But Katsuki just smirked, even as blood slid down his skin. “You call that a cut?” he spat, voice dripping with scorn. “Try harder.”

Her face shifted, surprise flickering in her eyes before it was replaced by glee. She laughed, high-pitched and delighted, then leaned in close, her lips barely an inch from his ear. 

“You’re fun,” she whispered, and he could feel her breath, cold against his skin. Katsuki swallowed roughly. “Well, if you insist…”

Hands raised a single finger, and with that simple motion, the girl immediately backed off, leaving Katsuki alone, still seething and bleeding in the silence that followed. That one raised finger—it was such a small gesture, yet the authority behind it was unmistakable, undeniable. Katsuki hated how much power this guy actually had, how the others obeyed his every move without question. For all his sneering cruelty and twisted ideals, Hands could silence a room with nothing more than a raised finger.

As the silence stretched, Hands’ gaze turned thoughtful, his eyes drifting over Katsuki in a slow, assessing manner. His usual mocking sneer was absent; instead, he looked almost disappointed, as if debating some internal question.

For a second, Hands seemed to lose himself in thought, the cruel excitement in his eyes dulling to something almost… contemplative, disappointed. Katsuki forced himself not to shift under that heavy gaze, the weight of it pressing down on him, like he was being measured, evaluated, turned into something less than himself.

And then, Hands spoke, more to himself than to Katsuki, his voice barely more than a mutter. “Turning you into a Nomu would be a waste,” he murmured, almost regretfully, as if he were considering an investment gone bad. “You’d be powerful, sure, but… all that fire, that rebellious streak… gone.”

Katsuki felt himself go cold. For the first time, he was starting to feel fear creeping into his chest. Turn him? He didn’t like the implications of that. Were the Nomu’s human once? Katsuki felt sick.

Hands trailed off, lips twitching into a frown, as though genuinely torn by the decision. He seemed to savor Katsuki’s strength, his stubbornness, his resistance to their methods, even if it infuriated him. Katsuki knew, at that moment, that Hands wanted him to break —not to be mindlessly obedient, but to willingly submit, to bend to his twisted ideology.

The thought made Katsuki’s skin crawl. He forced himself to meet Hands’ gaze, his eyes blazing with defiance. 

“I’d rather be dead.”

Hands tilted his head, studying him with mild amusement, as if Katsuki’s words were little more than a petulant child’s tantrum. But the frown deepened, and for the first time, Katsuki thought he saw a flicker of doubt in Hands’ expression.

“Pity,” Hands muttered. “A Nomu with your potential… But no matter.” 

His hand lifted, fingers twitching absently as he eyed Katsuki with a kind of malicious curiosity. His nails scratched at his skin, blood drawing to the surface. 

The girl watched from the edge of the room, still fidgeting with her knife, her eyes gleaming as she picked up on the new, darker tension in the air. She giggled, as if she were imagining Katsuki’s hollowed-out stare, all his fire drained into mindless obedience.

Katsuki gritted his teeth, refusing to show a hint of fear, even as his heart pounded harder against his chest. The idea of being stripped down to nothing, turned into a shell, used by these freaks—it was a fate worse than death. 

Hands seemed to notice his reaction, because his eyes brightened with an unholy glee. He leaned forward, his voice soft but cutting, like a blade pressed against Katsuki’s mind. 

“Imagine it, Katsuki. All that strength, all that explosive power at our fingertips, perfectly obedient. Or maybe… you’ll be lucky. Maybe we’ll keep you just as you are, chained up and broken, only able to move when we let you.”

Katsuki fought down the bile rising in his throat, his glare sharp enough to slice through steel. For a second, silence hung heavy between them, each of them locked in a dangerous stand-off of wills.

“Dabi…. Untie him.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched, a sudden rush of adrenaline. The second he was free he was going to blow them all sky high, and he was going to make it hurt. Patches didn’t move.

“Make Twice do it.”

The masked guy grumbled, complained and then agreed. Katsuki had spent the better part ignoring him. The lackey knelt down, undoing the chains. He felt the restraints give way, and with a feral grin, he flexed his fingers, relishing the fleeting freedom as the hand-box-thing fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Now,” Hands said, crossing his arms, his face settling into a mock seriousness, “let’s have a final chat, shall we? It’s time to see if you can still be convinced.”

Katsuki straightened his posture, drawing strength from the defiance that had burned within him since the beginning. “Kill yourself.”

Hands sighed, dramatically rolling his eyes as if Katsuki’s obstinacy was just another annoying fly buzzing around his head. Katsuki was going to save him for last.

“You think I’m asking you to join us because I want another mindless drone?” His voice dripped with condescension. “No, Katsuki. You are special. You have power, potential. You could be so much more than a mere puppet. We could amplify that rage, that fire in you, mold you into something greater. Think about it.”

Katsuki felt a pulse of uncertainty thrumming in his chest, but he crushed it down hard. They wanted him to doubt himself, to question his resolve.

“You think I’d ever team up with scum like you?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You want to control me? You’re delusional.”

“Delusional?” Hands straightened, visibly annoyed. “You think I’d waste my time on you if I didn’t see the potential? You’re wasting your life fighting against a system that’s always going to chain you down. You’re not a hero, not like this.”

Katsuki snarls, “I am going to be a hero, just like All Might. And I’m going to win like him too.”

Hands sighed, his irritation palpable. Katsuki could feel the weight of their scrutiny, the way they all watched him, ready to pounce the moment he made a move. He couldn’t take them all on at once, not with Smokey lurking in the shadows, ready to snuff out his flame. 

Katsuki’s gaze flicked to the ceiling above, and a dangerous idea sparked in his mind. They were waiting for him to attack, expecting him to charge in blindly. Idiots. Katsuki aims a hand up, bracing himself and stares Hands in the eyes.

“Get fucked”

Then, Katsuki brings down the building, he unleashes a massive explosion that erupts against the floor above, sending shockwaves reverberating through the hideout. The sound was deafening, and the very structure began to tremble.

Wood and stone flew in all directions, the ceiling groaning as it gave way. Debris rained down like confetti, creating a chaotic storm of dust and destruction. The percussive force knocked everyone back, the sheer intensity of the blast disorienting them.

Smoke swirled around him, thick and suffocating, masking him from view. Katsuki couldn't see them, but he could hear their shouts, the panic that spread like wildfire as they struggled to regain their footing. This was his chance.

Smokey was struggling to maintain control amidst the chaos, trying to move the falling debris, but every attempt only added to the turmoil. Dust clouded the air, and splinters rained down like deadly confetti. Katsuki grinned, adrenaline pumping through him.

Just then, someone lunged at him from the side, and without thinking, he fired off an explosion right into their face. The blast sent them stumbling back, and Katsuki wasted no time. He jumped backward, his instincts kicking in as he launched another massive explosion upward, ensuring that the first one hadn’t yet lost its potency.

The air erupted with screams of frustration as the villains struggled to regain their footing. In the midst of the chaos, Katsuki noticed a quirk manifesting nearby—one of the villains’ powers stretching out, wrapping its comrades in thick tendrils of wood.

No…..that wasn’t right. None of them had that kind of quirk. Katsuki would know by now. His heart leaped. Kamui Woods, he realized. The heroes were here, late and useless, but they were here.

A loud boom resonated to his left, followed by an explosion that sent a spray of concrete flying past him. Katsuki ducked just in time to avoid being hit as the debris slammed into the lizard-like villain, sending them sprawling.

“Young Bakugou!” came a voice, cutting through the noise. It was a familiar tone, one that rang with authority and urgency. Katsuki turned, catching sight of a figure breaking through the smoke—a hero in their element, making an entrance that was anything but subtle.

All Might.

Katsuki felt hysterical, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins as he surveyed the scene. Half the villains were restrained, helpless against the efforts of the heroes, and there was no denying it—he was alive, and All Might was here. Katsuki was going home. But then, a wave of nausea crashed over him, bile creeping up his throat. He clamped his jaw shut, forcing himself to swallow; he wouldn’t throw up now. He could deal with it later.

But the bile kept rising, acidic and smoky, suffocating him with its presence. It wasn’t bile. Before he could call out a warning, the slick, viscous substance burst from his mouth, a stream of slime that felt foreign and overwhelming. All Might reacted instinctively, but it was too late.

Katsuki blinked, and he stood in front of a guy in a suit, most of the League of Villains surrounding him. Alone. Fuck. He was deformed, hooked to an oxygen tank, and had no facial features. Just a mouth and a horrendous amount of scarring. All for one, It had to be.

Maybe the heroes weren’t far? Maybe they’ll get here soon? How can he make sure they know? Katsuki’s mind raced, weighing his options. He couldn’t let them know he was vulnerable. He had to get a message out, to signal to the heroes that he was still fighting, that he needed them. There was no building to destroy, nothing to create a distraction, but he had one more card to play.

With a surge of determination, Katsuki summoned all the energy he could muster. He aimed his hand upward, focusing on the explosion he was about to unleash. He sent up another flare, a bright flash of light bursting into the air. It erupted like a mini-firework, bright and blinding, the flare illuminating the chaos for just a moment. It was all light, no power—he could feel the energy siphoning away from him, but he didn’t care. He just needed them to see him.

He’s here; let someone see it. Katsuki's heart raced as he clung to that thought, desperation fueling his determination. He wanted to go home. With every ounce of willpower, he pushed the nausea deep down, fighting against the overwhelming feeling of dread that threatened to take him over.

Suddenly, a boom shattered the tension in the air, resonating through the crumbling yard. The ground shook beneath him, and he blinked in surprise as the entrance to the courtyard exploded outward, sending debris flying. Heroes. They were flooding in, a tide of bright costumes and determined faces, and it was exactly what he needed to see.

It was chaos, All Might was fighting All for One. The rest of the heroes had to restrain the mountain of minions that seemed to come from nowhere. Katsuki tried to focus on dodging, but All for One made sure he couldn’t get far.

Katsuki is being used as a buffer. As long as he’s close, All Might is fighting on two fronts. Katsuki needs to get out of there, or they’re all fucked. He’s sweating, and yeah, he’s scared. Everything's is happening so fast, the tide of the fight is changing so rapidly, Katsuki can’t tell if they’re winning or not.

Smoke rises from nearby buildings, crashes and screams as the fight reaches outside the courtyard. People are getting hurt. Civilians are getting hurt, if they haven’t already. The longer this goes on the worse it’ll be.

There’s a flash to his side, but Katsuki’s too busy dodging the schoolgirl's knives to look. The blade whips past his cheek, narrowly missing him and embedding itself into the wall behind him with a satisfying thud.

Suddenly a voice rings out. Kirishima? They were hundreds of feet in the air, easily a block away, but their figures stood out against the swirling smoke and debris. He thought he might actually be hallucinating, the stress and exhaustion playing tricks on his mind, but there was no denying the fierce determination radiating from them.

“COME ON!” Kirishima shouted, a broad grin plastered on his face, hand outstretched like a beacon in the storm.

Katsuki moved instinctively. Igniting his quirk, he drew in a sharp breath, feeling the energy coiling within him, a roaring inferno waiting to be unleashed. His first blast propelled him forward, sending him soaring over the nearest building. The air roared in his ears, a symphony of wind and chaos as he cut through the haze, a streak of defiance breaking through the dark.

Katsuki grinned, feeling the weight of the world lift slightly off his shoulders. He was almost there, almost with them. Kirishima’s hand stayed open, a lifeline that he was determined to reach. He stumbled over the roof, the adrenaline blurring the edges of his focus, but he didn’t let himself touch the ground for more than a fleeting moment. Instead, he unleashed a bigger blast than before, propelling himself higher.

Katsuki rocketed towards them, the distance closing within milliseconds. He could feel the surge of energy coursing through him, a relentless tide that pushed him forward. There was not a universe where he wouldn’t make it. The heat of his quirk crackled in the air around him, and as he extended his hand, everything narrowed down to this moment.

His hand met Kirishima’s, who immediately hardened it around him, a solid grip that felt like home. 

“You idiot,” Katsuki laughed breathlessly, a mixture of relief and exhilaration flooding through him.

They hit the ground a minute later, somehow managing to aim themselves into a park, the bushes breaking their fall—kind of. Icy-Hot spun a wedge of ice for them to slide down, and Katsuki felt a few scratches sting as he stood up, Kirishima still holding his hand.

“Bakugou—!” Kirishima started, but before he could finish, he pulled Katsuki into a bone-crushing hug. The warmth of his friend’s embrace enveloped him, and for a moment, Katsuki let himself bask in it, a feeling of safety he hadn’t realized he was missing. Glasses and Icy-Hot stood by awkwardly, exchanging glances as if unsure how to join in. Katsuki only tolerated it for a few seconds before the pressure of the moment pulled him back into reality.

“...What the hell are you fucks wearing?” he blurted, breaking the spell.

Kirishima choked out a laugh, stepping back and dropping Katsuki’s hand. That brief moment of panic fluttered in Katsuki’s chest, but he shoved it aside. He was safe; he’d escaped.

He was okay.

All Might was dead. Well, not dead-dead. But he wasn't fucking far from it. On the screen before them, All Might stood victorious, but his form was washed out and small, looking like a shadow of his former self—a starvation victim on display for the world to see. Katsuki felt something dark coil in his chest. He did that. He caused it.

The crowd around him let out murmurs, whispers full of confusion and fear. And they should be scared. He’d shattered their symbol of peace, the one figure that represents hope in a world that was increasingly bleak. He had been a beacon, and now? Now he was a flickering candle on the verge of being snuffed out.

Katsuki’s heart raced, adrenaline coursing through him as he processed the enormity of what he’d done. He hadn’t just taken down a hero; he had dismantled the very idea of safety for so many. The weight of his actions pressed heavily on his shoulders, suffocating him like a vice.

His gaze drifted through the chaos, and he found Deku in the crowd. The moment their eyes met, something twisted painfully in Katsuki’s chest. Deku was crying. Tears streamed down his face, each droplet a testament to the hope they had all clung to, now slipping through their fingers like grains of sand.

Katsuki felt a sick churn in his gut. Deku wasn’t just the next holder of One For All; he was their future, their last line of defense. And here Katsuki was: the catalyst of All Might's fall, having played a part in crushing the very symbol of their dreams.

Deku had to be ready. The world needed All Might, or at least some version of him. Katsuki’s resolve hardened, yet an unsettling truth surfaced in the depths of his mind. He wasn’t nice. He wasn’t a good person. Not in the way that All Might had been—kind, selfless, a guiding light for others. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t become a great hero in his own right. 

The realization hit him with terrifying clarity. Katsuki was going to have to help Deku. He’d killed All Might, and now it was on him to ensure that the replacement was good enough to make up for it. He couldn’t allow the legacy of the Symbol of Peace to die with that defeat.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You better get your shit together, Deku,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

He knew the weight of what he had to do, and it felt overwhelming. If he was going to rise to the occasion, he would need to push past every obstacle, every fear that threatened to hold him back.

The chaos around him faded into a dull roar, and Katsuki’s focus sharpened. He couldn’t change the past, but he could shape the future. If Deku was going to be the next All Might, he needed to be prepared for the trials ahead. He needed to be strong, not just for himself but for everyone who would look to him for hope.

Katsuki wasn’t going to let him be number one, Katsuki still had a dream. But, he could be number two. Or three. Glasses cleared his throat, his voice wobbly.

“We should… get Bakugou to a police station.”

Chapter Text

The police station is mostly empty, a bleak place under the fluorescent lights, filled only with the quiet murmur of officers working through the night. Phones ring sporadically, and the officers clutching coffee cups look more like they’re trying to survive their shifts than actually doing any real work. Katsuki follows behind the others, his adrenaline starting to drain, leaving him raw and aching. His head pounds, his ribs feel bruised from the fire, and the dozens of cuts left on him itch like mad. He forces himself not to scratch, hoping none of it will get infected.

Beside him, Glasses clears his throat as they approach the front desk, where the night-shift receptionist looks up with a tired expression. She raises her eyebrows at Kirishima and Deku in their scuffed, makeshift costumes, their faces smudged with dirt and exhaustion. She doesn’t even see Katsuki at first, not until Glasses speaks.

“Uh, ma’am, we have Bakugou here.”

The receptionist doesn’t react immediately. Instead, she shifts her gaze back to the paperwork in front of her, thin glasses sliding down her nose. “Who?”

Katsuki swallows, and his gaze drifts to the TV mounted in the corner of the room, playing the same clip of All Might’s final battle on a loop. The news anchor is rattling off details: how All Might’s victory had been barely won, how few villains had managed to escape with injuries. Hands' broken wrist is highlighted on the screen as if it were some kind of badge of honor for the villain. Katsuki did that. But, he also killed All Might.

His escape is all over the news too—how he was trapped with the League, his kidnapping turning into a national broadcast. He clenches his jaw, feeling like the walls around him are closing in.

His chest feels tighter, his breathing labored. His ribs ache with every breath. Katsuki is glad all his clothes are dark, they're the only thing hiding the blood stains. Kirishima is looking at him worriedly. Deku gaze is also locked onto the screen.

“Bakugou Katsuki, ma’am,” Glasses says, more pointedly this time.

The receptionist’s eyes flick up, and finally, they find him. She takes in his bruised body, standing behind his classmates, and her eyes widen. She fumbles for the intercom on her desk, her hand unsteady as she presses the button. The machine buzzes, crackling with faint static.

“Yes?” A man’s voice comes through, broken up by the interference.

She glances back at Katsuki, almost as if she needs to confirm that he’s real. “Sir, you’re gonna want to see this.”

The captain, a wiry man with a pinched face and thin lips, glides out of the office behind the desk. His uniform is crisp, every line sharp, like he’s spent the entire night waiting for a moment like this. Katsuki’s chest tightens as he realizes the man’s eyes are already on him, scrutinizing.

“Bakugou? Bakugou Katsuki?” the captain asks, voice sharp.

Katsuki nods, his scowl already creeping back onto his face, jaw set. He’s exhausted, and he can feel the pulse of pain in his cuts and bruises, his muscles sore and his head pounding. The captain doesn’t look away from him, just gestures to an officer standing nearby.

“Take the kid into a room, get him some water.”

An officer approaches and places a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder—too close, too casual. It lands directly on an open cut. The sting is sudden and sharp, and Katsuki snarls, jerking his shoulder back as he edges toward Kirishima and Deku. He feels more exposed than ever under the station’s cold lights, and he doesn’t like how much he just wants to lean back into them for support.

The officer pauses, hand frozen in the air like Katsuki might bite if he moves too fast. He lifts his palms, backing off, and there’s an uncomfortable silence between them. Kirishima’s eyes flash with a warning, and even Deku, worn out as he is, looks tense. But then he catches the glint in the captain’s eye—a glint that says he’s already reading Katsuki, already making assumptions. Katsuki’s stomach twists, anger and something else—a prickling anxiety—curling under his ribs.

The officer clears his throat, breaking the silence. “...This way.”

Katsuki takes one last look at his classmates, something inside him twisting as he realizes he doesn’t want to be alone with these people. But he squares his shoulders and trudges after the officer, shoving his trembling hands into his pockets. He can do this. He’s gotten through worse. This is the easy part.

It’s an interrogation room. Of course it is.

Katsuki stands in the doorway, taking in the sterile walls, the harsh lights, the metal chair that gleams dully under the fluorescents. Everything is cold, impersonal. The officer gestures for him to sit, and without waiting for another command, Katsuki steps into the room, his shoes sounding too loud against the hard tile. He takes the chair facing the one-way glass. For a second, he just stares at it, the surface reflecting back a faint, ghostly image of himself.

They don’t have any other rooms, Katsuki convinces himself. They don’t know about the ring.

He looks like hell. Blood smudges streak his face and hands, the dark circles under his eyes blending into the bruises spreading across his skin. He’s gray, worn-down, and he feels every inch of it, like he’s barely holding himself up. The room’s silence presses in on him, every breath loud in the too-bright space. His mind buzzes in the quiet, replaying the chaos of the last two days on a loop. Every bruise, every cut feels magnified under the lights.

After a few seconds, the door creaks open, and the captain strides in. His expression is unreadable as he closes the door behind him, taking his time before he finally sits down facing away from the glass. The silence stretches out, brittle and tense.

Katsuki stands stiffly behind the metal chair, his gaze flicking to the clip on the table. It’s where they cuff people, suspects, criminals. He knows he’s not technically under arrest, but it still feels like they’re trying to box him in, to corner him with cold walls and sterile lights.

He drops into the seat, keeping his hands under the table, away from the captain’s pitying stare. The silence stretches, punctuated by the faint hum of the light above them, the harshness of it making his head throb harder. Katsuki bites his cheek to keep from growling, from saying anything that’ll give them something to twist against him. The captain clears his throat, glancing at his file. 

“Bakugou Katsuki,” he begins, voice soft in a way that grates against Katsuki’s nerves. “You've been through a lot.”

Katsuki doesn’t answer, his jaw set tight, refusing to give this man any part of him to dissect. He just waits, his hands curling into fists in his lap.

The captain leans forward, gaze probing as he finally meets Katsuki’s eyes. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, in your own words?”

“What part, exactly?” he says, his voice low, nearly a growl. 

The captain taps the desk, but doesn’t comment on Katsuki’s tone. “Let’s start from the beginning, son.”

Katsuki’s head pounds, but nods. He grits his teeth, showing vulnerability to a stranger? He doesn’t want to tell this guy anything. He doesn’t want to tell anyone anything ever again.

“Patches pulled me through the-”

“No,” The captain interrupts. “You were in the forest first right? Who were you with?”

Katsuki blinks, did the investigation only start after he was saved? Katsuki has studied the protocol. They should have gotten everyone’s statements before now. 

“I was with Icy-Hot–”

“Icy-Hot?”

Katsuki’s eye twitches at the constant interruptions. “Endeavors kid.”

“Ah, Todoroki? You two are friends?” The captain scribbles something into the file. “That was quite the showdown at that festival.”

Katsuki feels like he’s getting whiplash. “We’re not friends.”

“So, why were you with him?”

Katsuki takes a moment, punch and breathe. They have to ask questions. It’s the whole point of an investigation, reports are a bitch to write when you don't have the right information.

“They had come up with a game for the camp. We had to find these fucking cards with our names on them, while the other extra’s tried to scare us. Icy-Hot followed me.”

The captain nods. “And then you all heard Mandalay’s message.”

Katsuki nods. “Me and him turned to run back–”

“There wasn’t anyone else around you?”

“- me and him turned back.” Katsuki waits for another interruption before continuing. His hands clench, muffling the pops. “But the forest was on fire-”

“From the way you had come?”

“--and we had to go the long way around. I heard something-” Katsuki jaw clenches. 

“What?”

“I heard something-” Katsuki tries to repeat himself.

“And what did you hear?”

“Like a thump or something, I don’t fucking know!”

“A thump or you don’t know? Did Todoroki not hear it too?” The captain fires off.

“A thump, No- Maybe- Next thing I know Patches is pulling me into the mist.” 

Katsuki’s fingers dig into his palms, his nails biting at bruised skin. The captain’s tone is relentless, pressing, asking questions too fast for him to answer properly. Katsuki’s body aches with a cold exhaustion that seems to seep from the sterile walls, and he’s still sitting here in the same charred, bloody clothes he’s had on for three days.

He barely finishes one sentence before the captain is on him again. “How did they know?”

“Know what?” Katsuki snaps, frustration blurring his thoughts.

The captain’s response is immediate, precise. “Where the camp was.”

The question is thrown at him quickly, like bait—like Katsuki will let something slip before he even knows what he’s saying. But he catches the trap. This isn’t just questioning; this is a full-on interrogation. Katsuki’s jaw clenches, the realization only fueling his anger.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he levels the captain with a look that says exactly what he’s thinking. Katsuki’s not stupid, and he knows he’s not at fault here.

The captain holds his gaze, then sighs, feigning patience. “I’m just trying to get the full picture, son. You were there, weren’t you?”

Katsuki’s mouth twists into a scowl. “Yeah. I was there, getting dragged halfway across the country and getting the shit beaten out of me. What else do you want to know?”

The captain leans forward, his voice low, attempting some kind of sympathy. “I know this is hard, Bakugou. But the fact is, they took you, and they didn’t just let you walk out. So why you?”

Katsuki grits his teeth, stomach twisting as he remembers Hands’ voice, Patches flames, and the blades. The threats. They’d tried to recruit him, yes. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. He’s about to answer when the memory of their last idea surges back.

“..Nomu’s.”

“Nomu’s?”

“The purple things the League-”

“I know what a Nomu is, son. What’s it got to do with you?”

Katsuki swallows, sweat gathering on his palms. “They said if I didn’t agree to join them, they’d make me one.” 

The captain’s eyes widen slightly, then narrow, as if he’s trying to process what he’s just heard. The quiet hum of the interrogation room fills the space between them, oppressive and tense. For a moment, the captain just stares at him, his usually unreadable face showing a trace of shock, maybe even horror.

Katsuki keeps his gaze fixed on a spot on the table, jaw clenched tight. He’d managed to keep it together this far, his voice cold and steady. But the memory of their threats, the idea of being twisted and hollowed out into one of those things—it’s a kind of fear he’s never known, one that clenches his stomach and burns behind his eyes.

The captain shifts in his chair, lowering his voice. “So they wanted to turn you into… a weapon.”

Katsuki nods once, sharply, his hands forming fists under the table. “They wanted me to join. And if I didn’t…” He trails off, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

“... they’d make you a Nomu.” The captain’s voice is softer now, almost tentative, as though he doesn’t know what to do with this information. He scribbles something on his notepad, and Katsuki clenches his fists tighter. He knows that sympathy might be normal for most people, but right now it feels like pity.

“They said it’d be a waste not to, that my quirk was ‘worth it,’ or something,” Katsuki mutters, his tone dipping as he recalls Hands’ sick smile, the clinical way he’d talked about him like he was a commodity. “Guess they thought it’d be useful.”

The captain doesn’t respond immediately, just watches him with an intensity that makes Katsuki feel exposed, like he’s been turned inside out. He’s about to snap something back—tell him to stop looking at him like that—when the door creaks open.

Katsuki stares for a moment. Unable to connect the warm, bubbly fighter he knows to the Kira he’s looking at. Her suit is pressed, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. The heels she’s wearing add about four inches to her height, temporarily taller than Katsuki . Her presence fills the room in an instant, shifting the air with a sharp, forceful energy. She glances from the captain to Katsuki, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the look on Katsuki’s face.

“That’s enough.” Her voice is cold, firm, each word cutting through the tension like a blade. She turns her gaze to the captain, her expression hard as steel. “This interview is over.”

The captain opens his mouth, fumbling for words, clearly caught off guard. Katsuki knows how he feels. She's a lawyer? He can hardly believe it, hardly believe she's here.

“Takahashi-san, I was just—”

“You’re done here,” she cuts him off, her tone brooking no argument. “Questioning a minor without counsel or any legal guardian? You’re skating on very thin ice, Captain.”

The captain’s face goes taut, his hand instinctively tightening on his notepad. “This is standard procedure, Takahashi-san. We just wanted to—”

“And I want to make it very clear that this isn’t happening again. If you have questions for him, you’ll go through me. Is that understood?”

She doesn’t wait for his reply, just fixes him with a look so piercing that the captain finally sighs, collecting his notes with slow, reluctant movements. When he stands, he gives Katsuki a final, lingering look before slipping out the door without another word.

There’s a moment where Katsuki just sits there, bewildered, as Kira shifts from the no-nonsense lawyer to the warm, familiar figure he knows. He’s too stunned to speak, still processing the way she just cleared out the room with nothing more than her words and a steely glare. The air still crackles with the remnants of her authority, but now, her focus is all on him, softening in a way that makes his throat tighten unexpectedly.

He didn’t know her full name, her real job, or anything important about her life thirty seconds ago. And yet here she was, in the middle of the night, in a crisp suit with her sleeves rolled up like she was ready to fight anyone in his way.

“Kira, what are you—”

“Are you okay?” she asks, brushing off his protest as she dabs the edge of the handkerchief over a dried cut on his cheek.  Her touch is firm but gentle, cleaning the dirt and dried blood with a precision that’s somehow comforting.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, he doesn’t pull back. It’s a clear sign something is wrong. And she knows it too.

“Katsuki.”

For a second, he doesn’t respond, his gaze dropping to the floor. He wants to argue, to put up his usual walls, but it’s hard to keep them up when Kira’s looking at him like that—like she actually cares, like she’s willing to fight anyone who makes the mistake of pushing him.

Finally, he nods, almost imperceptibly, but she catches it, a small smile tugging at her lips as she tucks the handkerchief back into her pocket.

The room feels strangely still as Kira finishes, her hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment as if anchoring him. Katsuki’s mind is still buzzing with adrenaline, frustration, and exhaustion, but there’s a warmth settling in his chest he can’t shake. He’s never seen anyone clear a room like that— especially not for him. 

“Kira, what are you doing here?” he says, trying to find his usual edge, but it sounds hollow. “You didn’t have—”

“Yes, I did,” she interrupts softly, her gaze unbreakable. “Katsuki, they had no right to question you like that. Not alone, not tonight. Not after what you’ve been through.” Her tone shifts, the fierce edge of a protector. “I made sure they knew that.”

Katsuki clenches his jaw, glancing away. He hates needing help, hates how exposed he feels under the fluorescent lights and in front of the one-way glass. But the idea that she came just to make sure he was safe—that she’d bulldoze anyone who tried to take advantage of him—settles over him, a quiet relief that feels almost foreign.

The door slams open with a bang that echoes off the sterile walls, making Katsuki jump violently. Instinct kicks in, and he reflexively grabs Kira’s arm, as if trying to hide behind her. The move is childish, but his heart races like a drum in his chest.

Just as quickly, he forces himself to regain composure, releasing her with an irritated huff, glaring at the intruder with an intensity that dares them to comment on his moment of weakness. He can’t let anyone see how shaken he is, especially not now.

But then he makes eye contact with someone he hasn’t seen in about seven months.

“Katsuki,” hisses his mother, her voice a sharp whisper that cuts through the tension. Behind her, his father stands a step back, pale and sweaty, looking as if he’s just run a marathon.

The sight of his mother brings a rush of conflicting emotions—relief mixed with dread. What the hell are they doing here? Her eyes widen as she takes in the bruises and remaining dirt smudged across his face, the way his clothes hang on him like he’s been through hell.

“What the fuck happened?” she asks, her voice filled with a frantic edge.

Katsuki’s stomach twists at the question, the air thick with tension. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words feel heavy and wrong, tangled up with anger and pain. What does she want him to say? That he’s fine?

“Don’t you have the news in Germany?” he snaps, defensiveness slipping out before he can stop it. He doesn’t want them here, doesn’t want their concern crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

Kira steps closer, her posture radiating authority as she stands behind him, a hand on his shoulder. “Bakugou-san, it’s not safe for him to be questioned without counsel. You should go,” she urges, her tone firm but not unkind.

His mother’s gaze flicks between Katsuki and Kira, confusion and concern swirling in her expression. “I’m not leaving him. And who are—”

Katsuki interrupts, frustration boiling over. He can’t stand the thought of them hovering over him, especially now, when every moment feels like it could tip into chaos. “I’m fine! Just—stop worrying!”

His father finally speaks up, his voice shaky and unsure. “Katsuki, we came as soon as we heard. We were worried sick—”

“Worried about what?!” Katsuki barks, his voice echoing off the cold walls. “I’m the one who was out there, not you! I didn’t need your help then, and I don’t need it now!”

The words spill out like venom, cutting deep. He can feel his heart pounding, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He knows he’s spiraling, that anger is consuming him, and yet it feels almost liberating. They left. They left him alone for months, and now they come rushing in like saviors, like they have a right to be here? Rage festers in his chest, hot and bitter like a wound that won’t heal. It's the last straw. His parents being here, it opens up a pit of hurt and he just can't deal with it now.

A heavy silence falls over the room, tension hanging thick in the air. Kira shifts slightly, her presence grounding him, but even that can’t quell the storm inside. Katsuki’s chest heaves, adrenaline still pumping in his veins, and he can’t shake the feeling that everything is slipping out of his control again.

“Please, Katsuki,” his mother says, her voice breaking slightly. “We didn’t know what was happening—”

“Exactly!” Katsuki snaps back, the bitterness lacing his words. “You didn’t know. You were gone and you should have stayed gone! ”

His father looks pained, and Katsuki feels a flicker of guilt gnawing at him. It’s a twist of the knife; he’s aware of the damage he’s inflicting, but the hurt is too raw, too fresh. He isn’t a coat they can hang up and forget about until they want to play house again.

The anger is too overwhelming, drowning out any other feeling. He fights against it, but it keeps surging, relentless and ugly. He’s being dramatic and childish, he knows that. But he’s hurt and tired and wants to curl up in Kyo’s apartment and fall asleep to the sounds of the ring—something familiar, something that feels safe.

Kira speaks, the same tone she used with the officers. “You two should go.”

His parents blink, like they don’t know who they’re seeing when they look at him. For a moment, Katsuki thinks they’ll fight it. That his mother will demand an explanation, that his father will try to talk to him. That’s been Katsuki’s image of his parents for years, determined and pushy.

As he watches them leave, he figures that he doesn’t really know them either.

Kira sits quietly beside him, a steady presence against the tumult of Katsuki’s emotions. He feels like he’s burning from the inside out, a whirlwind of frustration and vulnerability that threatens to overwhelm him. Yet, in her calm demeanor, he finds a rare comfort, a fleeting respite from the chaos swirling in his mind. Opening up has never been his strong suit, but the way Kira stands beside him—solid and unwavering—makes the prospect feel a little less daunting.

“Why did you come?” Katsuki asks, the question slipping out before he can stop himself. “You barely know me.”

She smiles, a sad, knowing smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t I?”

Katsuki falters, unable to find a response. Does she? Kira knows he’s a student at UA, she’s watched him in the ring, seen the way he trains and pushes himself. She’s helped him study and prepare for his fights. Maybe Kira and Kyo are the only people who really see him, the ones who understand the pressure he feels to succeed.

The thought makes something tighten in his throat. He’s not used to this level of scrutiny, this idea of being known so intimately. It scares him, but also makes him feel less alone.

“Can we go home?” he chokes out, the words heavy on his tongue. The simple thought of leaving this sterile room behind, of stepping back into a world that feels safe and familiar, stirs something deep within him. Home isn’t just a place; it’s a feeling he’s been longing for, Katsuki wants to be somewhere he knows. 

Kira freezes, and Katsuki feels dread creeping up his spine. Does she not want to bring him anywhere? Did he read it wrong? 

“Katsuki.. The place you were taken to was Kamino.” Her voice is shaky, her face suddenly pale.

Kamino. The same Kamino where the gym was? A district full of lowlifes, where heroes rarely set foot?  Kamino where Katsuki has spent the last three years carving out a place for himself? Katsuki can’t think, his head feels hot. He stares at Kira, the weight of her words settling like a heavy fog in his mind. 

“Kamino?” he repeats, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Yes,” Kira replies, looking down at her hands. She reaches out and takes his. “Katsuki… Kyo was in the gym.”

“No.” Katsuki says, but he knows where this is going. He knows.

“Katsuki, it’s not your fault. The gym.. The roof caved in. I didn’t know until I saw the news.” Her voice is shaking. “Kyo- he was–”

“No,” he repeats, the word a desperate plea against the reality crashing down on him. 

Katsuki feels the world tilt on its axis, the ground beneath him unsteady. He squeezes Kira's hand tightly, as if holding onto her can keep him anchored in this moment, but the heaviness in his chest pulls him deeper into despair. He’s going to be sick.

“He can’t be gone. He was just… he was fine. He was—”

Her voice breaks. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki. I didn’t want to tell you like this, but you need to know. By the time I got there he was already...”

The finality of her words echoes in his mind, resonating with a pain so sharp it nearly steals his breath. Katsuki swallows hard, fighting against the tightness in his throat. He thinks of the countless hours he spent training in that gym, the laughter they shared, the safety and the anger and the fights. Gone, along with Kyo.

“No,” Katsuki says again, his voice trembling now, cracking under the weight of his emotions. “He was supposed to be there when I got back.”

Katsuki saw Kyo three days ago. Did Katsuki even say goodbye? He can’t remember. His vision blurs and it takes him a minute to realize he’s crying. Did Kyo know? Did he know how grateful Katsuki was? Did Katsuki ever thank him?

“None of this was your fault,” Kira insists, her voice weak. “The League of Villains was unpredictable. You were just caught up in something you couldn’t control. None of us could have known.”

Katsuki cracks, the words falling out of him. “Was he alone?”

Katsuki doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to think about it. Did Kyo die alone? Was he scared? Did it hurt? Was he– Katsuki pulls his hands out of Kira’s grip, and leans onto the table. Katsuki can’t breathe. He’s going to be sick.

“Was he alone? ” 

The question hangs in the air, sharp and heavy, cutting through Kira's attempts at reassurance. Katsuki’s voice wavers, trembling with the weight of his emotions, and he hates the desperation that seeps through.

Kira hesitates, searching for the right words, and Katsuki knows she’s struggling. The answer is etched on her face, the pity in her eyes, and it shatters something inside him. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to picture Kyo’s last moments—the fear, the loneliness, the pain. The thought grips him like a vice, tightening around his chest until he can hardly breathe. A wave of nausea surges through him, and he doubles over, emptying his stomach onto the floor.

“Katsuki,” Kira starts softly, but he can’t bear to hear her voice right now. He pulls his hands away from her grip, feeling an overwhelming urge to escape the suffocating reality of the situation. He leans over the table, trying to ground himself, but it only amplifies the chaos swirling in his mind.

“Stop,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut as if that will block out the images flooding in. “Just stop.”

She stops. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, wheezing. Is Katsuki a murderer now? He ended All Might and killed Kyo. Maybe the captain was right to interrogate him. Maybe Katsuki should be in the cell next to All for one, where he can’t hurt anyone else. 

“Katsuki, let’s go, yeah?”

Her voice is soft. He knows she’s hurting just as much as he is– hell, probably more. Katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest, a relentless drum echoing the chaos in his mind. He shakes his head violently, pushing away Kira’s suggestion like it’s a lifeline he can’t grasp.

“I can’t,” he gasps, each breath coming in shaky bursts. “I can’t face anyone. Not right now.”

He can’t bear the thought of being around others, of seeing their pity or their concern. He feels like he’s been hollowed out, the core of who he is crumbling into dust, and all he wants to do is disappear.

“You won’t have to. We’ll go to my car, I have a spare room. Stay as long as you’d like.”

As he rises to his feet, the world feels unsteady, like the ground beneath him might give way at any moment. 

Kira’s apartment is nice. It’s sleek and modern, an open-concept space with minimalist décor that feels both inviting and stark at the same time. The lights are off in every room, and the soft glow of the streetlights outside casts a muted ambiance across the sleek furniture and polished surfaces. It reminds Katsuki of his own house— rich, bland and ever so lonely.

He stands just inside the door, taking it all in. The walls are painted in soft grays and whites, adorned with abstract art that feels distant and unapproachable. There’s a faint scent of something comforting in the air, maybe the remnants of a meal Kira prepared earlier, but it does little to warm the coldness settling in his chest.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Kira says, her voice breaking through his thoughts. She walks to the living room and flicks on a lamp, illuminating the space with a warm, golden hue. Katsuki follows her, still feeling out of place.

He sinks into the couch, its cushions deep and plush, but it feels like sitting on the edge of a precipice. He glances around, feeling like a stranger in a space that’s so different from his own. The silence in the apartment is thick, almost suffocating, and he can’t shake the sense of isolation creeping in.

Kira busies herself in the kitchen, her movements fluid and purposeful. Katsuki watches her, trying to focus on anything other than the turmoil churning inside him. He feels a weight pressing down on him, a heaviness that settles in his bones, suffocating in its intensity.

As she opens a side closet, he sees her rummaging through the space, and a flicker of curiosity draws his attention. She pulls out a bag, and his heart drops. It’s his—his gym bag, the one he hadn’t even thought to grab when he left for the training camp.

His old clothes are inside, the familiar weight of his gloves resting against the side, and even his phone, which feels like a lifeline to a world he’s suddenly so disconnected from. 

“Thanks,” he manages to say, his voice catching slightly. The simple gesture means more than he can articulate.

Kira walks over, placing the bag beside him on the couch. “I figured you might want some of your things back. I wasn’t sure what else to do, but I thought it might help.”

Katsuki stares at the bag, a mix of emotions flooding through him—gratitude, nostalgia, and a painful reminder of everything he’s lost. He feels a wave of memories wash over him: the scent of the gym, the feel of the ring beneath his feet. How did she get this? He doesn’t want to know.

As he unzips the bag, the familiar sight of his gear brings a bittersweet ache to his chest. He pulls out the gloves first, running his fingers over the worn, thick cotton. They’ve been with him through countless matches, victories and defeats. It was another thing Kyo gave him, another thing Katsuki took for granted.

“Are you okay?” Kira asks gently, concern lacing her voice as she observes him.

He hums, but doesn’t answer. Kira gives him a few more soft words of encouragement, directing him to the bathroom and pointing out the spare room before she slips away, disappearing into her own space for the night. There’s a picture on the table, it’s her and Kyo. They look young, they look happy. Katsuki’s eyes burn.

He drags himself into the shower, the hot water washing over him like a cleansing wave. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, letting it cascade down his body, hoping to scrub away the remnants of the night—the blood and grime fall into the drain. Afterward, he wanders into the spare room, instinctively cracking the window to let in a breath of fresh air, the cool night breeze mixing with the lingering steam from the shower.

He tosses the bloody clothes into the hamper with a grimace, the sight of them a stark reminder of everything he wants to ignore. Digging through his gym bag, he finds a clean pair of sweatpants and a comfortable shirt, the familiar fabric feeling like a fragile shield against the world.

As he moves around the room, he tends to his scratches and injuries. They aren’t nearly as bad as he thought. The cuts are shallow, the burns barely first degree. He knows that the League could have killed him, the only reason they didn’t is because they wanted to recruit him. Katsuki would make them pay for that mistake.

Katsuki clenches his fists, his resolve hardening in the face of his grief. He doesn’t know how yet, but he knows one thing: he can’t let Kyo’s death be for nothing. He thinks of Deku, of the fights ahead, and the promise he’ll make to himself right here. 

The weight of it all settles heavily on his shoulders, but beneath it, he feels the fire that kept him going all these years—a determination. Deku will be the next All Might. He’ll make sure of it. And to start, he needs to go back to Kamino.

Katsuki waits until he hears Kira’s soft sobs fade into silence before he makes his move. The quiet of the apartment envelops him, a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. With careful steps, he approaches the window, keeping it ajar just enough to slip back inside when he returns.

He climbs onto the fire escape, the metal cool against his palms as climbs down. The fourth floor isn’t too high, but the distance still stirs a familiar adrenaline within him. He pauses for a moment, taking in the cityscape spread out before him, the flickering lights below a reminder that life continues on, even in the midst of his turmoil.

He knows where he’s headed—Kamino. The memories of the gym flood his mind as he reaches the bottom. It’s been a sanctuary for him, a place of growth and resilience, and now it’s something he broke. Something he ruined. The gym was for other people too, Katsuki took that away from them as well.

As he lands on the ground, Katsuki’s heart races, not from fear, but from the fire of determination burning within him. He heads toward Kamino, the streets familiar yet haunting, each corner echoing with the ghosts of his past. The moonlight bathes the path, guiding him as he walks through the district crawling with memories—some good, some painful. He knows these streets. He knows them so well it hurts.

Katsuki stands at the edge of the cordoned-off area, his heart racing as he takes in the sight before him. The bright yellow police tape flutters in the wind, a stark reminder of the chaos that unfolded just days ago. The gym, once a place of solace and strength, now lies in ruins, a pile of twisted metal and crumbling concrete. It’s as if the heart of his world has been ripped out and discarded.

He can see the rubble from where he stands, the remnants of the structure scattered like leaves to the wind. It’s surreal, this difference of what was here and what’s left. He remembers the laughter, the late-night training sessions, the sense of belonging that Kyo had fostered within those walls. Now, all that remains is a haunting silence, a pale ghost of itself.

Katsuki’s fists clench at his sides, a surge of anger and despair coursing through him. How could this happen? The gym was on the outskirts, away from the bar, away from the League of Villains. It should have been safe, untouched by the chaos that often plagued the city. It should have been fine.

He knows the gym is gone, reduced to rubble, but he needs to be there. He needs to confront what’s left behind, to pay his respects to Kyo, and to reclaim the space that once felt like home. The thought of being in that space, even amidst the destruction, sends a shiver of resolve through him.

As he approaches the site, the devastation hits him like a punch to the gut. The remains of the gym lie scattered across the ground, the walls crumbling and the ring silent. It’s eerily quiet, save for the distant sounds of the city that feels worlds away from this place.

No heroes are left, no police, no media. It’s completely silent. No one other than him wanders through the ruins. 

Katsuki steps cautiously over the debris, every instinct screaming to turn back, but he pushes through the heaviness in his chest. He makes his way to the center of what was once the ring, feeling the familiar ground beneath his feet. He can almost hear the echoes of Kyo’s voice, the crowd, the ring. Katsuki has won a million times in this spot. He learned to pick himself back up here. 

He’s hit with a wave of exhaustion and drops to a pile of debris, the rubble cutting into his palms as he steadies himself on it. The grief washes over him like a tidal wave, pulling him under. But amidst the sorrow, he feels angry and Katsuki does anger best. He’s going to make it right. He doesn’t know how yet, but he’ll do right by Kyo. He will.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words heavy with emotion. “so fucking sorry”

Chapter Text

Two days later, Katsuki finally goes back home. He’s spent those days doing little more than sleeping and picking at food, his energy drained to the point that even getting dressed feels like a victory. He’d tried to handle his injuries on his own, but Kira—who’d seen the results of his painful first attempt—had gently taken over, rewrapping the burns and cuts with practiced care. 

He’s not stupid enough to ignore the fact that he's been losing weight. His muscles look lithe instead of how they used to be. Strong cords weaving across his shoulders and arms, instead of the healthy layer of fat he had. Katsuki knows the lack of fat isn’t good. It means he’ll be colder, he won’t be able to take the hits he used to. Kira knows too.  

She had patted his back as she finished, saying he should come by again soon, mentioning something about needing to go over Kyo’s will with him. The second she started talking about Kyo, Katsuki bolted from the apartment. He couldn’t face it. Face her.

Just the sound of Kyo’s name stirred too much, rattling the fragile calm he’d pieced together over those two days. And in the quiet moments, plans and thoughts kept swirling, ideas he didn’t even know how to start on: How could he help Deku train? How could he ever properly honor Kyo? What could he possibly do to start fixing all the things he fucked up?

When he gets home, he’s surprised to find the house pristine. His parents car sits neatly in the driveway, a familiar sight that somehow feels out of place now. He stands there a moment, heart pounding, the knot in his chest tightening. He’s not ready to face them—not after everything that happened at the police station, not after he told them, in no uncertain terms, to stay the fuck out of his life. But the house is silent, too silent, and he hesitates, uncertain.

When he finally steps inside, the silence stretches around him, heavy and thick. There’s no sound from the kitchen, no voices from down the hall, not even the soft hum of a TV left on in the living room. Katsuki’s nerves prickle, but he keeps moving, his footsteps cautious as if any sound might break some fragile truce. He checks the kitchen first, expecting to find his mother at the counter or his father buried in his usual stack of paperwork, but the room is empty, as if no one’s touched it in days. He steps out, glancing down the hallway, but it’s just as empty, the closed doors giving nothing away.

As he heads upstairs, he feels a nervous sweat gathering on his palms. The quiet isn’t helping—it only sharpens his nerves. He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, but something about walking through the house unsettles him, as though he’s an intruder in his own home, an outsider trespassing in this carefully maintained silence. 

What if the incident at the station really was the last straw? Maybe his outburst made things worse than he thought; maybe this silence means something more than he wants to admit. It’s the first time he’s wondered if his parents’ indifference has finally solidified into something permanent.

He stops just outside his room, hesitating. He half-expects someone to appear behind him, to call his name sharply, or to demand where he’s been. But no one comes. Only the faint echo of his own breathing fills the stillness around him. He closes the door behind him softly. Katsuki’s family is in a cold war.

He sits on his bed for a moment, hands twisting, before he pulls his shit together. Katsuki moves to his closet, reaching past old school books and discarded gear to pull out a whiteboard he’d used for cramming during UA’s theory exams. Setting it up by the window, he takes a marker and stands there for a second, just staring at the blank white surface before finally starting to write.

He runs a hand through his hair, thinking of the endless workouts, the hours of grinding it out, bleeding and sweating until he could barely see straight. Those fights had pushed him past every limit. But there’s a small, grim satisfaction in the idea that those same skills, the brutal training he’d put himself through, might serve a different purpose now.

The first line he scrawls across the board is strength, underlined twice, the letters digging deep into the board. Deku’s got determination, more than anyone Katsuki knows, and he bulked up for UA, but it’s not enough. And that’s not something that changes with pep talks or good intentions; it needs raw muscle, unbreakable stamina, resilience. 

Katsuki knows exactly what it takes because he’s lived it, felt his bones strain and his lungs burn until he was half-dead on the mat. If Deku’s going to survive this, he needs the same level of commitment. Or as close as Katsuki can get him without breaking him.

He starts sketching out a regimen, each exercise burned into his memory from grueling repetitions: weighted squats, deadlifts, resistance drills that left his own muscles screaming. Every set, every cycle calculated to build strength in the right places, to build a body that won’t crumble when things get bloody. Core Strengthening, he scribbles next, already piecing together the exercises Deku would need to withstand blows and keep himself grounded.

Then there’s the matter of stamina. Katsuki doesn’t hold back—he plots out intense circuits: long-distance runs, sprint intervals, hellish drills that would push Deku’s endurance to the edge. By the end, Deku should be able to go toe-to-toe with anyone without gasping for air, without faltering for a second. 

He moves to Diet and sketches out a basic plan, keeping it protein-heavy. Deku would need to get bigger, and fast. Lean meats, protein shakes, eggs, and legumes in absurd quantities. Every ounce of muscle would count. Katsuki remembers choking down similar meals, every mouthful calculated to build his body into something indestructible. A humorless smirk tugs at his lips. He imagines Deku’s face when he realizes what he’s in for—no more skipping meals or living off convenience store junk.

The last section, Techniques, gnaws at him more than the others. There are things he could show Deku, moves he learned in the ring that would give him an edge. It would mean teaching him the kind of strikes and blocks that only come from actual, desperate brawling. A jab that breaks through defenses. A stance that keeps him balanced, even when the hits come hard and fast. 

He shakes his head. Those lessons came from a world Deku wouldn’t understand, from an underground ring where there were no heroes and no forgiveness. Katsuki would never explain where he learned it all, never say what those bruises, broken knuckles, and split lips cost him. Deku has no place in that world. Not like Katsuki does.

But the idea is there, a stubborn resolve buried under his guilt, his grief. He can’t go back and change what happened, can’t bring All Might back or erase the things he’s done. But maybe, just maybe, he can give Deku a fighting chance. And if it takes a little blood, a little of that unforgiving brutality, so be it. Katsuki made Deku’s life hell for all of middle school, why break a habit?

Katsuki knows he’s better than Deku. His quirk is better, his brain is smarter. Katsuki is incredible at everything he does. But Katsuki isn’t the successor. He needs to bring Deku up to his level. 

His writing slows as his mind wanders, thinking back to Kyo. It’s almost physically painful, but Katsuki forces himself to write his name in small letters on the board, this is for Katsuki too. 

The gym. That had been Kyo’s sanctuary, a place that had meant something to him, a place where you could give into the worst part of yourself, with people who get it. If Katsuki wants to honor him, if he’s going to make up for all of it… he knows what he has to do.

He’s going to bring the gym back.

Katsuki drags himself up the driveway, his boots scuffing against the pavement as exhaustion pulls at every inch of his body. Each step feels heavier than the last, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a day spent clearing rubble. Every muscle in his body screams in protest, strained and overworked from hours of hauling debris and blasting through the heavier chunks with controlled bursts of his quirk. He doesn’t stop to stretch or even wipe the sweat dripping down his face; the grit has already streaked into his skin, mixing with the dust that clings to his clothes like a second layer.

Kamino remains abandoned. It was bad before, only a stray few people would wander there, now it’s a ghost town. Katsuki hasn’t seen one person since he started clearing the rubble. Not one. It has its advantages– he doesn’t need to explain himself to anyone– but it also creates doubt. What if everyone has forgotten about the gym? Moved on?

The sharp sting in his palms brings him back, the result of overusing his explosions. He doesn’t bother checking if the skin is blistered or raw—there’s no point. Katsuki knows he’ll just slap a bandage on them later and keep going tomorrow. The ache in his body, the sharp throbs in his hands—it’s all worth it. This isn’t just busywork or an excuse to wear himself out. It’s necessary.

The gym wasn’t just a building. It had been Kyo’s home, the place where he’d poured his life and energy, his sweat and blood. To Katsuki, it was more than just a space filled with the hum of gruff voices, the thud of fists meeting heavy bags, and the sharp sting of adrenaline from late-night matches. 

That’s why he didn’t stop working. Letting it stay in shambles felt like abandoning Kyo all over again. So, he stayed until the sky bled into shades of orange and purple, his stomach twisting with hunger he ignored, his lungs burning from the dust kicked up by every blast and every shifted piece of rubble. Katsuki didn’t know how to build the gym back up yet—not entirely—but the clearing had to start somewhere. Piece by piece, bit by bit, he’d tear it all down until it was just a clean slate.

Kira had explained that he shouldn’t worry about who owns what. Kyo had owned that land for as long as she could remember and after she’s able to work her way through the will. Katsuki will know exactly what is going to happen, though he supposes it will go to Kira. Katsuki never saw them do anything, but he saw the way they looked at each other. He tries not to think about it. 

And now, standing at the threshold of his house, the reality of his exhaustion starts to hit. His limbs feel like lead, and there’s a faint ringing in his ears from the hours of quirk use. He hasn’t eaten all day, barely even stopped to drink water. Katsuki’s mind spins briefly as his body catches up with him, but he forces himself to stay upright.

The sight of his house, clean and pristine as always, feels like a slap in the face. It doesn’t match the chaos swirling in his chest or the grime sticking to his skin. It doesn’t match the way his brain keeps replaying memories of Kyo—teaching him how to throw a better punch, growling at him to hold his ground in the ring. Katsuki swallows hard, his throat dry and tight.

He wants it back. He wants to be able to curl up in Kyo’s bed and sulk like a child. He wants the fights and the fun and the routine back. Katsuki isn’t sure he’s ever going to be able to accept that it's gone. 

He glances back toward the street, almost wanting to turn around and head back to the gym’s remains, to stay there even if it meant sleeping on the cold ground. But his legs won’t cooperate. They drag him forward, up the steps, and into the hollow quiet of his home. 

The sight of a sleek gray car parked outside his house pulls him out of his thoughts. He slows his pace, frowning at the unfamiliar vehicle. It’s too polished to be Kira’s and too plain to belong to any of his parents’ socialite friends. Katsuki’s stomach twists as suspicion creeps in, the exhaustion from the day suddenly replaced with an edge of alertness.

His parents’ car is in the driveway, its polished surface gleaming like it hasn’t been moved in weeks. Katsuki wipes his palms on his pants, trying to shake the lingering grime before stepping inside. They haven’t spoken to him yet.

The house smells faintly of cleaner, the air conditioned and stale in the way it always is when his parents have been gone for a while. But the moment he steps into the entryway, he hears voices—low, murmuring tones coming from the living room. He freezes for a second, listening. 

Low, murmuring tones drift from the living room, unfamiliar yet too close for comfort. He freezes, his pulse quickening, then strains to listen.

It’s the first real sign of his parents since he’d gotten home. Lately, they’ve been avoiding him—or maybe he’s the one doing the avoiding. Katsuki doesn’t know anymore, and it’s not like it matters. His fingers absently pick at a bandage near his collarbone as he rounds the corner, his mind already bracing for a fight.

The sight that greets him isn’t what he expects.

Aizawa Sensei is seated on the couch, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. Beside him is All Might, his hulking frame diminished but still carrying the weight of his presence, the golden-haired hero impossible to mistake even in retirement. He looks thin. Weak. 

Katsuki’s parents sit opposite them, his mother ramrod straight with her arms crossed, while his father stares down at his clasped hands like they hold the answers to everything wrong in the room. Katsuki’s mouth pulls into a scowl before the words even leave his lips.

“What the hell’s going on?”

His voice is hoarse, rough from inhaling dust all day, but it cuts through the quiet like a blade. Sensei’s sharp eyes sweep over him, cataloging everything in an instant—the layer of grime clinging to his skin, the scorch marks on his sleeves, the exhaustion etched into his features. Katsuki fights the urge to squirm under his gaze, stubbornly meeting his teacher’s eyes.

“We’ve been visiting students’ homes,” Sensei says at last, his tone as calm and cutting as always. “Discussing the transition to dormitories.”

“Dorms?” Katsuki echoes, thrown off guard by the answer.

All Might nods, his expression softer than Sensei’s but no less serious. “For your safety, young Bakugou. After everything that’s happened, it’s become clear we need to take stronger measures to protect you and your classmates.”

Katsuki exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair and brushing away the sweat clinging to his scalp. He knows better than to let his frustration show. These two can’t find out what he’s been up to at the gym—no one can. If UA gets wind of his extracurriculars, he’ll be in more trouble than he already is. He has to play it smart, keep up appearances.

“So why the hell are you in my house?” he snaps, the irritation slipping through despite his efforts. “Could’ve just called.”

“We thought it best to discuss this in person,” Aizawa Sensei replied coolly, raising a brow. “You’ve been hard to reach. And your parents aren’t exactly… forthcoming.”

The subtle jab lands harder than Katsuki expects. His jaw tightens, and his gaze darts to his parents. His mother sits stiffly, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her fingers tapping a steady rhythm against her arm. His father hasn’t moved, his eyes still glued to the coffee table like it’s more interesting than the conversation happening around him.

Typical.

Neither of them says anything to defend themselves, leaving the silence to stretch out like an open wound. Katsuki’s frustration spikes, twisting into something sharp and bitter. Fine. If they weren’t going to speak up, he would. He knows what people think about his family—that his parents are socialites, that they are unlucky to have to suffer with a child like him. Katsuki doesn’t care about the judgment. He’s used to it. It’s true anyway. 

But he didn’t care. He didn’t care because he preferred being left alone. That he could go wherever he pleased. The last three years of them staying on the outside of his life was how he preferred it. All he needed from them was the yen they put into his bank account.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” 

Katsuki growls, shoving past the awkward tension as he strides into the room. He drops onto the couch between his parents, ignoring the way his skin prickles at the proximity. It’s better to sit here, to show that his family is fine—even if it’s a lie—than to let Sensei draw his own conclusions. Sensei can keep that concern for whatever the fucks happening in Icy-Hot’s life.  

“You’ve been out all day,” He continues, unbothered by Katsuki’s hostility. “Where were you?”

“Training,” Katsuki snaps, his voice hard. He shifts uncomfortably, heat rising in his face under their scrutiny. “Not that it’s any of your damn business.”

“It is our business if you’re overworking yourself,” All Might interjects, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been through a lot, young Bakugou. Pushing too hard won’t help anyone.”

Katsuki’s fists clench in his lap, the words cutting deeper than they should. Of course, he’s pushing himself too hard—what else is he supposed to do? Sitting around doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t bring back what was lost or make up for what he failed to do. He knows that better than anyone, but hearing it from All Might—him—feels like a slap in the face.

The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive. Katsuki lets out a huff, unimpressed, the sound sharp enough to make his mother glance at him from the corner of her eye. Smoke begins to curl faintly along his palms, seeping through his fingers in delicate tendrils before he smothers it on his pants. The smell of singed fabric lingers in the air.

All Might’s face falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing together in that worried way Katsuki recognizes too well. Katsuki remembers the last time they fought—how he had poured everything into those explosions, slamming attack after attack into the man’s unyielding frame. He remembers how it felt to win.

And how it didn’t feel at all.

The memory sends a ripple of heat down his arms, and he forces it down. His jaw tightens as a familiar snarl threatens to pull across his face, but he reigns it in, unwilling to let them see the storm brewing in his chest.

Aizawa Sensei sighs, the sound tired and deliberate, and leans back in his chair. He gestures toward Katsuki’s parents, his tone clipped. “Next week. Students will start moving into the dorms. We’re giving families time to prepare for the transition.”

His sharp eyes land on Katsuki, the weight of his gaze pressing harder with every word. “We hope you’ll find it suitable to have your son move in. Most parents have already agreed.”

Katsuki’s nose wrinkles at the statement, the rehearsed delivery grating on him. It’s painfully obvious this is a script they’ve repeated all week to countless families, softened and polished for nervous parents and uncertain students. But here? It makes his skin crawl. 

“Oh, sure,” Katsuki drawls, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Sounds great. Just shove everyone into one place and hope for the best.”

Sensei stares at him. Katsuki wishes he could take back the words. But he knows he’s not wrong. Katsuki feels acid at the back of his throat. The smoke fucker could at any point show up and no one could stop them. All Might clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything. His parents stay silent, his father fidgeting slightly while his mother’s jaw tightens. Typical. Always letting someone else handle him.

All Might speaks up then, his voice quieter than usual but no less insistent. “Young Bakugou, the dorms aren’t just about safety. They’re about building a support system—for all of you. You don’t have to face this alone.”

The room feels too small, the walls pressing in closer with every second. Katsuki can’t stand the pity in All Might’s tone, the understanding in his gaze. He doesn’t want their help, doesn’t want anyone trying to fix him or his life. He just wants to be left alone to figure it out on his own terms.

But it’s a losing battle and Katsuki is tired. His arms hurt, he’s still covered in dust and dirt. He wants to shower and go to bed. He stands, rolling his shoulders and doesn’t bother looking at anyone as he leaves. He can only hope that he’ll be able to figure out a plan later, something that lets him keep one foot in both worlds. He doesn’t bother responding. He doesn’t even get a say anyway.

His hands are clean. He washed them as soon as he stepped in the door, scrubbing away the dust and grime from the day’s work. Katsuki has spent the day clearing the rubble. He’s nearly done, maybe one or two more days left, though the constant ache in his shoulders makes it feel like it’s never ending. 

Rain patters gently against her ceiling-to-floor windows, smudging the view of the gray skyline beyond. The cold colors of her kitchen seem nearly a grim blue in the light. Katsuki doesn’t like her apartment much. He doesn’t think she does either and Katsuki can’t believe what he’s hearing either.

“Nothing, Katsuki. Look around, I don’t have time to run a gym.” Her voice is calm, but her eyes—ringed with dark circles—betray her weariness. Kira doesn’t seem anything like the woman who once barked at him to keep his guard up, to hit harder, to move faster.

“But the—”

“I know.” Her words cut him off, sharp but not cruel Kira doesn’t snap at him, ever. She’s never done more than support him. Katsuki's jaw clicks shut. She exhales slowly and speaks again, her tone softer this time. “I know. Which is why I’m going to let you do whatever you want with it.”

“...Whatever I want?”

“If you want to rebuild it, go ahead. I know you’ve been clearing the rubble. I know how much it meant to you. Kyo left his accounts to me—”

Her voice falters, just for a moment, and she runs a hand through her hair, ruining her carefully crafted look. For a split second, she looks more like the Kira he knows. The Kira he wants back. Katsuki notices the pictures of Kyo had been moved. The first night he stayed over, their photos dotted the apartment. Now, not even the dust imprints are left.

He wants to ask how she’s okay—how she’s pretending to be okay. He doesn’t understand it. Katsuki’s nights have become a battlefield he can’t escape, a relentless cycle of choking panic that leaves him clawing at his own chest, desperate for air. He’s taken to sleeping in his ensuite bath some nights, curled against the cold porcelain of the tub. The icy surface grounds him, keeping him tethered when his nightmares leave him gasping, his heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his ribs. The cold does more than wake him up; it stops the sparks from flaring out of control, keeps him from burning his way through the sheets again.

Sleep feels like a trap now. It’s not even about his time with the league, how pathetic is that? No, Katsuki has been having nightmares about shit that didn’t even happen to him. He wakes drenched in sweat, shaking so hard he can barely breathe, let alone move. Images of running through the gym as the roof comes down looking for Kyo, Katsuki never even finds him in the dreams. 

The aftermath lingers, heavy and suffocating, clinging to him like a second skin. He’s always hungry, his stomach tying itself into painful knots, but the thought of eating makes him nauseous. Every bite feels like lead in his throat. Yet somehow, Kira looks... fine. Inconvenienced, at worst. 

Katsuki doesn’t know how to process it. He doesn’t know how to ask her, how to confront the growing knot in his chest. It’s not just that he can’t understand her calm—it’s that it feels like a mirror, reflecting his own failure to hold it together. He can’t let it go, but he also doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to hear her say the thing he fears most: that this is just how it is now. That there’s no fixing what’s broken.

“Kyo left me his accounts,” she repeats, voice steady now. “I don’t want or need the money. Do with it what you want.”

Katsuki nods, his throat tightening. He wants to argue. He wants to shout at her to make time, to rebuild, to care. That it was her friend’s entire life, and she was just going to let it go? But he doesn’t, because it doesn’t matter. Because Kyo is gone. Whatever Katsuki builds is only going to be a pale imitation. It wouldn’t be the same, and he hated that. But he wasn’t going to let it stay as rubble, either. Not if he could help it.

So he signs the papers, bites his tongue to distract himself from the burn in his eyes, and leaves the apartment without another word. 

His feet carry him into the rain, his mind numb with anger and determination that simmered together until he couldn’t tell which was which. He should wait. He knows he should. It’s late, but the thought of sitting still is unbearable. But Katsuki is starting to realize– he’s really bad at doing the smart thing lately. 

The construction zone is quiet when he arrives, the rain tamping down any lingering noise from the night shift. Katsuki pushes through the gate, ignoring the "Closed" sign and the slight ache in his legs from the walk.

His boots squelch in the mud, his hoodie pulled tight over his head to keep the worst of the rain off. The tarp-covered equipment looms in the dark like restless shadows. He sees the floodlights near the trailers are still on, though, and heads toward them.

As he gets closer, voices drift over to him, low and easy. He recognizes them before he sees the faces. The crew isn’t big—four or five guys, all chatting around a makeshift table beneath the glow of the lights. Katsuki feels a pang of familiarity.

These weren’t just any workers. He’d seen them before—bloody and bruised, teeth bared in the ring. None of them had been close to Kyo, not like him, but they’d been part of the place in their own way. Katsuki realizes he hasn’t thought about how many others might have felt the loss of the gym, even in their own small ways. The ring had easily sixty people constantly throughout the three years Katsuki had been there. Sixty people who would fight at least, though the crowd always seemed to swell with the night. Katsuki had forgotten about them.

One of them, a broad man, looks up as Katsuki approaches. His brows furrowed in confusion. “We’re closed.”

“I know,” Katsuki mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s standing under the floodlight with them. The group falls quiet, sensing something heavy behind his usual gruff demeanor.

“It’s about the gym,” Katsuki says finally, forcing the words out. His voice doesn’t waver, but he feels the weight of every syllable. “Kyo’s gym. I’m rebuilding it.”

A murmur goes through the group. Some exchange uncertain glances. One of them, a wiry guy, scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. Katsuki also feels uneasy. There was a certain agreement, unspoken, in the gym that you didn’t speak of it. First rule of fight club.

“Kyo’s not bothered to come down here himself?” Someone scoffs, flicking a cigarette to the ground.

Katsuki looks at him venomously. “Kyo is dead.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Rain hisses against the ground, muffling the sharp intake of breath from one of the guys. Katsuki sees the sympathy in their eyes, the way their expressions soften around the edges. He doesn’t want sympathy, but it doesn’t feel as bitter coming from people who understand what the gym had meant.

“Explosion,” Katsuki says shortly, the memory like a shard of glass in his chest. “It’s gone. All of it.”

“Shit.” Someone whistles low under their breath.

Katsuki doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, and he feels the faint sting of sparks under his skin. “Yeah. He’s gone. So I’m going to rebuild it.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the rain. The wiry guy clears his throat awkwardly. “Well, if you’re rebuilding it... what do you need?”

Katsuki blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Help,” A broad man says simply. “You need help, don’t you? Or are you planning to put the damn thing together by yourself?”

“I...” Katsuki hesitates, the words catching in his throat. For weeks, it’s felt like this was something he had to do alone. Like asking for help was a betrayal of the weight Kyo had left behind. But now, standing here in the rain with these guys, it doesn’t seem so impossible. He just hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He hadn’t expected people he could rely on.

“Yeah,” Katsuki says finally, his voice quieter now. “I need help.”

The broad man grins. “Well, you’ve got it. Just tell us when and where.”

“Tomorrow,” Katsuki says without thinking. The words come fast, almost desperate. “We start tomorrow.”

The group nods, exchanging glances and murmuring their agreement. Katsuki gets patted on the back, a little harder than necessary, but he doesn’t mind. For the first time in weeks, the weight on his chest feels just a little lighter.

As he leaves the construction site, the rain soaks through his hoodie, his boots caked with mud, and a couple hundred thousand yen poorer, but he feels okay for the first time in days.

Katsuki stood in his room, glaring at the open suitcase on his bed. Packing should have been simple. He didn’t own much—never saw the point of hoarding crap he didn’t need—but somehow, deciding what to bring to the dorms felt heavier than it should. Like every decision was loaded with meaning he couldn’t shake off. He stuffed a stack of clothes into the bag and yanked the zipper shut with more force than necessary. The clock ticked in the corner, too loud in the silence.

He wasn’t letting his parents drive him. Hell no. They hadn’t offered anyway, and even if they had, Katsuki would’ve turned them down. A train ride sounded better—quiet, no hovering, no forced conversations. Two bags were all he’d allow himself. One for clothes and essentials. The other held the few things he bothered to bring to make the new room his. A couple of books, sheets, and his notebooks stuffed with training plans and strategies. His wardrobe was mostly gym attire. Simple. Practical. He hesitated as he shoved his gloves into the corner of the bag. He hadn’t touched them since—

Since.

He shoved them deeper, out of sight.

Moving to the dorms felt like a lifeline. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. His parents hadn’t gone on one of their long trips in days. Katsuki could tell they weren’t planning one either, and having them around all the time was unbearable. His mother was avoiding him, leaving any room he stepped into within seconds. His dad didn’t say much, just lingered in the background like Katsuki wasn’t even there. It grated on his nerves.

The house didn’t feel like home anymore, it never really did. It was suffocating. Every dish in the sink, every footprint on the carpet reminded him that they were there. He’d gotten used to having the place spotless and silent. Just him and his thoughts. Now, even their quiet presence felt like a weight on his chest. The dorms would be different. They’d give him the space he needed to breathe.

And then there was Deku.

Living in the dorms meant living closer to him. Deku had been haunting Katsuki’s thoughts since Kamino, a buzzing undercurrent of anger and something else he didn’t want to name. Moving in would give Katsuki the access he needed to him—and Deku, in turn, would have no excuses. Katsuki would drag him to the training grounds and beat him senseless if that’s what it took to figure out where they stood.

The thought sent a familiar heat through his chest, sparks prickling under his skin. He hadn’t fought Deku—not really fought—since Kamino. He hadn’t fought anyone.  And Katsuki needed it. Fists colliding, raw power against power, no holding back. He had to know. Had to feel it. The only way to measure the gap was to close it with punches, and he wouldn’t stop until he knew how far they had to go.

Katsuki clenched his fists, imagining the weight of each blow, the crack of knuckles on bone. Training at UA wasn’t enough. It was structured, controlled. He needed something feral, something unrestrained. Something to remind him what he was fighting for. Deku could give him that. He just had to push him until there was no choice but to give it back.

It wasn’t just Deku gnawing at him. Katsuki hadn’t gone this long without a fight since Kyo banned him from the gym for a week after he hogged the ring for seven rounds. Even then, UA’s sanctioned matches had been enough to take the edge off. Now, there was nothing. No outlet. No rings. No opponents who’d look him in the eye and meet him blow for blow. He felt it under his skin, coiled and tense, ready to snap.

The gym had to go up soon. He’d been doing everything he could to push the construction forward, but it wasn’t enough. Breaking rubble wasn’t the same as breaking bones. Katsuki knew if something didn’t give soon, the next idiot who bumped into him was going to end up in the hospital.

He slung the bag over his shoulder, pausing only to glance at the empty room. It was cleaner than it had ever been. Cold. Bare. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be back here for a while, and that was a blessing in itself. Katsuki took a breath and turned for the door. Today, the dorms. Tonight, the gym. Tomorrow, he’d finally start moving forward.

He didn’t have time to look back.

The dorms buzzed with noise and chaos when Katsuki arrived. His classmates flitted in and out of rooms, lugging suitcases, boxes, and mismatched furniture. It was loud—too loud—but Katsuki stayed back, observing from a distance. His two bags weren’t heavy, but they might as well have been bricks with how much he hated being here already.

The layout was easy enough to figure out. Wide hallways, shared spaces that felt sterile, impersonal. Like a hotel that tried too hard to seem inviting. Katsuki wrinkled his nose. It didn’t feel like home, and it probably never would. He didn’t care. That wasn’t what he came here for.

Near the entrance, Kirishima and the usual idiots had abandoned their bags in a heap. They clustered together in a loose circle, laughing too loud and doing exactly zero work. Katsuki frowned. They were blocking the damn door. He adjusted the strap of his bag and shoved his free hand into his pocket, brushing against his phone. It felt heavier than it should, weighed down by messages he hadn’t bothered to read.

He’d ghosted them all, and they’d noticed. Of course they had.

Katsuki was sure they’d hold a grudge. He would’ve. His thumb grazed the crumpled yen in his pocket—a reminder he still needed to pay Kirishima back for whatever dumb stunt got him to Kamino. Katsuki swallowed the bitterness creeping up his throat. It wasn’t their fault. He knew that.

Dragging his feet, he approached the group. It didn’t take long for someone to notice him. Mina caught sight of him first, her eyes widening in shock before she smacked Kaminari’s arm, making him look up too.

“Bakugou?!” Kaminari blurted, voice climbing a full octave. “What the hell, man? Where have you been?”

“Why didn’t you answer any of our texts?” Mina cut in, half-shouting over him.

“Are you okay?”

They swarmed him in a chorus of overlapping questions, chaotic and loud. Kirishima hung back slightly, but Katsuki felt the weight of his stare, his crimson eyes lingering too long on the bandages wrapped around Katsuki’s hands. Katsuki dropped his bags beside his feet with a loud thunk, straightening to his full height.

They didn’t keep talking, like they usually did when Katsuki didn’t answer. That silence—they were waiting. It was different this time.

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, trying to shrug off the tension creeping up his spine. “I’m fucking fine.”

Kaminari’s eyes bugged out, disbelief written all over his face. “Dude. You were literally kidnapped by villains like five days ago, and you’re fine?”

Katsuki bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping. He didn’t need their pity or their shock. Mina looked... rattled. There was an edge to her usual energy, something frantic about the way she stood too close to a girls with weird ears and a guy with weird elbows, her fingers twisting nervously. The guy was staring, like he couldn’t decide if Katsuki was stupid or insane.

It made him want to punch something.

“Are you fuckers gonna stand in the doorway all day,” Katsuki growled, his patience unraveling, “or are you gonna move so some of us can actually unpack?”

They didn’t move. They just stared, frozen like deer in headlights, the weight of everything unsaid hanging thick in the air. Katsuki could feel the prickle of heat under his skin, a familiar irritation bubbling up.

“Move!” Katsuki barked, louder this time.

It worked. The group scrambled like startled birds, dragging their bags with them and clearing the way. Kirishima lingered for half a second longer, his brow furrowing like he wanted to say something, but Katsuki shot him a look that dared him to try.

With a grunt, Katsuki hefted his bags and marched past them, ignoring the lingering stares boring into his back. He didn’t need their concern. He didn’t need their questions. He just needed them to get the hell out of his way.

He’d give Kirishima his money later. Katsuki made his way upstairs and kicked his door shut with more force than necessary, the bags on his shoulders digging into his collarbone. His new room wasn’t much to look at—white walls, plain bed, a desk shoved into the corner. It reminded him of a hospital room: functional, but soulless.

He dumped his bags onto the bed and stood there for a moment, taking it in. The dorms might’ve been brand new, but they still reeked of the same crap that made the UA classrooms feel stifling—rules, order, and the lingering expectation that he’d screw something up if he wasn’t careful.

Unpacking didn’t take long. Katsuki didn’t have much to begin with: clothes he shoved into the drawers without much thought, sheets he tossed onto the bed, and a few books that ended up stacked haphazardly on the desk. His gym gloves sat on top of the pile, worn and familiar. He picked them up, his fingers brushing the leather. It had been weeks since he’d used them, but the grooves felt the same, fitting his hands perfectly.

He clenched them in his fist and shoved them into the drawer.

By the time he’d finished, the sun had dipped low, painting the room in a faint orange glow. A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts. He didn’t bother to check who it was. “What?”

“It’s me!” Kirishima’s voice called back, too loud even through the door. “Meeting downstairs in five minutes!”

Katsuki grunted in response, ignoring the awkward silence that followed. Eventually, he heard Kirishima’s footsteps retreating, and he sighed. A meeting. Because of course Sensei wouldn’t let them settle in without drilling more rules into their skulls.

Shrugging on a hoodie, Katsuki left his room and headed for the stairs. Kirishima was already waiting in the hallway, leaning casually against the wall with his usual shit-eating grin.

“Yo, Bakugou!” he greeted, falling into step beside Katsuki.

They walked in silence for a few beats, the faint echo of their footsteps bouncing off the walls. Katsuki felt the weight of the yen in his pocket again, his fingers brushing against the crumpled bills. He couldn’t put it off anymore.

“Oi.” He stopped on the stairs, turning to face Kirishima.

“What’s up?” Kirishima asked, his grin fading slightly as he took in Katsuki’s expression.

Katsuki dug into his pocket and shoved the yen into Kirishima’s hand. “For Kamino.”

Kirishima blinked, his fingers closing around the money automatically. “Huh? You don’t have to—”

“Take it,” Katsuki snapped, his tone brooking no argument. “You paid to get there. I’m paying you back. That’s it.”

For a moment, Kirishima looked like he was going to protest, but then he just smiled, a small, genuine thing that Katsuki didn’t know how to deal with.

“Alright, alright,” Kirishima said, tucking the money into his pocket. “Thanks, man. You didn’t have to, though. We’re all in this together, right?”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, turning away to keep climbing the stairs. “Whatever.”

The two of them made it to the common room just as the rest of the class started gathering. Aizawa Sensei was already waiting, leaning against the wall with his usual tired expression. Katsuki found a spot near the back of the group, crossing his arms and glaring at anyone who dared glance his way.

The meeting was exactly what he expected: curfews, rules about common spaces, and a laundry list of things they weren’t allowed to do. Aizawa’s monotone delivery didn’t help. Katsuki tuned most of it out, catching only the highlights—no training after curfew, no loud music, and absolutely no “unauthorized quirks” in the dorms.

The only time Katsuki paid attention was when he mentioned the training grounds. He filed the details away for later, already planning how to drag Deku out there the first chance he got.

By the time the meeting ended, Katsuki’s nerves were already on edge. The dorms were too loud, the rules too restrictive, and his classmates too nosy. But as he headed back up the stairs with Kirishima at his side, he couldn’t shake the faintest sense of relief. Distance from home. Space to think. And soon enough, a fight to clear his head. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

He had three hours before curfew, barely enough time to make it to Kamino and back. Didn’t matter, he was still going. He grabbed a hoodie from his room and waltzed out of the building.

The sun was still in the sky by the time he reached the gym site, but it would be long gone by the time he got back to the dorms. The air was thick with the cold, the ground damp and muddy beneath his boots. The crew was already working, their voices low and purposeful as they moved between tasks.

The gym’s remains had been mostly cleared, but larger chunks of debris still lingered in uneven piles, courtesy of himself. Katsuki approached the foreman, who nodded at him and gestured to a pile of the bigger rubble.

“Got a job for you,” the man said. “We’re reusing as much as we can to cut costs. Break those chunks down into manageable pieces.”

Katsuki crouched near the edge of the rubble, breathing hard as he rubbed his hands together, the familiar sting of sweat and heat settling over his palms. His breath fogged in the cooling air, steam rising faintly from his skin. The first blast sent a satisfying jolt up his arms, the sharp crack of concrete splitting beneath the force cutting through the late-afternoon quiet.

He kept swinging, each strike more purposeful than the last. Sparks and explosions shattered through the wreckage, breaking down chunks of broken concrete into manageable pieces. Every blow carried the weight of something heavier: anger, frustration, the gnawing guilt he didn’t know how to shake.

The foreman and crew watched from a distance, muttering among themselves. Katsuki didn’t care what they were saying—he didn’t even know their names yet. He knew he’d have to learn them eventually. For now, he focused on the rhythmic destruction, the pulse of energy that burned through him with each crack and shatter.

By the time he finally stopped, his arms hung heavy at his sides, trembling from exertion. The sun had dipped low, painting the horizon in shades of deep orange and violet. Katsuki swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his skin gritty with dust.

“Yuki!” the foreman called, waving him over. Katsuki trudged toward him, ignoring the twinge in his shoulders. It was Kyo’s family name. And he wasn’t Kyo’s...

He wasn’t Kyo’s anything.

He didn’t know why he didn’t correct them. The first time it happened, it caught him off guard. He’d opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came. Now it just hung there, like a shadow he couldn’t quite step out of.

Part of him didn’t mind, which made it worse. The name felt heavy when they said it, like they weren’t talking to him but to someone bigger, steadier, someone who wasn’t gone. Kyo’s name carried weight in a way his own didn’t yet.

It wasn’t like they were trying to replace him—not really. But Katsuki couldn’t shake the feeling that letting them keep calling him “Yuki” was like borrowing something he hadn’t earned. Kyo had built this place, brick by brick, sweat by sweat, and here Katsuki was, smashing rubble and pretending he knew what the hell he was doing.

Still, when he thought about correcting them, his throat tightened. What was he supposed to say? No, call me Bakugou—like that would fix anything. Like hearing his own name would make this gym feel like his instead of a patchwork grave for someone he couldn’t bring back.

So he let it slide. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the ache and the thoughts with it.

“Yeah?” he called back, his voice sharp as ever, like that might cut through the lump in his chest.

The foreman handed him a clipboard, rough sketches scrawled across the top sheet. “Alright, it’s your call,” he said. “Two stories, right? What’s the layout look like again?”

Katsuki stared at the plans, his eyes tracing the lines. He pointed to the open space on the main floor.

“The gym goes here. Big, open area for machines and weights.” His finger moved to the far side of the drawing. “Through these doors—three small rings, two big ones. Elevated. Steel bases.”

The foreman nodded, jotting down notes. “Good. And upstairs?”

Katsuki hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He wanted the gym back. He wanted what it meant to him back.

“Storage,” he said finally. “And... a bedroom.”

The foreman didn’t comment on the odd choice. He just scribbled on the clipboard and raised an eyebrow. “And this corner on the main floor?”

“A bar,” Katsuki muttered.

The foreman looked up, clearly surprised. “A bar?”

“Yes.” Katsuki said, his tone sharp enough to cut. “The fights’ll draw crowds. Crowds want drinks.”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. But you know you’ll need a license for that, right? Liquor licenses aren’t easy to get.”

“Kira’s handling it,” Katsuki said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.

The foreman didn’t press the issue. Everyone on-site knew Kira by now. She’d only come by once, but the way she’d cut through bureaucracy with cold efficiency left a lasting impression. Katsuki doubted she’d visit again until the place was done. He wasn’t sure if he hoped for her return or dreaded it.

“Seventeen’s pretty young to run a bar,” one of the crew muttered from behind them, his pencil scratching over the plans as he drew out load-bearing walls.

Katsuki felt his jaw tighten. Sixteen. He was sixteen, and he didn’t care who knew it. But that was probably incriminating, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Kira’s got it covered,” he repeated instead, voice cold and final.

The guy shrugged, clearly more curious than actually concerned. “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

Katsuki turned back toward the rubble, sparing a last glance at the plans. The foundation was already starting to take shape, a skeleton of steel beams and raw cement. It wasn’t much yet, but it was enough for now.

As he walked back to his work, his hands flexed and curled into fists. Each crack in the concrete, each chunk of rubble broken down, was a small step forward. This place wasn’t just going to be a gym. It was going to be his. 

He smothered the grin with smoke. His.

Chapter Text

Katsuki throws himself into the Ultimate Move Training like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. And maybe it is. The last few days have been a disaster—not that anyone else would notice, but Katsuki feels it. He’s struggling to balance the training, the studying, and the gym. He can hardly remember what he’s told who, and there’s a constant, gnawing fear that Sensei is going to bust the door down and arrest him for running an illegal fight club.

Hero work is supposed to be his anchor, the one thing he can rely on, the thing he’s poured a decade of his life into perfecting. But the grind has been relentless, the dorm curfews suffocating, and the limited freedom to move dragging him down. Worse still, he’s slipping.

And Deku is catching up.

The thought alone sets Katsuki’s teeth on edge. He’s spent years pulling ahead, carving out his place as the best, and the idea of standing on the same level as someone who used to trail behind him feels like a knife twisting in his chest. His instincts scream to crush Deku’s progress, to remind him who’s superior—but it’s not that simple anymore.

Because Deku isn’t just a rival. He’s a reminder.

Every time Katsuki sees him struggling, muttering strategies under his breath, that nagging guilt claws its way back. All Might is gone because of you. Kyo is gone because of you. The words echo, a weight he can’t shake, no matter how many explosions he throws at it. He can’t tear Deku down. Not anymore.

Katsuki knows it’s irrational. It already happened; he can’t change it. But some part of him can’t let it go, can’t stop the gnawing thought that maybe, just maybe, if he’d been stronger, smarter, better, things would have been different.

So now, every time he sees Deku struggling, Katsuki feels the urge to help. Not out of kindness, not even because Deku asked for it—but because it feels like some kind of atonement. If Deku gets stronger, if he becomes the kind of hero All Might believed he could be, then maybe Katsuki can believe it wasn’t all in vain.

But that goes directly against his drive to be the best, and it’s tearing him apart. Katsuki wants to help Deku grow, but not enough to let him surpass him. He wants to see Deku succeed, but not at the cost of his own victory. The two desires gnash and grind against each other like gears, filling his head with noise. It’s exhausting, but Katsuki doesn’t stop. He can’t.

He doesn’t even know how to start helping Deku. He can’t just approach him, but the longer he avoids him, the worse it’s going to get. Katsuki knows it’ll only be harder to explain himself later in a way that won’t have Deku looking at him with those fucking eyes. So, Katsuki isn’t avoiding Deku per se, he’s just not making any effort to be around him.

And if he makes sure to stay on the opposite side of the training gym at all times, that’s purely good luck.

At the edge of the training field, Katsuki stood alone, fists clenched, glaring at the towering cement wall before him. His chest heaved as he rolled his neck, cracking out the tension coiled in his muscles. Behind him, classmates shouted and struggled through their own exercises, but their noise barely registered. All Katsuki could feel was the pounding in his head.

Midnight and Cementos lingered somewhere in the chaos, shouting directions and materializing walls to break. Katsuki kept his distance from them too. He fired off three rapid blasts, and only one hit the blocks in front of him.

A growl tore from his throat. If anything, he was getting worse since they’d started. He blasted himself into the air for a lap—punishment for every missed shot. When he landed back in his claimed area, his boots skidded against the ground.

This time, he didn’t miss. A precision blast slammed into the wall, carving a clean hole through its center. The heat rippled back, singing his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

“Impressive,” Cementos called from the sidelines, his voice annoyingly calm. “But control the collateral damage.”

Katsuki stiffened for a second. The entire point of these explosions was to pack a punch without wrecking his own hands—something he hadn’t even thought about until Cementos had slapped solid concrete onto his arms weeks ago. His grip tightened. He didn’t want praise from him.

With deliberate spite, Katsuki locked eyes with the teacher and, without looking, fired off an AP Shot that pierced through another layer of concrete.

Cementos averted his gaze sharply, and Katsuki smirked. Good, he thinks, Let him see what happens if he tries that stunt again.

Ten days. Two hundred and forty hours. That’s all he had to perfect this—his ultimate move, his precision, his control. Katsuki was determined to leave the gym on the final day without having missed a single shot. Every second counted.

Across the gym, Deku stumbled again, his body sagging as he clutched at his arms. Katsuki knew that look—the strain, the overuse. He could see Deku's muscles shaking from the effort. He’d pushed himself too hard, trying too much. Katsuki’s teeth ground together, his tongue bitten hard enough to taste copper.

He could feel the pull to walk over and tell Deku everything he was doing wrong. He could feel it down to his bones— he’s trying to plant himself, that’s the problem —but he couldn’t, wouldn’t.

Katsuki wanted to beat some sense into Deku. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream, You’re not doing it right. He wanted to make it clear that all this effort, all this strain, was pointless if he didn’t fix it. It wasn’t fair. Katsuki had never wanted to be the reason for any of this, for all the mistakes Deku kept making.

Deku needed to learn to move with the punches, not try to force himself into a position he wasn’t ready for. He needed to direct his energy, to redirect all that wasted power. Katsuki could see it clear as day, but he didn’t have the right to walk over and say anything. Not while All Might was right next to him.

That was more than enough to keep him rooted to his side of the gym.

His … acquaintances aren’t doing so well. Mina’s got the one move, the “throw acid at everything” tactic. Effective as it is in a pinch, Katsuki knows it’s just a matter of time before someone figures out how to counter it. When that happens, she’s done for. Kirishima’s also not having a great time. It’s not about his quirk—it’s about his damn feelings. Katsuki can only offer him a quick, clipped pat on the back before shoving him toward Kaminari.

Who, ironically, is the best of them right now. He’s gotten his hands on a set of support items that prevent him from accidentally turning people into human toast. It’s a miracle, really. Katsuki won’t admit it to his face, but Kaminari is the one who’s making the most progress. He’s got the right kind of growth— if he can just stop electrocuting himself every time he tries to show off.

Katsuki hates to admit it, but that’s the only thing holding him back. That, and the fact that Kaminari’s too damn reckless. He’ll give him a week before sitting him down and explaining that yes, 1.3 million volts might sound impressive, but 300 thousand will do the job —and he’ll still be able to walk afterward.

Katsuki grits his teeth as he watches Kaminari zap another poor fool who gets too close, his electric charge arcing wildly before he stumbles backward, short-circuiting himself. But there’s something different this time. Kaminari’s more focused—maybe it's the training, maybe it's the pressure of the upcoming exam—but he’s still putting too much power into everything, like he’s trying to overcompensate for something.

Probably how he failed miserably in front of the entire class the last time they had an exam. Katsuki would pity him, but pity is useless. Kaminari is working hard to make sure he’s improving, all Katsuki can do is offer him a sparring partner when he asks for it.

Katsuki’s hands twitch. It's tempting. He could march right up there and fix it for him—tell him how to dial it back, how to properly focus his energy. He knows Kaminari could be better, could be stronger with the right guidance. But Katsuki also knows that if he steps in too soon, it’ll just make everything worse.

Kaminari’s stubborn, in his own way, and Katsuki isn’t about to push him into taking the long road. It’s something he has to figure out on his own. Katsuki can’t make that decision for him. Katsuki isn’t his teacher. 

Instead, he huffs and turns back to his own training, fists sparking to life as he grinds his teeth in frustration. He can’t afford distractions right now. He’s got to push himself harder, faster, better—he doesn’t have the luxury of slacking off, not when the exam is around the corner, and certainly not when there’s a risk that someone like Deku might outdo him.

He can’t let that happen. Not after everything. Not after the shit he’s been through.

Katsuki’s eye flicks over to Deku, who’s sweating as he tweaks his moves again, trying to adjust his stance to create a more efficient flow of power. Katsuki doesn’t know what Deku’s thinking. In fact, Katsuki will bet Deku isn’t thinking at all. He turns back to Kaminari, who’s half-way through an apology to Ears.

“Oi, don’t just stand there,” Katsuki snaps, turning back to Kaminari, who’s wiping a bit of smoke from his face, looking like he’s just barely hanging onto his self-confidence. “Move your ass! You want to fry someone, do it without knocking yourself out!”

Kaminari flinches but doesn’t back down. “Yeah, yeah, I get it!” he grumbles, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “No need to yell.”

Katsuki’s lips curl into a tight, irritated smile. He’s not exactly trying to be encouraging, but maybe the sharpness of his words is what Kaminari needs. Katsuki doesn’t know how to be soft with people, and he’s not sure he ever wants to be. But he can teach them what they need to know— when they need to know it. He can make them better, even if they don’t always appreciate it.

As Kaminari stumbles back into position and starts firing off smaller, more controlled bursts, Katsuki turns his attention back to his own training. He’s barely breaking a real sweat. His moves are sharper, cleaner—he’s been working on this for days straight. But it’s never enough. He’s missing less and less each time they get back to training their moves. But Katsuki feels like he’s forgetting to do something.

He’s still haunted by that feeling of not doing enough. Like he’s failing. Like there’s always something more he should be doing. He doesn’t know how to stop pushing himself, how to sit back and just be satisfied with where he is. So he keeps going. Keeps pushing, blasting through walls with his explosions, never letting up. His body aches, his mind races, but he doesn’t slow down.

He glances at Kirishima across the floor, training with some guy with a tail. Katsuki wants to corner Kirishima for some hand-to-hand sparring at some point. Katsuki has been getting twitchy without the gym as a fix. But he wonders if that would be too out of character for him, Katsuki blinks, rubbing a cramp out of his hand, when had he developed a character for UA?

Katsuki grits his teeth harder, shakes his head and refocuses on the wall in front of him, firing off an explosive shot with a precision he hasn’t quite perfected yet. He can’t stop, not until he’s sure— absolutely sure—that he’s done everything he can to be the best.

Katsuki studies in the evenings, the glow of the desk lamp casting shadows on his books. He eats mechanically, chewing his way through a bowl of Teriyaki Chicken—a far cry from his usual fiery meals, but the routine is the important part. He’s too deep into his head to care about what he’s eating. He prepped it last night, while everyone else was either relaxing or wasting time. He couldn’t afford to waste time. Not now. Not with the exam coming up.

The music blasting in his ears is nothing more than background noise, a blur of violins and piano that fills the silence in a way that doesn’t quite drown out the chaos inside his head. He flips through the pages of his hero study materials, eyes scanning over the text with that singular, unyielding focus. The words are easy enough to digest—Katsuki has been at this for years—but the nuances, the details, the little things that could make or break a situation...those are harder.

He scribbles down notes, muttering to himself under his breath, the words coming out in clipped bursts. When something doesn’t quite click, he sticks a neon sticky note to the page—a reminder, a warning to come back to it later. It’s methodical, robotic even, but it’s what he needs. The music lets him tune out the world around him, lets him block out the noise of other people, the idle chatter that fills the dorms.

No one bothers him. No one dares. It’s not that Katsuki has explicitly demanded solitude; he doesn’t need to. It’s just that the others know. He’s the guy with the earphones in, the guy who doesn’t make small talk, the guy who shoots daggers with his eyes when anyone dares to approach. It’s easier that way—even as he feels a little guilty at seeing Kirishima walk down the corridor, head hung low, after Katsuki refused another hang out.

The worst thing about the exam is that he doesn’t know what it’s going to be. Could be a written or physical exam, or both. They could be asked hypothetical questions and graded on their answers. They could be put in those situations and forced to defend their actions after. All Katsuki knows for sure is this exam is supposed to prove that they are ready and can be trusted with some actual power.

He shuts the book with a sharp snap, fingers pressing down on the edges until the sound is loud in the silence of his room. His eyes dart over the pages, not really seeing them anymore. The words are starting to blur. He’s been at it for hours now, and while he knows he should keep going, he can’t force himself anymore. The exhaustion’s beginning to settle deep in his chest, a weight he can’t ignore, and for a brief moment, he considers leaving it behind.

It’s early enough he could probably go spend some time with them—his classmates, his ..friends. Under the guise of washing his dishes or finding some reason to pass by, he could slip out of his room and be social. But there’s this gnawing hesitation, a voice in his head that tells him to stay away. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know how to fit in with them anymore. Not when the weight of everything else is so damn heavy. 

They weren’t kidnapped. They didn’t get questioned like some sort of traitor. They didn’t spend three years fighting illegally, only to lose the person closest to them. That stands between them, they could never understand Katsuki. He doesn’t want them to see the actual rage in him, not the childish anger they are so used to. 

Part of him wants to drop out of the window and run straight to Kamino. His gym. Katsuki’s gym now. It’s fully furnished, the sign of ‘Yuki’s Gym’ hanging up outside like it’s his own damn empire. But even that’s not enough to pull him away from this suffocating dorm life, not enough to make him leave his textbooks behind and feel like something other than a ticking time bomb.

Kira and him haven’t spoken much lately. Just the occasional message about the gym, about the people she’s hired to keep the place running. Locals. Fighters. She’s found someone to maintain it while Katsuki focuses on school. She’s doing her part. But Katsuki can’t shake the feeling that he’s slipping further away from her.

He misses her. He misses the sparring sessions that never failed to challenge him, to push him harder than he thought he could go. He misses the quiet moments after, when she’d talk about nothing much, things that felt like they were just for him. The concern she wore, always a little too heavy, was something Katsuki never really understood. But he misses it now. She was a constant reminder that there was more than just the fire inside him—more than just being the best. And now, she feels like a memory. Something slipping through his fingers.

The thought hits him unexpectedly, a cold weight in his gut. He’s anxious. Anxious that something will happen to her—like it happened to Kyo. Something he won’t be able to stop, something he’ll be left with nothing but regrets of all the time he didn’t spend with her. Just like with Kyo. And that thought, that heavy weight of guilt, that anxiety, is enough to make his chest tighten.

Katsuki doesn’t know what to do with that feeling. He doesn’t know how to let it go. How to stop worrying about people he’s too afraid to get close to. So he just stands there for a moment. Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

The Exam approaches quickly, and before Katsuki knows it, he’s sitting beside Kirishima in their hero gear, heading towards the exam center. The tension in the air is palpable, the city’s skyline blurring by as the bus rumbles down the road. Hundreds of other buses are already lined up, each one carrying students from other schools, all of them eager, nervous, or maybe both. The UA bus pulls into the lot, its spot reserved just for them, and Katsuki can’t help but scoff at the sight of so many kids gathered in one place.

He straightens up in his seat, trying to focus, but the noise and chaos outside are getting to him. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, trying to drown out the low hum of conversation around him. Kirishima, sitting next to him, is practically buzzing with energy, eyes wide and bright, clearly excited for the exam.

“You’re acting like you’ve already won, man,” Kirishima says with a grin, nudging him with his elbow. “Chill out. We’re all in the same boat here.”

Katsuki huffs and rolls his eyes, irritated by Kirishima’s lighthearted attitude.

“Stop acting like we’re just another group of students,” he mutters. “We are better than them.”

Kirishima blinks, taken aback for a second before laughing. “Yeah, okay, I get it! But you gotta at least pretend we’re not that cocky. The others are gonna be really nervous if you keep acting like that.”

“I’m not pretending anything, they’re nervous because they know they’re not on our level. Don’t waste time worrying about them.” Katsuki straightens, like he can force Kirishima to understand. “We got into UA, the best school in Japan, and they didn’t.”

Kirishima blinks, opens his mouth and shuts it. He seems speechless for a moment. Katsuki hopes he’s getting what Katsuki is trying to say. That in hero work there are levels. And UA students are at the top.

“Never change, Bakugou.”

He leans back in his seat, eyes narrowing as the bus slows to a stop, the chatter outside becoming more distant. He doesn’t need to play nice, doesn’t need to pretend he’s just like the rest of them. Everyone here is just playing catch-up. And the fact that Kirishima, always so eager to make everyone feel good, can’t see where he stands. 

The bus stops fully now, and the doors open with a mechanical hiss. Katsuki stands up quickly, grabbing his bag, his posture stiff. He glances at the others filtering out around him, his eyes quickly scanning for any sign of weakness. But all he sees are his peers—some of them nervous, others eager, and all of them with the same goal in mind: to pass the exam.

As they file out and into the exam center, Katsuki can’t shake the feeling of being untouchable. Thousands of students and wanna-be heroes. UA is the cream of the crop - at least half of the enrolled students are expected to pass each year. UA has held that standard year after year.

The announcements are quick and to the point, just like Katsuki prefers. No unnecessary fanfare, no drawn-out speeches. Just rules. Only a portion will pass—a small, elite portion, the best of the best. Katsuki’s palms itch with anticipation as the examiners finish explaining the first round, their voices brisk and efficient. Targets are handed out: small, circular discs with glowing lights, three per person. If all three get hit, you’re out. Simple.

Katsuki rolls the discs in his hand, the faint hum of their mechanisms vibrating against his palm. He doesn’t need anyone to spell it out for him—he knows exactly what this test is designed to do. It’s not just about survival; it’s about strategy, precision, and ruthlessness. Traits he has in spades.

The air around him buzzes with murmurs of excitement and nerves. Students from other schools glance around, sizing up the competition. Katsuki doesn’t bother. He doesn’t care who they are or where they came from. They’re just obstacles in his way.

“Uhh, is it just me?” Kirishima’s voice pulls Katsuki out of his thoughts. He’s pale, already fixing his targets to his uniform. “Or is everyone staring at us?”

Katsuki snorts, his expression sharp. Kirishima is right, every single school seems to be thinking the same thing. The UA students are the biggest threats. They're right of course. Katsuki slaps one of the targets onto his shoulder with a loud click, then secures another over his chest. The third one he attaches to his hip, just to make things interesting. 

Kaminari edges closer, unnerved. Katsuki doesn’t reply, but his silence says enough. He’s not here to babysit, he won’t need to. The extra’s around them don’t stand a chance. This is about winning, plain and simple.

A ten minute start down kicks onto one of the screens. The doors to the arena open with a whoosh. The crowd floods out in a rush. Katsuki’s jaw tightens as he takes a slow, steady breath. His pulse thrums in his ears, adrenaline already kicking in. He flexes his hands, tiny sparks crackling between his fingers. 

The lights are still white, not green. Which means they have ten minutes to get into the city. Ten minutes is more than enough time to figure out his plan. Half of the students have disappeared. Others try to form alliances. Katsuki knows there won’t be any inter-school truces. 

He adjusts the straps on his gauntlets, the weight of them grounding him. It doesn’t matter who’s here or how good they think they are. By the time this round is over, they’ll all understand the gap between him and the rest of them. Katsuki launches forward without hesitation, his body moving before his mind can even catch up.

Katsuki doesn’t need to look to know who’s stumbling up behind him. Kirishima’s heavy footsteps and Kaminari’s uneven shuffle are as familiar to him as the sound of his own explosions. Of course, they’ve found him. Katsuki wants to ask where Mina is—where the hell the fourth member of their self-proclaimed little gang has wandered off to—but he doesn’t bother. They probably don’t know.

“Yo, Bakugou!” Kirishima’s voice rings out, half cheerful, half exasperated. Katsuki glances back long enough to take in the state of them. Kaminari looks winded, his hair sticking out in even more ridiculous angles than usual, and Kirishima’s got a light flashing red on his shoulder. Kaminari has one, too, blinking defiantly like a warning beacon. Idiots.

Meanwhile, Katsuki’s own three green lights pulse steady and untouched, a fact he takes immense satisfaction in.

“What the hell do you two want?” Katsuki growls, turning back to the mess in front of him.

He’s in the middle of ripping through a group of nobodies, students from some no-name school that clearly churns out more office workers than heroes. There are four of them, and normally, Katsuki might pause before diving into a group this large. But these guys? Fundamentally useless.

They have no structure, no experience, and not one of them has a quirk worth a damn. Katsuki knows he’s being cocky, but it’s hard not to be when the three guys in front of him are practically tripping over themselves, trying to form some kind of defense. It’s pathetic.

Katsuki tears through them with precision AP shots, hitting their lights with a trained efficiency he takes pride in. Each strike lands dead-on, punctuated by the satisfying beep of a deactivated target. They’re out before they even know what hit them. Honestly, Katsuki might have struggled if they hadn’t been stupid enough to place all their targets on their chests.

And then there’s the girl.

She turns to run, which would almost be smart—if her targets weren’t strapped to her back. Katsuki watches her go, unimpressed to say the least. One quick shot and her lights blink out, her future in hero work likely following suit.

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head at the sheer incompetence. As she crumples to the ground, lamenting her broken dreams, Katsuki spins back around to face his so-called allies. 

He sneers, taking in their disheveled appearances. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

Kirishima scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Uh, surviving?”

Kaminari slumps against a nearby chunk of rubble, panting. “Figured we’d find the guy who hasn’t even been touched yet and, y’know, stick close.”

Katsuki glares at him. “You think I’m gonna babysit you two losers? Screw that.”

Kirishima steps forward, unfazed. “C’mon, man. We’re stronger together, right? It’s not like we’re dead weight.” He jerks a thumb at Kaminari. “Well, mostly.”

“Hey!” Kaminari protests weakly, though he doesn’t look like he could argue much more.

Katsuki doesn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as he glances at their blinking red lights. It’s not like he needs the help, but maybe… maybe keeping them around wouldn’t be the worst thing. If only to keep them out of trouble.

Katsuki adjusts his gauntlet and starts walking, leaving Kirishima and Kaminari to scramble after him. His mind is already ticking through the possibilities. If the second part of the exam requires teamwork—and it probably will—he’d better prepare now. Teamwork is a cornerstone of hero work, after all. Katsuki isn’t dumb. He knows UA won’t let anyone through who can’t handle working with others.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Still, if this task is going to pit them against each other and then force them to cooperate for the next one, Katsuki would rather have someone tolerable on his side.

“You two idiots better listen up,” Katsuki says, not even turning to see if they’re paying attention. “If this exam is testing teamwork, we’re not gonna pass if you keep screwing around.”

“We’re not screwing around!” Kaminari protests, jogging to keep up.

Katsuki shoots him a withering glare over his shoulder. He doesn’t trust Kaminari to pour piss out of a boot. “Yeah? Then why the hell are your lights blinking red?”

Kirishima jumps in, ever the peacekeeper. “Look, we’ve got this! We can work together. I mean, we’ve done it before, right?”

Katsuki snorts, the sound sharp and dismissive. They didn’t make it far in the Sports Festival. Kaminari and Kirishima weren’t anywhere close at the training camp incidenct. “Barely.”

“Bakugou!” Kirishima snaps, voice firmer than Katsuki expects.

Katsuki plants his feet and wheels around so fast that Kaminari nearly skids into him, stumbling back with a startled yelp. Kirishima doesn’t flinch. He meets Katsuki’s glare head-on, his jaw set, hands curled into loose fists at his sides.

“What.” Katsuki growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Kirishima doesn’t back down. “I said we’ve got this. And you need to stop acting like we don’t.”

Katsuki feels the sharp, immediate urge to blow something up—preferably right next to Kirishima’s stubborn face. His palms crackle faintly, sparks threatening to ignite. But Kirishima keeps going, undeterred.

“We’re a team, Bakugou,” Kirishima presses, his voice steady but not aggressive. “You don’t have to do this by yourself. You can count on us.”

“Tch,” Katsuki scoffs, lip curling. “Count on you? You two can barely keep your damn lights green, and I’m supposed to trust you to have my back?”

Kaminari flinches at the jab but doesn’t say anything. Katsuki notices and smirks; at least the idiot knows better than to argue. Kirishima’s brows knit together, and for a moment, Katsuki thinks he’s finally going to cave. Instead, the redhead steps closer.

“Uh, guys?” Kaminari tries, looking nervously between them. He’s ignored.

“Yeah,” Kirishima says evenly, voice like steel. “You are.”

Katsuki’s teeth grind. The surety in Kirishima’s tone hits harder than Katsuki expects, lodging itself in his chest like an uncomfortable weight. He wants to retort, to shove Kirishima back with words or explosions, but the bastard just keeps staring, calm and unyielding.

The moment stretches. Kirishima doesn’t blink. Kaminari shifts nervously, scratching the back of his head. Katsuki’s mind spins, searching for something sharp enough to cut through Kirishima’s irritating confidence, but nothing comes fast enough.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Katsuki reaches out, pushing a finger against the light on Kirishima’s bicep. The red light flashes under his touch, signaling contact, but Kirishima doesn’t flinch or move away.

Katsuki huffs, reluctantly impressed. “Don’t slow me down.”

He turns sharply, walking off without another word, heading toward the center. Kirishima exhales, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he exchanges a glance with Kaminari.

Kaminari shrugs helplessly. “Well, that went… better than expected?”

Kirishima grins, clapping him on the back. “Told you, man. He’s all bark.”

“To you.”

Katsuki can actually hear Kaminari sulking. 

Katsuki passes with all three lights untouched, and he feels the satisfaction settle in his chest like a slow-burning ember. He doesn’t rub it in anyone’s face—he doesn’t have to. The score speaks for itself. But as they gather in the lobby, being handed cups of water by staff, he takes a moment to size up the rest of his classmates.

Everyone has at least one light that blinks green. All of them passed. Katsuki’s lips twitch upward for half a second before he schools his expression. Of course, they passed. UA doesn’t take in failures, and seeing the proof of it now just feels like vindication.

He doesn’t say anything, but the pride is evident in the way he tilts his head back, his red eyes sweeping over them. Damn right they passed, He thinks, UA's the best, and I’m the best of them.

“Uh,” Kaminari interrupts, breaking his train of thought. “Not everyone.”

Katsuki frowns, turning his sharp gaze on Kaminari. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Kaminari scratches the back of his neck, glancing around awkwardly. “Mineta didn’t pass.”

There’s a beat of silence. Katsuki blinks. “Who?”

Kaminari stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Mineta. You know, short guy? Purple hair? Always making weird comments?”

Katsuki’s face remains blank.

“Purple… sticky balls?” Kaminari adds, as if that’ll jog Katsuki’s memory.

Katsuki narrows his eyes, trying to summon a face to match the description, but nothing comes to mind. “Never heard of him.”

Kirishima, standing between them, snorts into his water. “Come on, Bakugou, you have to know who he’s talking about.”

“I don’t.” Katsuki shrugs, his tone as blunt as ever. “If he didn’t pass, he wasn’t worth knowing.”

Kirishima chokes on his laugh this time, shaking his head. “That’s… harsh, man.”

“Truth hurts,” Katsuki grumbles, turning his attention to his water cup. He doesn’t waste any more time thinking about it. If this Mineta guy was part of their class, he clearly wasn’t memorable enough for Katsuki to notice—and if he couldn’t pass, he clearly didn’t belong here anyway.

Behind him, Kaminari throws up his hands. “I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that Bakugou forgot him, or the fact that it kinda makes sense.”

Kirishima just chuckles, clapping Kaminari on the shoulder as they follow after Katsuki. Ahead of them, the students are starting to crowd around one of the judges—a sharp-looking pro hero with a clipboard who’s congratulating them on passing. Katsuki crosses his arms, staying on the edge of the group, his eyes narrowing as the next task is described.

“A search and rescue,” the judge announces, his voice carrying over the chatter, “during an active villain attack scenario.”

Katsuki feels the tension coil in his muscles, his palms sparking faintly with anticipation. Search and rescue. Of course, it’s search and rescue. He scoffs under his breath, already annoyed.

“Remember,” the judge continues, his tone firm, “your primary focus is saving civilians. Villains will be active in the area, but the goal is not to defeat them—it’s to protect lives.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. Protect lives, my ass. He knows damn well the best way to protect lives is to take out the threat as quickly as possible. He doesn’t need teamwork to do that. He doesn’t need to hold anyone’s hand or pretend these fake civilians are actually hurt. He can just power through the villains, drop them one by one, and ignore the rest.

“Search and rescue, huh?” Kirishima mutters, glancing at Katsuki. “Not exactly your favorite thing, huh, Bakugou?”

Katsuki doesn’t bother looking at him. He grunts instead of responding, his jaw tight. Admitting fault—or hesitation—isn’t something he’s about to do in the middle of the competition. Especially not here, surrounded by rivals and the weight of expectation.

Kaminari, standing on Kirishima’s other side, shifts uncomfortably. “Well, yeah, but, like… it’s kind of the point, right? Heroes aren’t just about beating villains. We’re supposed to save people.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki snaps, turning his glare on Kaminari with a speed that makes him flinch. “And what the hell do you think I’m doing when I blow those bastards to hell? Making friends?”

Kirishima steps in quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright, let’s not start this now. We’ve got a task to focus on.” His voice is steady, but there’s a note of insistence that Katsuki doesn’t miss.

Katsuki huffs sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep his palms from sparking. He doesn’t need a lecture from these two. He knows exactly what being a hero means. He’s known it since he was a kid, and he doesn’t need some fake-ass scenario to prove he can do it better than anyone else.

The judge finishes his explanation, pointing them toward a sprawling area roped off for the exercise. Katsuki doesn’t wait for the rest of the group to move. He strides forward, his steps brisk and purposeful, his expression set in a way that dares anyone to stop him. His mind is already working through the problem: the fastest way to clear the villains, take control, and get to the finish.

Behind him, Kirishima and Kaminari exchange a glance. Kirishima sighs, shaking his head slightly before jogging to catch up. Kaminari hesitates, watching Katsuki’s retreating back with a mix of wariness and resignation before following.

“We’ll stick together,” Kirishima says once he falls into step beside Katsuki, his voice steady and resolute. “You know, as a team.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond. His pace doesn’t falter, and his eyes don’t stray from the path ahead. He doesn’t need a team. He doesn’t need anyone slowing him down.

But he doesn’t tell them to leave, either.

Kirishima notices, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He says nothing, though, and the three of them move forward together, the tension in the air humming.

It’s going well, Katsuki thinks, his lips curling into a grim smirk. Gang Orca’s sidekicks are doing their job—being intentionally destructive, throwing debris and trash all over the place. It’s perfect. Lots of fallen concrete and wood for the actors to dramatically fling themselves onto, crying out for help like they’ve never seen a villain in their life.

Katsuki can’t help the rush of satisfaction when he shouts at one of the actors to get off their ass and stop playing dead. He doesn’t even wait for a response before turning back to the fight, his focus already on the next target.

The villains they’re supposed to be fighting are just as messy as the chaos unfolding around him. The whole thing feels like a joke, but Katsuki knows better than to dismiss the value of the exercise. It’s designed to test their instincts under pressure—how fast they adapt, how well they can maintain focus, even when the situation doesn’t match any of the standard drills.

It’s surprisingly fun. Maybe not the “save everyone” part, but there’s something about the rush of combat that hits a sweet spot in him. Between blowing up villains and shoving the actors out of the way, Katsuki can’t help but grin. The action is endless, and he’s in the thick of it, where he belongs.

Kirishima hisses a warning as Katsuki gets a little too rough with one of the actors. Katsuki grunts, backing off half-heartedly. He doesn’t bother to look at the actor—he’s faking it anyway, and they all know it.

“Relax, Kirishima,” Katsuki mutters, rolling his shoulders. He doesn’t care if the actor’s acting hurt. It’s just part of the game.

Kirishima’s voice is calm, with a hint of concern in it. “Just—cool down man, alright?”

“Tch,” Katsuki mutters, shooting a quick glare at him. “Stop worrying. I’ve got this.”

As it turns out, a few minutes later proves Katsuki does, in fact, not have this. His breath catches, his hands clench instinctively. Something feels off in a way it didn’t before. Cold, like the air has suddenly gotten heavier. Kaminari tries to ask him something, but Katsuki is already spinning, trying to shake off whatever the hell he’s feeling.

There. A man standing too close to a makeshift building. Rocks precariously perched on top, teetering in a way that has Katsuki’s gut sinking. He’s already moving, ready to berate the idiot for being too stupid to know better.

And then he sees him. Bright orange and yellow hair, like a bad bleach job. A sleeve of tattoos creeping up his neck.

Kyo.

Katsuki’s heart leaps into his throat, his pulse surging, as the rocks shift. They tumble. He doesn’t think. His explosion tears out of his hands with a deafening BOOM, scattering dust in every direction.

It takes him a second to process how fast he moved. Kyo’s out of the danger zone. His chest tightens, his mind still racing, and then…

He blinks.

That’s not Kyo.

The hair’s too long. The face is different. This isn’t Kyo at all.

“Oh my head!” The actor’s voice is loud, dramatic. Katsuki’s stomach churns. The actor looks nothing like Kyo, but the moment hits him like a brick wall. Kira, frozen yogurt at the gym, Kyo’s voice, laughter in the air.

Katsuki can’t breathe for a second.

It feels like if he doesn’t make sure this guy is okay, something will snap inside him. It’s not Kyo—hell, it’s not even close—but Katsuki’s still frozen, his chest tight, his hands trembling, the weight of the moment bearing down on him.

The actor moans again, groaning about his head. Katsuki’s hands shake as he pulls the guy’s arms down gently, trying not to hurt him further.

“You’ll just make it worse,” he mutters under his breath, his voice gruff as he forces his hands steady. He takes a shaky breath, trying to keep his focus. “Come on, let’s… let’s get you out of here.”

Katsuki can feel the pulse of tension in his chest as he guides the actor through the rubble. He doesn’t know what’s going on inside him, but it feels like everything’s too close, too raw. His heart is still hammering from the rush of the explosion, but his hands are shaking less. His mind keeps playing tricks on him, flashes of orange hair, a familiar laugh he can’t place, and the weight of a thousand unasked questions.

He doesn’t see the actor as an actor. He doesn’t even see him as a person he’s saving anymore. He just sees Kyo. That’s who his mind insists it is, despite the dissonance—despite the reality staring him in the face. He can’t make the separation. Not right now. Not when everything feels like it’s falling apart around him.

When the rocks start to pile up in front of them, Katsuki doesn’t even think before he blasts them away. He’s not trying to be gentle—he’s trying to clear a path. His breath hitches, the tightness in his throat threatening to choke him, but he doesn’t stop. He has to get this guy out of here. He has to do something right. Anything.

He can still hear the faint echoes of Kyo’s voice in his ears, still see the way he laughed like an idiot in the gym, the way his hand rested on his shoulder like it was always meant to be there. It’s too much. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s a hero. He can’t afford to be weak.

But this guy, the actor, is stumbling, confused. His head’s spinning, and Katsuki’s heart clenches in a way he hasn’t allowed it to in years. He can’t stand to see him hurt, can’t stand to see anyone hurt like that. His breath comes harder now, the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but it feels heavier, more suffocating.

"Hey, come on," Katsuki murmurs, his voice tight and low. "Let’s get you out of here."

His hand is still shaking as he carefully helps the actor through the rubble. His thoughts are a mess, his mind spiraling with half-formed memories of a face he can’t forget. The actor’s hand, smaller and softer than Kyo’s, shakes against his. Katsuki can’t help but feel that weird dissonance, like he’s trying to save someone who isn’t even here anymore.

“Are you okay?” he finds himself asking, his voice strained. It’s the same question he asked Kyo before, when everything was fine. But now… now it feels like a broken question. It feels like it will never have the answer he wants.

The actor looks up at him with wide eyes, crafted confusion still clouding his face. “Yeah… I’m fine, just… just a little shaken, kid.”

Kid.

Katsuki feels like something inside him snaps, like the tension he’s been holding back for too long finally cracks wide open. He looks away, quickly, his face burning hot with the effort to keep it together. He doesn’t want the actor to see how shaken he is. He doesn’t want anyone to see it, not even his friends.

He moves the actor forward, pushing past the rubble, directing him toward safety with a firm hand. His jaw clenches, and for a second, Katsuki forgets the weight of everything else. He forgets the past. He forgets the guilt. He just focuses on getting this guy out of here. He can’t fail this time.

As they near the green lines, Katsuki hears Kaminari’s voice in the distance, but he can’t make sense of the words. His thoughts are still tangled in that thread—the thread that keeps pulling him back, that keeps making his chest ache. It’s not Kyo, and it’s never going to be. But for a moment, Katsuki wishes it could be. He wishes he could make everything make sense again.

The rocks are still falling, and as the debris shifts again, Katsuki moves faster, not thinking about how he’s doing it or why. He just does it because that’s what he’s always done—move forward, push through, keep going.

The world around him feels muffled, distant, as though the only thing left is the actor’s hand in his and the sound of his own pounding heart.

Kaminari and Kirishima’s voices float in the background, but Katsuki doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t want to hear them. Not right now. He just needs to finish this, to get through it. He doesn’t need to explain it to anyone. He doesn’t need them to understand.

Katsuki’s world narrows to the flashes of hair, the faintest resemblance to the one face he can’t escape. Every blonde, every ginger, anyone with even a hint of brown eyes—each one is Kyo, or at least his mind convinces him they are. It doesn’t matter that the features don’t align, that the build is different, or that the hair is a different shade or length. If they wear the same shoes, the same rough style, anything that reminds him of Kyo—it’s Kyo.

He’s barely aware of his surroundings anymore. The villains are nothing but background noise. The actors are secondary. He’s not focused on any of them. He’s only running, rushing, moving as fast as he can to get anyone, anyone at all, to safety.

His hands are shaking again. His chest is tight, but it’s more than just adrenaline now. It’s something heavier, something suffocating. He doesn’t have time to think about it. His mind is a whirlwind of flashes, memories half-formed, images of Kyo. He can’t shake it. He won’t let himself. Not now.

The rubble is everywhere, and Katsuki blows it away with short bursts of explosive power, his movements harsh, unrelenting. He doesn’t stop. Not when a familiar pair of shoes catches his eye. Not when someone’s face reminds him so much of Kyo it sends a chill down his spine.

Kaminari and Kirishima fall in behind him, their confusion palpable but unspoken. They exchange quick glances, a flicker of concern in their eyes, but they don’t interrupt. They can’t understand. Not yet. They’ve seen Katsuki in this state before, but it’s never been like this. He’s not just fighting anymore. 

But they know better than to question him. They fall into step with him, understanding the silent demand. The situation has shifted, and now it’s about getting people to safety. It’s about moving as quickly as possible, even if they don’t understand why Katsuki is treating every single person like a life-or-death situation. Even if they don’t get why Katsuki can’t tear his eyes away from each face, each pair of eyes, each voice that sounds a little too familiar.

They don’t argue. They don’t try to slow him down, or demand answers. Instead, they push through, doing what they’ve always done—falling in beside him, keeping the pace. Kirishima keeps an eye on Katsuki, but doesn’t say anything, his presence just a steady anchor. Kaminari’s still a bit thrown off, but he follows suit, staying close, staying vigilant.

Katsuki doesn’t say anything to them. His jaw is clenched tight, his focus razor-sharp as he barrels forward, moving faster with every step, not stopping to think. He’s not sure if it’s guilt or fear that drives him—maybe a little of both—but he’s not about to let anyone get hurt. Not while he still has breath in his lungs. Not while there’s still someone to save.

But with every face that looks even remotely familiar, with every glance that sends a pulse of panic through him, the weight only grows heavier. His chest tightens even more, his breath comes in shallow bursts.

And still, he pushes forward.

Every instinct is honed, but it’s not the same fierce, burning determination that usually drives him. There’s something more cautious about his movements now, something gentler. He’s careful with every hand he extends, every actor he pulls from beneath the rubble. He’s gentle with them as they wince or complain about minor injuries, reassuring them with words that feel foreign on his tongue. 

"You're alright. Just breathe," he tells them, and it feels wrong, but it's the only thing he can say to keep moving, to keep doing something. 

The actors drop their theatrics as they step into the safety zones, voices light as they talk about how well his team performed. Katsuki hears the chatter, but it feels like a distant hum. His hands tremble slightly as he watches them. The dissonance between their staged wounds and the true weight of the situation feels off, and Katsuki feels like he's sinking.

His gaze flicks around, eyes darting over the actors, the rubble, the heroes and their quick assessments. He catches sight of someone trapped beneath debris, their leg pinned, a panicked expression on their face. A shock runs through him, but it's not the same kind of adrenaline rush he's used to. His stomach lurches. His mind flashes back to the memories he can’t completely recall, the ones filled with the one thing Kira told him.

Is that how Kyo felt?

Katsuki stops dead in his tracks, his chest constricting with a tightness that’s impossible to ignore. His hands shake, sparks of his quirk threatening to fly uncontrollably, but he clenches them into fists. His mind doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, only that it’s like a rock lodged in his throat. He swallows hard.

Did he think someone was coming? Did he wait, hoping, wondering if someone would show up in time to help?

He tries to breathe through it, to push it away, but his feet feel like they’re frozen. The thought of Kyo, trapped, and left without anyone to pull him out? It’s a suffocating weight.

Did I fail him? Did he think of me?

Katsuki’s hands tremble again, his breath coming a little quicker now. The actor trapped under the rubble is calling for help, but to Katsuki, it's just another reminder of the helplessness that gnaws at him. Of the helplessness he felt back then—when Kyo was gone. Just like that.

He shakes his head sharply, forcing himself back into action. He can’t stop now. He won’t stop. He powers through, pushing past his own spiraling thoughts and unspoken guilt. He knows this isn't real. The actor’s leg is pinned under rubble, but that’s all it is. A training exercise. A chance for him to do what he couldn’t before, to get someone to safety , to prove that he can save someone, anyone . Even if that means pushing through the pain in his chest.

“Hold on,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and harsh. He rushes over to the actor, forcing himself to look past the familiar flash of Kyo’s face that still haunts him. His hands move quickly, carefully, shifting the debris with an efficiency that he’s perfected in every battle. He makes sure the actor's leg is safe to move before carefully helping them up, speaking calmly through gritted teeth. "You're fine. Just focus on me. You’re good."

Katsuki walks the actor to the safety zone with his hands still trembling, the tension in his chest making every step feel heavier than the last. The actor leans on him, but Katsuki hardly notices. His friends are at a distance, clearing paths, helping others up, but Katsuki is barely aware of them. His mind is still wrapped around the scene that won’t leave him. The chaos, the rubble, the face of someone who could have been Kyo.

The loud buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the exercise. The actor drops their charade, smiling up at him with that fake gratitude. Katsuki doesn’t return the smile, only nods stiffly. His chest feels hollow, like something’s been torn open. He doesn’t know if he’s angry or just exhausted, but it doesn’t matter. He’s done.

Katsuki practically stumbles back to the lobby, his legs feeling like lead. His breath is shallow, his hands still shaking, and he can’t stand to hear the chatter of his classmates nervously chatting as they get their results. He just needs space, needs silence, needs to—escape.

He ducks into the nearest bathroom and locks himself into a stall, leaning over the bowl. The bile rises in his throat, and he dry heaves, his stomach clenched tight. There’s no comfort to be found, no relief. It’s just him, alone with the pressure he can't seem to get away from. He splashes cold water on his face, feeling the sting of it on his skin. He blinks quickly, but it does nothing to erase the tightness in his chest. His eyes are red, but it's because of the dust in them. No other reason.

Just... pull yourself together, he thinks, but it’s harder than it’s ever been.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, he forces himself to walk back into the lobby, his face set in the usual snarl. The judges are already handing out the envelopes. He moves toward them, trying to shove the weight in his chest into some small corner of his mind.

They’re looking for him, calling out his name. He strides forward, his steps deliberate, and takes the envelope from the judge. He hesitates before opening it, his mind racing with doubts. He hasn’t fought the villains like he should have. He wasn’t as ruthless as usual. He wasn’t focused. His quirk flared too much. Did he fail? Is that why he feels so unsettled?

The buzzing excitement of his friends, celebrating their wins, doesn’t reach him. He turns away from them, ignoring their cheers, the high-fives, and goes straight to Half ‘n Half. At least the Icy-Hot bastard is good for something—quiet.

Katsuki knows he’s alone now. He’s always been, but now, more than ever, it feels like a certainty. He stands next to Icy-Hot, glancing at his envelope. His fingers are cold. He stares at it for a long moment.

Icy-Hot is looking disinterested, like he couldn't care less. Katsuki briefly wonders how Endeavor will react to a failure. He inhales slowly and opens the envelope, a little reluctant, a little scared.

The results spill out in front of him, the word Passed written in bold, official letters.

Just as he thought. He did it. He passed. The weight in his chest doesn’t lift. He doesn’t feel victorious. There’s no relief.

Chapter Text

The class called it a party, but it wasn’t much more than eating dinner at the same table. Chatter bounced off the walls, forks scraped against plates, and every so often, someone’s laughter cut through the noise. Katsuki could hear it all, clear and grating, like static. What the hell were they so happy about?

They did what was expected of them. Nothing more, nothing less.

Katsuki dropped into an empty seat near the end of one table, barely glancing at Kirishima and Kaminari, who were mid-conversation with Mina. They greeted him anyway, their voices a little too bright.

Mina’s energy filled the room, her hands flying around as she reenacted some fight. Katsuki didn’t bother looking up, choosing instead to poke at the curry in front of him. The chicken pieces shifted easily under his fork, but he didn’t feel like eating. The spice hit his tongue, but it was muted, barely registering.

“It was insane, Kaminari, you should have seen me!” Mina’s voice rose over the noise, too loud to ignore. “I thought I was done for, this guy had arms like a freaking swiss army knife!”

Katsuki’s gaze flicked up for a second. She paused just long enough to shovel some food into her mouth before diving back into the story.

“I had only one of my lights left, and I couldn’t find Momo anywhere—when the buzzer sounded! I swear I only passed because of that.”

Kirishima and Kaminari nodded along, caught up in the excitement. Katsuki dragged another piece of chicken to the side of his bowl, half-listening.

“What about you guys?” Mina turned her attention to the trio. “You were all together, right?”

Her question was met with silence. Kaminari rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Kirishima, who avoided her gaze by stuffing his mouth full of rice. Mina frowned.

“What? You have to tell me, come on!”

Kaminari laughed nervously. “Well...” He hesitated, scratching at his temple. Katsuki kept chewing, eyes narrowing slightly. What was their problem? Did something happen before they met up?

“Well, you know how Bakugou just... fired off in the beginning?” Kaminari started. “We found him about halfway into the exam—completely across the arena, taking out people left and right.”

Katsuki hummed in agreement, not looking up. Kaminari hesitated before continuing.

“So, yeah, him and Kirishima—and me—decided to team up. There was this one guy who could, like, turn you into a meatball? Super weird. But instead of tagging us, he just kept rambling on and on about true heroism and appearances.”

“Who does that in an exam?” Mina said, bewildered.

“I know, right?” Kaminari shook his head. “I’m thinking, ‘Here we go. Big showdown time.’”

Kirishima tried to muffle a laugh with his hand. Katsuki rolled his eyes, stabbing another piece of chicken. Kaminari sent Kirishima a half-hearted glare before repeating himself.

“Big showdown. Thirty seconds, tops. Bakugou nearly killed him.”

Katsuki’s frown deepened. He did not. Mina gasped dramatically.

“What?”

Kaminari leaned forward, gesturing with his fork like he was trying to paint a picture. “He sent one of those AP shots into the building above the guy—like, BOOM—and somehow, the rubble didn’t fall. Just some dust. And by the time the guy turns around, Bakugou’s already in his face.” Kaminari mimicked an explosion with his hand. “The guy screamed so loud, and then—BAM! Bakugou just blasted him.”

Katsuki’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Okay, yeah, that was how it happened. But Kaminari’s retelling missed the point entirely.

Mina’s eyes widened, and she looked at Katsuki like she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or horrified. He ignored her, shoving the bite of curry into his mouth.

What Kaminari didn’t mention—what no one other than the three of them could know—was why Katsuki had pressed Kirishima’s second target. He needed to see if the guy was serious about all that "trust" talk. 

If Kirishima’s last light had gotten hit, if he failed because of Katsuki, it would’ve been unacceptable. So he’d cleared out every idiot who got close, fast and brutal, just to be sure.

The guy with the meatball quirk? He was just in the way.

“So what about the second part? What did they say in the notes?” Mina asks, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, curiosity lighting up her face.

“Notes?” Kirishima repeats, blinking at her like she’s speaking another language.

“They had written notes,” Mina says slowly, as if explaining to a child. “On the second page. About your behavior, the good things, the bad things—what you can do to improve.”

The three boys stare at her blankly.

She sighs heavily, throwing her hands up. “Boys.”

In a scramble, Kirishima and Kaminari fumble for their crumpled letters, pulling them out of their pockets or bags. Katsuki doesn’t move, glowering at his curry like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

“Man, I totally forgot about this part,” Kaminari says, smoothing out his paper against the table. “Okay, let’s see…” His eyes dart over the page, and he mutters under his breath, “Blah, blah... cooperative spirit... ‘commendable adaptation in a high-pressure situation’? Oh, nice!” His face brightens. “They liked how I worked with you guys!”

Kirishima grins as he unfolds his own letter, slightly crumpled from being stuffed into his pocket. “Yeah? That’s awesome! Let’s see what they said about me...” He scans the page quickly, his brows furrowed in concentration. Then his expression softens, and he scratches the back of his head with a sheepish laugh.

“They, uh, said I did a good job staying positive and encouraging people, even when things got intense.” He chuckles, slightly embarrassed but clearly pleased. “And... Oh! ‘Strong teamwork skills and willingness to support others’! That’s not bad, right?”

“Not bad?” Kaminari says, grinning. “That’s great! Man, they’re practically calling you the team MVP!”

Kirishima laughs nervously but can’t hide the pride creeping into his smile. Katsuki doesn’t think they needed a test; he could have told them that. 

Mina leans closer, tapping the table impatiently. “Come on, Bakugou! What about you?”

Katsuki doesn’t look up. He stabs another piece of chicken with his fork, muttering, “Tch. Why the hell would I care about that?”

Mina rolls her eyes. “Don’t be such a killjoy. Just read it already.”

“Yeah, man,” Kirishima says, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “We all passed anyway. No big deal.”

Katsuki tightens his grip on the fork, his jaw clenching. He doesn’t want to pull it out, doesn’t want to see the words staring back at him. He doesn’t need a piece of paper to tell him what he already knows. He passed the stupid test, didn’t he? That’s all that matters.

Except it isn’t.

The second half of the exam keeps flashing in his mind: the civilians, their panicked faces, their cries for help. And him—standing there, frozen, because for one awful, shameful moment, he didn’t see strangers in danger. He saw Kyo. Over and over again, like a ghost he couldn’t fight, couldn’t touch. 

He remembers the absolute panic he felt the entire time. Needing to save people - to make sure they got into the safe zones. Katsuki knows he probably made a million mistakes and he doesn’t need that thrown back in his face. Whatever luck he scraped by on is better left alone. 

“Earth to Bakugou!” Mina snaps her fingers in front of his face, yanking him back to the present.

“Fine!” he growls, yanking the letter out of his pocket with unnecessary force. He unfolds it with a glare like the paper personally offended him and flips the page quickly, bracing himself for the worst.

At first, his eyes narrow. Then they widen slightly, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“What’s it say?” Kaminari asks, leaning over to peek.

Katsuki slaps the paper flat against the table, shooting him a warning glare. “Back off, idiot!”

Mina smirks. “It can’t be that bad if you’re not tearing it up.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki snaps, but his voice lacks its usual venom.

The review glows, words of praise standing out like a spotlight in the dark: Exceptional combat prowess demonstrated in the first task and Unparalleled initiative and quick thinking under fire.

That part? It tracks. Katsuki dominated the first task, blowing through the opposition like it was nothing. He’d expected that to be acknowledged, even counted on it. That’s not the part he was worried about.

It’s the next section that makes his stomach twist.

While Bakugou Katsuki’s initial approach to the civilian rescue portion was unrefined, he quickly displayed an ability to adapt and think beyond the immediate situation. His actions prioritized the safety and needs of others with a sharp precision rarely seen in someone his age. His unique combination of raw power and growing emotional intelligence makes him one of the most promising young heroes in the field.

Katsuki’s breath catches, but he forces himself to keep reading.

Not only did Bakugou excel under the extreme pressures of combat, but his ability to shift focus and operate with empathy in the rescue scenario demonstrated a deep understanding of what it truly means to be a hero. His quick responses and calculated actions ensured the highest rate of civilian safety in his section, with minimal collateral damage. 

In the second task, Bakugou Katsuki demonstrated an exceptional ability to prioritize under pressure—a skill critical to real-world heroics. Despite the chaotic environment, his actions reflected a keen awareness of the varying needs of those requiring assistance. 

By focusing first on those with the most immediate injuries and clearing safe paths for others, Bakugou displayed a level of situational judgment rarely seen in first-year students. His ability to remain decisive and effective in such a high-stress scenario further cements his potential as one of the most capable heroes of his generation.

Katsuki thought back to the first actors he’d encountered. At first, it had seemed almost too easy—scraped knees, minor burns, people who could hobble away with just a bit of help.  He didn’t bother helping them at all really. Just shouting directions about the nearest safe zone and diving into the nearest villain fray.

The real panic hadn’t set in until later, when he started seeing Kyo and his head started filling with things that weren’t there. But that first stretch, the way he had focused on the immediate danger of the villains, came back to him now. He hadn’t even realized it at the time, but to anyone watching, it must have looked deliberate. Like he’d known exactly what he was doing—prioritizing the ones who needed him most, just like a pro would in a real villain attack.

These traits are a rare find, and it is clear that Bakugou Katsuki’s potential knows no bounds. We can think of no one better suited to passing this exam, and his performance stands as one of the strongest among all participants.

Katsuki stares at the page, his eyes scanning the glowing words again and again, as if repetition might make them less absurd. One of the most capable heroes of his generation. Rare find. Potential knows no bounds.

The hell are they talking about?

He feels a sharp twist in his gut, a cocktail of emotions he can’t pin down. Vindication, maybe. Validation, sure. But underneath it all, a gnawing unease, like he’s stolen a medal he didn’t earn. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They weren’t supposed to see a polished hero—because that’s not what he is. 

He’d spent most of the second task barely keeping it together, fighting ghosts as much as villains. But no one seemed to notice. Not the evaluators, not the civilians, not even his classmates. He’s not sure he’s thankful about it. 

“Bakugou," Kirishima calls out, bringing Katsuki back to the present. The others at the table are watching him, curious. He’s still gripping the paper, trying to hide it from view. His fingers twitch nervously.

"What?" he snaps, trying to sound unaffected.

“What’s it say?” Kaminari asks, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’ve been reading that for ages. Did you get a gold star or something?”

"Shut up." Katsuki growls, his voice tighter than usual.

But before he can pull it back into his pocket, Mina snatches the paper from his hand with a loud, dramatic flourish. His heart drops to his stomach. Katsuki lunges to grab it back, but it’s too late. Mina’s already reading the damn thing, her eyes scanning the words in delight. She stands up to keep the letter out of reach, drawing curious glances from the others.

Katsuki doesn’t want her to read it. Doesn’t want anyone to read it. That's not him. Whoever they saw, whoever they thought they saw. It wasn’t him. He’s not kind, and good and empathetic. He’s not any of those things.

Mina's voice started off in a stupid British accent, over the top and ridiculously posh. She started reading aloud, her voice rising with each line. “While Bakugou Katsuki’s initial approach to the civilian rescue portion was unrefined, he quickly displayed an ability to adapt and think beyond the immediate situation. His actions prioritized the safety and needs of others with a sharp precision rarely seen in someone his age.”

There was a brief pause as a few people stopped what they were doing, heads turning toward her, some leaning in to listen more closely. Mina paused, reread the paragraph and glanced back at him. 

Katsuki’s heart pounded in his chest, his face flushing with embarrassment. He felt every pair of eyes on him now, his teeth gritting in a vain attempt to hold back his panic. When Mina continues reading, her voice is more serious. Like she’s double checking the words. 

“His quick responses and calculated actions ensured the highest rate of civilian safety in his section, with minimal collateral damage."

A few more people float over. Ears, Tape face and Frog girl. All of them are curious. Katsuki’s palms smoke dangerously.

“Who’s this?” Tape face asks.

Kirishima responds, grinning widely. “Bakugou.”

Mina’s eyes flickered up to meet Katsuki’s, her voice suddenly softer. He wants her to shut the fuck up.

"Bakugou displayed a level of situational judgment rarely seen in first-year students. His ability to remain decisive and effective in such a high-stress scenario further cements his potential as one of the most capable heroes of his generation."

A stunned silence fell over the group. Some of them were staring at the paper in her hands, some at Katsuki, and others were simply trying to process the weight of the words.

Kaminari was shaking, barely able to contain his excitement now. “Wait— they said that? About you ? You, Bakugou?”

Katsuki felt his face burning, his stomach in knots. He didn’t want to be the center of attention, didn’t want anyone to read these words. They couldn’t be talking about him. They couldn’t be. His mind raced, trying to piece together where they saw this version of him, the one in the paper. The one who’d apparently known exactly what he was doing.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” Kirishima said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Dude, they’re saying you were like one of the best out there! This is insane.”

“Wait,” Kaminari cut in, leaning forward to snatch the letter, “it gets better.” 

He pointed to the final lines of the paper, the ones that made Katsuki’s stomach drop. He read them aloud, her voice filled with growing astonishment. 

“These traits are a rare find, and it is clear that Bakugou Katsuki’s potential knows no bounds. We can think of no one better suited to passing this exam, and his performance stands as one of the strongest among all participants.”

There was a beat of silence as the room absorbed the words. Katsuki felt like the floor had dropped out from beneath him. He wasn’t some polished, perfect hero. He had fought ghosts in his head, choked on his own fear, but the paper painted him as someone with natural talent and clarity. It felt wrong, all wrong.

Mina’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, the shock still settling on her features. “What the hell… You were the best? That’s what they’re saying?”

Katsuki wanted to tear the paper out of her hands, to shove it back in his pocket and forget about it. But the six were watching him now, eyes wide, expressions caught between disbelief and admiration. It wasn’t just Mina anymore. They were starting to lean in, murmuring to each other.

“Dude, they even said you showed empathy,” Kaminari repeats, now holding the paper in front of everyone. His eyes are gleaming. “This is high praise! And look, here— his actions reflected a keen awareness of the varying needs of those requiring assistance.”

“I didn’t—” Katsuki starts, but his throat tightens, the words caught in his chest. He wasn’t aware of anything. His head had been full of noise—flashbacks, panic, ghosts of people long gone—but the review painted a picture of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Someone calm. Collected. Empathetic.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Katsuki’s fists clench under the table, frustration rising. He wants to shout at them— tell them they’re wrong, that they’ve misunderstood him completely. But it wouldn’t change anything. The paper is already out there, the words already printed. There’s nothing he can do now but sit here while everyone reacts like he’s some kind of hero.

And then Deku is inching closer. Of course, he is. The ever-earnest idiot. Katsuki feels his temper flare before Deku even opens his mouth. He can already hear it—the self-righteous "You were great out there, Kacchan" speech that no one asked for. Katsuki can’t take it. He stands up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor in protest.

His hands crackle with sparks as he rips the paper from Kaminari’s hands, who flinches back, eyes wide in surprise. Guilt hits Katsuki’s gut like a sucker punch. He didn’t mean to make Kaminari feel bad, not really, but it didn’t matter now. He couldn’t let the paper keep circulating, couldn’t let anyone read more of this bullshit.

Kirishima tries to wave everyone off, to give him space but Katsuki pushes through them, already moving toward the exit. He has to leave. Before Deku can start spouting his usual Hero worship bullshit. But as he passes Deku, Katsuki pauses for just a split second. He lowers his voice, barely above a whisper.

“Be out front later,” he mutters, his words rougher than intended. Anyone else might have thought Katsuki had said something cutting, something scathing like he usually does, but there’s an edge to his tone that’s... different. It’s not anger. Not exactly.

Katsuki doesn’t stick around to see how Deku responds. He turns and strides out the door before anyone can say anything else. He burns the paper on the roof alone.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the quiet campus. Katsuki stepped outside, his footsteps firm and purposeful. The day had dragged on, the weight of the review still heavy in his mind, but something about it gnawed at him. Something that wouldn't let him rest. It was barely after curfew, but it meant privacy.

He had told Deku earlier to meet him outside. Katsuki didn’t explain why—didn’t feel the need to—but he was hoping Deku would understand. He needed answers. He needed to know where Deku was in his training, what did Katsuki need to do to make him ready to become the new All Might?

He could see Deku, pacing in the shadows already, waiting for Katsuki to show up. Katsuki simply stared until he was noticed, and turned to walk to Ground Beta. The place where they’d first fought all those months ago—the place where Deku first learned what it meant to have a quirk—Katsuki didn’t waste any time. His gaze flickered nervously when he saw Katsuki’s stance. Katsuki slowly stretched his arms. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The space between them felt thick, heavy with unspoken questions, with things left unsaid. Katsuki shifted his weight, his mind racing.

“Come on,” Katsuki grunted, finally breaking the silence, jerking his head toward the center of the training ground. “Let’s go.”

Deku hesitated, but then stepped closer. The air between them was thick with tension as they walked, the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the empty field. 

Deku looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Kacchan, why did you ask me to meet you?"

Katsuki didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes narrowed, and his thoughts started to settle. He could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him. This wasn’t just about fighting anymore. This was about something deeper—something that had been eating at him for weeks now.

"You told me All Might gave you One For All," Katsuki finally said, his voice low. "You remember that?"

He looked at Deku, his gaze hard and intense. "When he said ‘you’re next’ after the fight, after Kamino... He wasn’t talking about any of us, was he? He was talking to you."

Deku blinked, his eyes widening in surprise. "Wha—what? Kacchan, no, I—"

"Don’t lie," Katsuki cut him off, a sharp edge to his words. He didn’t want Deku lying to him now, not after spilling his guts basically a week after joining UA.

"I know what you said, and I know what I heard. He passed it to you. That means you’ve got to be something, right? Something big. All Might’s damn successor." Katsuki’s lips curled into a small sneer. "And I need to know if you’ve got what it takes. If you’re really ready to carry that damn weight, to take it all on."

Deku stared at him, confusion and hesitation flickering in his expression. “Kacchan... I—what are you saying?”

Katsuki took a deep breath, pushing his anger down just enough to make his words clear. “You think you’re ready? To be the next Symbol of Peace? To take up All Might’s mantle? Prove it. Fight me.”

Deku took a step back, his face a mix of shock and disbelief. “W-what? Fight you? Right now?”

“I’m not fucking around.” Katsuki’s tone was sharp, and his eyes gleamed with something almost predatory. “I want to see where you’re at. I want to see if All Might was right. If you’ve got what it takes to follow in his footsteps. Show me what you’ve learned. Show me you can handle this, Deku.”

The tension in the air grew thick. Katsuki could feel his blood pumping, his body buzzing with the anticipation of the fight. He wasn’t sure why, but this was something he had to do. Something he had to know. If Deku was going to be the next All Might, then he needed to see it for himself.

Deku was still staring at him, uncertain, but he didn’t back down. He wasn’t the same person he was back in the early days. Katsuki could see it in the way Deku stood now—stronger, more sure of himself.

“You... you want me to fight you?” Deku asked, the words more a statement than a question.

Katsuki gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. If you’re gonna be the next big thing, then prove it to me. Prove All Might wasn’t wrong.”

Wrong for choosing Deku. Wrong for saving Katsuki. Deku’s fists clenched, and for a second, Katsuki could see that familiar spark in his eyes—the same one he saw back when Deku had first tried to fight him, before all the quirks, before all the training. 

“You’re on,” Deku said, his voice steady now, no hesitation. He takes a stance. A bad one. Katsuki has got his work cut out for him.

Katsuki couldn’t help but smirk. He wasn’t going to go easy on Deku. This was about something more than just a fight. It was about finding out if Deku was truly ready to be the successor of All Might. 

The fight began with a slow burn, the air thick with tension. Deku’s stance was defensive, his eyes flicking between Katsuki’s every movement as he tried to anticipate the next strike. His mind was calculating, but his body wasn’t quite keeping up yet—not the way it should. 

Katsuki was used to fights. Or at least he was, it's been about a month since he’s been to the gym. He has more experience than Deku, that’s for sure. His posture is loose but ready. His hands were already sparking with the raw energy of his quirk, but for the moment, he held back. He was waiting for Deku to make the first move.

Deku hesitated, his gaze darting between the ground and Katsuki’s face. His breath was steady, but Katsuki could see the nervous tension in the way he shifted his feet. It was as if he was afraid to go all out, still holding back.

The first move came when Deku lunged forward, but his kick was slow, telegraphed. Katsuki easily dodged, sidestepping with a grace and fluidity he’d forgotten having. With a harsh grunt, he retaliated—his fist slamming into the ground, creating a shockwave that sent debris flying toward Deku.

Deku narrowly avoided the debris, his body twisting with speed, but he wasn’t fast enough. Katsuki was already there, closing the gap in a blink of an eye, his booted foot colliding with Deku’s chest. Deku was sent skidding back, his breath knocked out of him. He stumbled to regain his footing, sweat beginning to bead at his brow.

“You’re too slow,” Katsuki spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he charged again. His explosions sparking off effortlessly.

“Come on, Deku,” Katsuki taunted, his eyes gleaming with an intense fire. “Is this really the best you’ve got?”

Deku’s jaw clenched, his muscles straining with the effort to keep up. It was really disappointing. It’s not that Deku wasn’t giving it his all, it's that this was all he had to give. Katsuki snarled, frustrated. 

“Why did All Might choose you, Deku, hah?!” he shouted, dodging a desperate counterattack from Deku. His heart was racing, his quirk sparking, but his anger was sharper than ever. “Why’d he give you One For All? While I was the one who forced him to retire?! Why did I have to be the one to kill him?!”

The words hung in the air like a terrible curse. Deku froze for a moment, his face shifting from determination to confusion.

“What are you talking about, Kacchan?” Deku shouted, his voice pained. “All Might isn’t dead?”

Katsuki pauses, no All Might wasn’t dead. But– that wasn’t who he was talking about. Something in his chest crackles and he lunges again. No more talking, the last thing he needs is Deku finding out about everything right now.

Deku barely managed to dodge, but he couldn’t keep up. Katsuki’s explosions rocked the ground around them, sending him scrambling back, desperately trying to get his footing. Deku’s fists trembled as he prepared to retaliate, the pressure of the fight building. His body was beginning to ache, his quirk straining under the effort to match Katsuki’s speed. But he was matching it, barely. But the longer they fought, the more aware of it Katsuki was. Deku was improving.

Katsuki’s fists flared with power as he closed in, but before he could strike again, Deku’s voice cut through the chaos.

“I won’t fail him, Kacchan,” Deku shouted, his voice cracking with the weight of everything they were fighting for. “And I’m not going to be your punching bag!”

Katsuki faltered for a second, his breath coming in harsh gasps as the anger inside him bubbled up again. He felt his quirk sputter in the back of his mind, his body moving on pure instinct now. He hadn’t thought about it like that—hadn’t thought about Deku’s feelings.

But the anger burned brighter than ever. His ribs ached, his hands hurt. Katsuki’s stamina wasn’t what it used to be, not after avoiding the ring for a month. He needed to end the fight, he needed Deku to end the fight.

“You can’t even keep up!” Katsuki yelled, his next attack landing squarely in Deku’s chest. He sent him crashing to the ground, dust rising in a thick cloud around them.

Deku gasped for air, pain surging through him, but he didn’t stay down for long. He never did.

He got to his feet slowly, eyes locked with Katsuki’s, his fists clenched, his resolve hardening. 

“I’m going to get better, I’ll be the Number One just like All Might!.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t know if Deku had what it took yet, but there was something in the way he said those words, something in the fire behind his eyes, that made Katsuki stop, if only for a moment.

Deku moved in a blur, faster than Katsuki expected. He darted in close, a kick slicing through the air. Katsuki leaned back, the attack missing by inches, and grinned sharply as the thrill of a real fight ignited in his chest.  The familiarity of the adrenaline reminds him why he loves it. Loves the fight.

Katsuki crouched low, palms lighting up, and launched himself forward. Deku met him midair, their bodies colliding in a chaotic clash of power and movement. Katsuki’s explosions propelled them higher, sparks flying as he drove Deku higher, relentless and unyielding.

Breaking free of Deku’s grip, Katsuki pushed a hand against the air and blasted downward. The impact slammed them into the sand, Katsuki pinning Deku beneath him with a force that left both of them breathless.

For a moment, the world stilled. Katsuki loomed over him, heat radiating from his palms, chest heaving. He expected Deku to fight back, to kick and squirm and force his way out of the hold.

But Deku didn’t. He just lay there, panting, the pain in his eyes barely concealed. Katsuki had won. Again.

But the victory felt hollow.

He’s been winning a lot lately. In every way that doesn’t matter.

He beat All Might weeks ago, but it meant nothing—All Might wasn’t even half the hero he once was. He’d almost taken down the Nomu, but it didn’t count because All Might had to step in. He’d won the Sports Festival, but only because Icy-Hot hadn’t fought him seriously. He escaped the League, but only because Kirishima had reached out.

And now, he’d beaten Deku.

But he shouldn’t have.

The weight of it sat heavy in his chest as he stared down at Deku, still pinned beneath him, still not fighting back. Deku was supposed to be worthy of the quirk. He was supposed to prove All Might right, to carry on that impossible legacy. And yet, here he was—on the ground, broken, falling short.

Katsuki’s teeth clenched as the realization set in. He didn’t want to help Deku. Not really. The guilt gnawed at him, sharp and endless, an ache that wouldn’t leave. He didn’t even think Deku deserved the quirk. If it had to go to someone else, Katsuki would’ve rather it been someone like Kirishima—someone who deserved it.

But he didn’t have a choice. He had to help Deku because he’d taken away the world’s symbol of peace. Katsuki’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Nothing was right anymore. Nothing.

“Boys!”

The sharp, disapproving voice snapped through the air like a whip.

Deku stiffened, and Katsuki shot up like he’d been burned, nearly tripping in his hurry to get off. His body throbbed with the effort—his shoulders where Deku’s lucky hits landed, his legs from the fight itself—but he forced himself to stand tall, his back to All Might. Deku stayed on the ground, still not moving.

“What on earth were you two—”

“Why?” Katsuki cut him off, his voice harsh and trembling.

“Young Bakugou?”

Katsuki spun to face him, his chest heaving. All Might stood there in a thin shirt that hung loose on his withered frame, his eyes sunken and tired. Katsuki’s stomach churned. He felt sick, dizzy with anger, and something he couldn’t name. His voice cracked as he shouted.

“Why him?”

All Might blinked, taken aback, his hand raising aimlessly. Deku hasn’t even gotten up yet. Katsuki couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the questions clawing at him, the jealousy burning away at his insides, or the humiliation that felt like it might split him open.

“He was selfless,” All Might began, his voice careful. “He acted when no one else did. A true hero, someone who showed he could be trusted with the power.”

Katsuki’s palms itched, sparks threatening to escape. He fought to keep his hands still. He was there. He remembered. How no one else acted, sure. How they all stood back, happy to let him choke on the slime villain and die. Deku wasn’t brave—he was suicidal. He had no quirk, and they both would’ve died if All Might hadn’t shown up.

“Young Bakugou,” All Might tried again, softer this time. “You already have a strong quirk. You—”

“I’m not.”

The words spilled out before Katsuki could stop them. His knees hit the sand, his body sagging under a weight he didn’t have the strength to hold anymore. His voice cracked, weak and raw.

“I’m not strong. Or I wouldn’t have been targeted in the first place. I’m the reason you’re like this, and everyone knows it.”

All Might flinched, startled by the admission. Katsuki didn’t care. He was the reason Kyo was dead. Maybe, that was why Kira wasn't talking to him

“Kacchan—”

“Shut it, Deku,” Katsuki snapped, his voice cutting like a blade.

All Might hesitated, his expression flickering between concern and guilt. Katsuki sighed, closing his eyes. There was nothing All Might could say to fix this. Nothing anyone could do to undo what had already been done. The only way to make it right was for Deku to get stronger—to step up and take the place Katsuki had ruined.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he muttered, forcing the words out like they physically hurt.

All Might visibly relaxed, and it made Katsuki want to scream.

“Er—thank you, Young Bakugou.”

Katsuki didn’t reply. He didn’t move for a long time. The sand shifted under his knees, gritty and uneven, as he stared at the ground. His head was a mess—a churning storm of guilt, anger, and frustration.

All Might’s presence lingered, heavy and awkward, but Katsuki didn’t care. He was too tired to care. Deku hadn’t moved either, and that somehow made it worse.

He looked so small. Smaller than Katsuki remembered.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the burn in his muscles. His hands flexed at his sides, the burn of his anger sparked to life again. The whole point he was out here. The reason.

“I’m going to fix it,” he muttered under his breath.

All Might frowned. “Fix what, Young Bakugou?”

“This.” Katsuki gestured vaguely, but his voice sharpened. “All of it. The mess I made. You, him—everything.”

“Kacchan,” Deku croaked from the ground, finally speaking up. His voice was hoarse, tired.

“Shut up,” Katsuki snapped, his tone more bark than bite. He turned on Deku, his crimson eyes blazing with a new energy. “Get up.”

“What?”

“I said get up, Deku!” Katsuki’s hands sparked as he jabbed a finger at him. “You’ve got a quirk now, so stop lying around like a useless extra. Stand up and show me you’re not a waste of All Might’s time!”

Deku hesitated, his green eyes wide and uncertain, but he forced himself to his feet. His stance was shaky, his shoulders slumped. Katsuki scowled.

“You’re supposed to be the next Symbol of Peace, right?” Katsuki’s words were sharp, almost mocking, but his voice wavered at the edges. “You’re supposed to replace him. How the hell are you going to do that if you can’t even beat me?”

“Kacchan, that’s not—”

“I’m going to make sure you can.” Katsuki’s voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. “You think I’m doing this because I like you? You think I want to help you?” He scoffed, the sound bitter and broken. “I don’t. I don’t want you to have that quirk. I don’t even think you deserve it. But it’s yours now, and I’m not going to let you screw it up.”

“My boy—” All Might started, but Katsuki ignored him, focusing on Deku.

“Tomorrow,” Katsuki said, his tone final. “You meet me out here. If you’re going to be the one carrying this stupid legacy, then you’re going to do it right. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

Deku stared at him, his expression unreadable.

“And don’t even think about slacking off.” Katsuki’s glare was fierce, but there was something deeper in his eyes—something raw and unspoken. “Because if you’re not good enough, I’ll make you good enough.”

Without waiting for a response, Katsuki turned and stalked off into the night, his hands sparking faintly at his sides. The guilt hadn’t gone away, but for the first time in weeks, he felt like he had a purpose. Something to fix.

Something to make right.

“Uh– Young Bakugou!” Called All Might, slightly panicked.

“What?!” Katsuki snarls, sitting slowly making his way to the dorms. 

“Aizawa wishes to see you. Uh, Both of you.”

Katsuki pauses. Incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

They get put on house arrest. For three days each. It throws a wrench in Katsuki’s plans but he ignores it. Fine, let Deku have his three days, he better fucking treasure them.

Chapter Text

The illuminated sign reading Yuki’s Gym glows vividly against the dark, weathered bricks of the surrounding buildings. The street is eerily still as Katsuki stands on the curb, his sharp eyes scanning the area. It doesn’t surprise him—locations marked by large-scale villain attacks have a way of being abandoned, left as hollow reminders of chaos.

Through the glass front, he spots a handful of people moving between machines, more than he expected, more than had frequented the old gym before its destruction.

His house arrest had ended exactly an hour ago. Their class had been dismissed for the day, ostensibly to allow time for reflection before the second wave of internship offers arrived the next morning. A day to rest and prepare, Sensei had said. Katsuki hadn’t paid much attention.

His mood simmered just below boiling. His hands curled into fists as he stepped forward, the gym door swinging open under his touch.

The reception area was sparse but clean, dominated by a small desk where a woman sat flipping through a magazine. Recognition flickered across her face when she saw him. Katsuki recognized her too—he’d popped her shoulder out during a sparring match ages ago. He tensed instinctively, wondering if she still harbored any resentment.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her expression unreadable. Finally, she spoke, her tone clipped. “Keys?”

For a moment, Katsuki faltered, then pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He’d been given them long before the gym was completed, a symbol of trust that felt strange in his hand now. He set them on the desk, waiting.

The woman glanced at them, then pushed them back toward him. “Second floor’s probably dusty,” she said, returning her attention to her magazine. “No one’s touched it since we opened.”

Katsuki grunted an acknowledgement and moved past her, his steps heavy on the stairs. The gym itself was immaculate—bright lights reflected off spotless equipment, and the air was tinged with the faint scent of new rubber and cleaning solutions. It felt sterile, almost foreign.

Katsuki walked through the gym, his gym now. Every step echoed off polished floors, the soft hum of treadmills and clinking weights a low, constant backdrop. He kept his gaze forward, avoiding the curious looks from a few patrons. They didn’t matter. None of them did.

The place was unrecognizable from the wreckage it had been. Everything gleamed—metal, glass, even the damn rubber mats on the floors. The chaos, the history, the memories—wiped clean and replaced with something shiny and new. It felt hollow. 

Halfway through, something stopped him. A chalkboard hung near one of the walls, crowded with messy handwriting: names, numbers, columns. Katsuki frowned and walked closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in the details. It hung behind the rings, behind the bar top he had asked Kira to include.

A betting board.

Katsuki’s steps slowed as he passed the chalkboard, his scowl deepening. The mess of writing on it was chaotic, names scribbled with varying levels of neatness, numbers scratched into columns, and tally marks scattered like someone had been keeping score of something that didn’t even matter. It was so... cheap.

His stomach churned. A betting board? In his gym?

He stepped closer, the sound of his boots loud. His eyes traced the names, some familiar from years ago, others new and meaningless. The stakes written next to them were absurd—money, favors, the occasional vague phrase that could’ve meant anything or nothing.

He gritted his teeth, the muscle in his jaw ticking as his hands curled into fists. This wasn’t what he wanted the gym to be. It wasn’t supposed to be about this—spectacle, money, stupid ego trips. It was supposed to be about the fight. About grit, skill, and the kind of raw determination that left you bloody and better for it.

He stared harder at the board, anger simmering under his skin, until his eyes landed on one name near the top. It was old, barely legible under layers of newer scrawls, but he knew it instantly.

Kyo Yuki.

A wave of something heavy rolled through him, sinking into his chest. The bet attached to the name was simple: “If you’re not bleeding, you’re not trying hard enough.”

Katsuki’s hands fell to his sides, his fists unclenching as the tension bled out of him. The memory surfaced before he could stop it—Kyo in the ring, mismatched gloves scuffed and worn, his stance loose but unshakable. He remembered how Kyo would take on anyone, no matter their size, skill, or temperament. And how, no matter how brutal the fight, he’d step back when it was done, grinning like he’d just walked out of a party.

It was rare. To see Kyo fight – Katsuki could count how many times he saw it on one hand. But it was always good. Always showed people exactly what the gym was about - being yourself. Even when that meant being ugly and mean and hitting hard. 

He could almost see it now, Kyo’s relaxed posture, the way he didn’t take it too seriously, even when the crowd was screaming. Kyo had never given a damn about any of that. For him, it had just been about being in the moment, being real, and never letting anyone forget who they were.

Kyo didn’t stop people from betting, from trash-talking, from turning every match into something wild and unregulated. He let it all happen. Not because he didn’t care, but because he did.

Katsuki could hear his voice now, low and calm in a way that used to drive him insane: “It’s their fight, kid. Their space. Don’t take that from ’em.”

He stepped back from the board, his glare softening into something quieter, something more resigned. Katsuki missed him so much. 

The gym might be his—every brick, every shiny new machine, every steel beam in those perfect rings—but the ring itself? That wasn’t his. Not really.

The ring belonged to whoever stepped into it.

And maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

Katsuki shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the board a moment longer. The bitterness that had risen in his throat eased, leaving behind a hollowness he didn’t know what to do with. He turned away and headed toward the stairs, the faint buzz of activity in the gym below fading as he climbed.

The space above was quieter, darker, the air heavier with disuse. Katsuki paused at the top step, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through narrow windows. Dust coated the floor in a thin layer, undisturbed since the day it had been finished.

He stepped inside, his boots stirring up faint clouds of dust with each movement. Quiet. Lonely. A bed sat on one end, a kitchenette on the other. A couch - pullout Katsuki assumed sat between them against a wall. It looked like Kyo’s. Even had a fire escape attached out the window. Katsuki half expected to smell cigarette smoke as he opened the window.

Instead, it was just him, standing in the silence, the weight of the past pressing down on him. Katsuki ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands absently. He didn’t even know why he’d come here. The thought had been almost automatic, like muscle memory. Maybe he’d wanted to feel closer to something, or someone, that wasn’t there anymore.

The silence stretched, filling the room like an unwelcome guest. Katsuki exhaled sharply, the weight of everything pressing against his chest, but he couldn’t shake it off. His thoughts, sharp and jagged, gnawed at the edges of his mind. He felt like he was suffocating in them. The room was too quiet, too still, too... empty.

He moved towards the bed, each step dragging with the exhaustion that had piled up inside him over the past few weeks. His body was tired, aching from more than just physical strain. He felt worn down in ways he didn’t know how to fix. His hands reached for the edge of the mattress, then stopped, hovering.

He was tired—so fucking tired. But not in the way he usually was after a fight. It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that left you feeling lighter, emptied out after giving everything you had. No, this kind was deeper, gnawing away at him like a constant hum in the back of his head. The world felt wrong somehow, like it had shifted out of balance, and he was still trying to catch up with it.

The gym. The internships. Kira.

Everything had changed, and nowhere felt like he belonged there anymore.

He sat down, the mattress creaking beneath his weight, and let his head fall back against the headboard. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. Everything was just so... silent.

Katsuki hated silence. He hated the way it made him think, made him feel like he was drowning in his own thoughts. The quiet always pulled at him, made him question everything he thought he understood about himself. About who he was, who he was supposed to be.

And that fucking chalkboard. He wanted to think no one else knew Kyo like he did, that Katsuki could make the calls and be sure it was right. But the truth was Kyo wasn’t just his, Kyo had friends and they knew him too. Maybe Kyo would hate what Katsuki’s done, maybe he would love it.

Katsuki closed his eyes, the sharp sting of regret creeping up his throat. The only thing Katsuki knew for sure: Kyo never cared about ownership. He never cared about things. He cared about the people, the fighters. He cared about giving everyone a place to fight, to be something they couldn’t be anywhere else. 

So Katsuki would too.

Katsuki’s eyelids felt heavy as the world around him faded into a muted blur. The soft, unfamiliar weight of the blankets pulled him into a deep, reluctant sleep. His mind was too wound up, too restless to quiet, but his body had other ideas. Exhaustion, something he rarely gave in to, had taken over. Before he knew it, his thoughts slipped into nothingness.

The world went quiet.

His dreams, for once, weren’t there. No tormenting - no horrible images. Just quiet, peaceful rest. It wasn’t until a soft, almost imperceptible sound disturbed his slumber that he came awake. His heart shot into his throat like a jolt of lightning. He didn’t have to think about it. He felt it.

Someone was coming into the room.

Katsuki’s eyes snapped open, his body already moving before his brain fully processed the situation. His pulse was quick, his senses heightened, adrenaline flooding his veins. But when his eyes settled on the doorway. It was her.

Kira stood there, just inside the room, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. She didn’t make a sound as she entered. He doesn’t hear her footsteps, not even the creak of the door. The only thing that gave her away was that unmistakable presence—the way she stood, solid and grounded, like she always did.

But something was different. The way she moved, the way her eyes flicked over him with that sharp, careful gaze. She was... hesitant, almost. Uncertain.

He blinked a few times, his body still tense, the remnants of the fight-or-flight instinct roaring in the back of his head. He forgets how much she’s changed in the few short weeks he’s seen her last. 

She used to be loud. Taking up the space in a room, level headed and grounded. Always finding ways to keep Katsuki on his toes while teaching him how to fight. 

"Don’t sneak up on me like that," Katsuki growled, his voice rough from sleep, but the irritation wasn’t entirely genuine. He was more rattled than angry, still catching up to the reality of the situation. His heart was still racing from the momentary shock.

Kira didn’t flinch. She never flinched. She just stood there for a moment, eyes locked onto his, assessing. It wasn’t like the usual calm, the casual ease she’d carry around him. There was something in her posture, the tilt of her head, the way she was holding herself that felt... different. It was like she was waiting for him to say something.

She said softly, stepping further into the room. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

Katsuki rubbed his face, already feeling the heat of embarrassment rising. He grunted, looking down at the sheets he had been curled into. He knows it must have looked childish. He doesn’t need to be more of a burden to her then he already is.

Kira hummed, as though she knew exactly what he meant, but she didn’t push it. Her gaze softened as she took a few more steps forward, the faintest trace of a sigh escaping her. The tension, the unease that had followed him throughout the day was there, thick in the air, but there was something about the way she approached him that made it feel... safer. Even though his guard was still up, he could almost feel the weight lifting from his chest.

He misses her. Misses the gym, misses having someone to tell things to. He remembers the station. How she had stormed in, how strong she had looked- how unmovable. She had gotten him out of there - away from his parents and bandaged him up. 

Katsuki stares at her, his gaze hardening instinctively, like he’s bracing for something. Kira, though—Kira’s not the same. She’s wearing a silk blouse and pleated pants, her posture straight, businesslike, everything that screams lawyer —something Katsuki didn’t even realize she’d was, until a month ago.

Her presence feels unfamiliar now, even though she’s still Kira. She clears her throat and takes a seat on the couch, her eyes never leaving him.

"So, you’ve been busy," she says, her voice calm but carrying an edge he can’t ignore. Katsuki bristles immediately. 

"I’ve had shit to do," he snaps, the defensiveness spilling out before he can stop it. His jaw clenches as if to keep the words in check, but it feels like an attack, even though he knows it’s not.

Kira doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even seem to mind. "I meant," she says, her tone a little softer, "you haven’t been around."

"I didn’t think you’d notice." The words come out sharper than he means them, the bitterness of her earlier statement cutting through him. "Being too busy and everything."

She tenses at his words—her posture stiffening, her eyes narrowing. The frustration, the annoyance, it's all there. It’s the Kira he recognizes, the one who’s just as comfortable throwing punches, verbally or otherwise, as the rest of them. The one who doesn’t back down.

“Katsuki. I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” she says, voice low but edged with something he knows too well. It’s the sound of a warning, like she’s standing on the edge, ready to leap.

He feels the urge to dig in further. The words come out sharp, a reflex. “What’s there to talk about? You’re back, congrats.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he can see it. Her eyes flash, a spark of something hot and uncontained, and for a split second, he almost regrets it. Almost.

But pushing is easy for him. Poking, prodding—finding where it hurts and digging his fingers into it. It’s something he does without thinking, something he’s always done, even when it gets him nowhere.

Her jaw tightens, and for a second, it’s like everything in the room gets quieter. The air thickens, and Katsuki knows she’s holding back. He can see it in the way her fists clench and her shoulders set. She’s not going to let him walk over her. She never has.

“I get it, alright? I’m not an idiot,” she says, voice tight, the control she’s struggling to keep in place barely hanging on. “I know you’re pissed, I know you’re frustrated, but this—” She gestures between them, her eyes never leaving his, “This isn’t going to work if you keep shutting me out.”

Katsuki grits his teeth, trying to swallow the frustration bubbling up his throat. He wants to snap back, to throw something at her just to watch her reaction, but instead, his muscles lock. It’s like his body’s in a stand-off with itself—whether to push further or shut up for once.

But he can’t. He won’t.

“You’re the one who said you didn’t care, Kira,” he spits out, his voice thick and harsh even though he tries to keep it steady. “I didn’t ask for you to come back. If you don’t want to be here, then go.”

It’s like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s convincing her. His chest feels tight, like his ribs are closing in, but he wants to be angry. He needs to be. He wants to shout at her, push her until she’s forced to say exactly what she thinks of him. Make her leave. Make her feel the same thing he’s been carrying around—this constant, gnawing ache of abandonment, of not being enough.

But then, it happens. The pressure builds and suddenly, everything inside of him cracks. He feels the tears welling up in his eyes before he even knows what’s happening. They sting, burning in his throat, but he can’t stop them. He tries to swallow, tries to clamp down on it, but the lump in his throat is too big. Too heavy. His vision blurs, his breath catching, but he’s not going to let them fall. Not now. Not like this.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms, the pain almost grounding him. He’s a fucking mess. She must think he’s so stupid. A child whining over nothing.

Kira’s quiet for a moment, but he can feel her eyes on him. The silence between them is too loud. The air is thick with everything they’ve never said to each other, all the things they’ve both been too afraid to bring up. It’s suffocating.

Katsuki sniffles, his breath hitching as he curls his hands into the sheets. His chest is tight, and his face feels raw from the emotions that have been clawing at him, but he can’t stop. He’s sixteen years old. Old enough to know better, old enough to not be crying over something as stupid as not having someone around to hold his hand and ask about his day.

And maybe it’s pathetic to admit that he wants someone. Someone who’s not going to leave him the second things get hard. Someone who’ll fight alongside him. Who’ll look at him the way Kira and Kyo used to before everything turned to shit.

The back of his throat tightens again, but this time he forces himself to stop. He’s not going to cry because he wasn’t hugged enough as a kid. Not over something that couldn’t even be classed as a fight.

But the tears keep coming, uninvited. He wipes his eyes furiously, ashamed of the weakness. The bed dips beside him. Arms go around his shoulders. Kira.

“Katsuki, honey…” She sounds lost for once. Taken aback. It catches him off guard, and for a second, he wants to push her away. The tension crackles, thick and sharp. He can feel his chest tightening, his hands trembling in anger, but also frustration.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, voice rough as he tries to choke back the flood of emotion. He tries to force out the words, trying to get control of his voice, but it’s no use. “I’m not some fucking kid. I don’t need—”

But it’s too late. The words fall flat, hollow in the air. They don’t sound like what he wants them to. They sound weak. Pathetic.

She holds him tighter. And for a moment, he doesn’t fight it. He can’t help but curl into her warmth, her steady presence. He doesn’t remember the last time someone just held him, let him be like this—vulnerable and broken. A part of him hates how much he wants it. Hates how much he needs it. He’s too old for things like this. Too far gone to need someone to hold him like this.

“I’m not saying I haven’t screwed up,” Kira’s voice is quieter now, but firm, like the walls she’s built between them have started to crack. “But I’m still here. Let me be here.”

His pulse hammers in his ears, the rhythm of it mixing with the silence that hangs in the room. The tension is so thick he can almost taste it, sour and heavy. He feels like he’s on the edge, about to lose it completely. But there’s a part of him—a small, stupid part—that wants to listen. Wants to admit that maybe, just maybe, he needs her more than he wants to admit.

Katsuki’s chest shudders as he exhales in shaky breaths. The tears flow freely now, a flood he can’t hold back. He doesn’t even try. He just lets it all spill out, every broken thing he’s never said, every moment of pain he’s tucked away for so long. Kira’s arms are steady around him, her presence grounding him, but he’s too far gone to care about anything else right now. It’s a raw, ugly thing. His heart beats out of his chest, the world spinning as the sobs wrack his body, and all he can do is hold on.

When the tears finally subside, it’s a slow, painful release, like he's been holding his breath for years. Katsuki’s body trembles, and he feels empty—like the storm has passed but left nothing in its wake. His eyes grow heavy, his body exhausted from the release. Kira gently eases him back under the covers and before he knows it, the darkness claims him.

He’s three years old and the world is ending.

The room is so quiet, too quiet. The darkness presses in, suffocating. He grips the edge of his bed, knuckles white, trying to hold himself still. The darkness feels alive, like it might swallow him whole if he moves. Under the bed, something waits. Something bad. He knows it’s there. It’s just waiting for him to slip up, to let his foot touch the floor, to give it a chance to grab him.

He pulls the blanket tighter, tucking it around his small body like it’s armor. The All Might onesie Mama got him is snug, the soft fleece making him feel a little safer, a little more invincible. He pulls the hood up over his head, like it might shield him from whatever the night holds. It smells like mama’s laundry detergent. Fresh, clean. Comforting.

The hallway light filters through the crack under the door. It flickers, casting long shadows across the floor. The shadows crawl and stretch, like fingers reaching toward him. He flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.

The door creaks open a little more. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to make a sound, and doesn't want to give away that he’s awake. But the light from the hallway is warm. It’s a little like the sunshine he’s seen outside, only this one comes from the inside, and it feels safer. Maybe Mama’s there. Maybe Papa too.

Mama says he’s special. She says he’s smart, a little genius, for getting his quirk earlier than everyone else. His quirk is supposed to be something amazing. His hands pop and fizzy anytime he wants. Little stars shining that everyone loves, especially Izuku.

He doesn’t even know what it is yet, but he knows Mama’s proud of him. He knows she’s been hugging him a little tighter lately, kissing the top of his head and calling him her brave little hero. His chest swells, a warm feeling that doesn’t belong in the darkness of his room.

But tonight, he doesn’t feel so brave.

The bed creaks as he shifts, trying to edge closer to the wall, staying away from the shadows that gather at the edge of the room. His heart pounds in his chest like it’s trying to escape. He presses his face into the pillow, but it’s no use. The darkness is still there, wrapping around him.

And then the door opens fully.

Footsteps. Quiet, soft, like someone’s trying not to wake him.

His Mama. He knows it’s her, even before the light from the hall reveals her figure, silhouetted in the doorway. She’s holding a hand out, not reaching for him yet, but her presence is enough. He can feel it, like warmth seeping into the room, filling the empty spaces where the shadows had been.

“Katsuki,” she says softly, her voice low and comforting, like the hum of his favorite lullaby. "Come here, baby."

He doesn’t move at first. Dried tear tracks are fresh on his cheeks. The fear grips him, that cold, gnawing feeling that something’s hiding in the dark, just waiting for him to be too scared to run. But her voice... her voice melts the fear away, just a little. Her voice makes him believe, for just a second, that everything will be okay.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice small and thin, hardly louder than the air in the room.

She steps closer, her hand coming down to lift him up. He goes willingly, curling into her warmth. He’s small, so small in her arms, but he feels big, like he’s supposed to be strong for her. He buries his face in her chest, breathing in the scent of her, of home.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me and Papa.”

He nods, just barely, and lets his Mama carry him back to their bed, where the sheets are warm and the darkness doesn’t seem so scary anymore. The bed dips as she lies down with him, pulling him close.

For a moment, everything feels right again. There are no monsters, no shadows, no dark corners. Just the sound of her heartbeat, steady and comforting, and the soft weight of her hand on his back.

But just before he drifts completely into sleep, he hears a voice in his head, a whisper that sounds like a dream. It’s familiar but distant, like a memory he can’t quite grasp.

“You’re special, Katsuki. Always remember that.”

Katsuki’s eyes flutter open, the soft rustle of movement beside him tugging him from the haze of sleep. His head is heavy, but he blinks it away, focusing on the gentle feeling of fingers running through his hair. His body tenses instinctively, but he doesn’t pull away. He knows those hands.

She’s sitting beside him, her touch light, almost careful, as if she’s not sure how much space to leave. He can feel her watching him, but when he meets her gaze, she’s staring at the floor, her face soft. There’s a quietness to the moment that feels different from everything else.

“The fights are starting soon,” she says softly, her voice warm and steady. “If you want to come down. There’s some food out for you, honey”

Her smile is small, and it tugs at something inside him, a reminder of a past he almost wants to forget. He doesn’t respond right away. His throat feels tight, the emotions of the night before still lingering like an unspoken tension in the air. 

It’s not the first time Kira’s taken care of him—he’s starting to lose track, after the festival, Kamino, and everything in between. But today, it feels heavier somehow, like the weight of everything he’s ignored is crashing down on him all at once.

Kira stands up, her hand briefly brushing his hair one last time before she moves toward the door. 

“I’ll be downstairs,” she says, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and he’s grateful for the space, the silence that follows her departure.

Katsuki lies there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ache in his chest. He doesn’t want to go. Not yet. But the pull is there—the need to fight, the need to prove something to himself. The gloves feel heavier than they ever have before, but they’re a part of him, a weight he can’t shake off.

He sits up slowly, rubbing his face as he drags himself out of bed. The room still feels distant, disconnected, and the idea of leaving the comfort of the bed seems like a chore. But he’s not about to stay there and wallow in whatever the hell this feeling is. He’s been through worse. Much worse.

Katsuki reaches for the clothes Kira left for him—loose pants, a tight shirt that doesn’t quite fit right anymore, but it’ll do. The fabric feels too soft against his skin, but that doesn’t matter. The gloves go into his pockets, and for a moment, he stands in front of the mirror, watching himself. The same face. He barely recognizes it anymore.

Katsuki's feet hit the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment, he stands frozen. The gym has transformed into something else entirely. It’s no longer the place where he’d sweated it out, training with purpose. This is chaos—raw, brutal, and almost alien. The energy in the air is thick, oppressive. It’s almost too much to breathe in.

The crowd is massive. Bigger than he’s ever seen. Bodies are packed in tight, people shoved against each other like sardines. The rings are all filled—five in total, each one with a group of people surrounding it, shouting, laughing, and jeering as the fights unfold. 

The intensity in the air feels like it’s crackling, everything vibrating with the force of the punches being thrown. The lights are dimmed, the blinds pulled down, the doors shut tight. It’s almost like the gym has become a different world altogether. A world that shuts out the rest of society, a sanctuary for those willing to pay the price to watch and fight.

People shout for more drinks, for better odds, for the next fight. The bar is packed with people—some are laughing, others are betting, voices raised in excitement and drunkenness. It’s loud. The kind of noise that doesn’t really stop, it just blends together. Katsuki’s eyes flick over the scene, his pulse quickening with an undercurrent of something between disgust and fascination.

There’s a part of him that wants to turn around and leave. He did it. The gym is back and better than ever. A deeper part of him wants to jump in, to punch and kick and bite in a way he’s almost forgotten. The thrum of want runs through him. Katsuki feels like an addict who fell off the wagon. Why did it take him so long again?

But Kyo had never demonized this side of himself, or others. He never saw it as wrong to hurt, to push, to give into the rage and the violence that lived in all of them. Kyo understood what it meant to fight for something—anything—even if it was just to see how far you could push yourself before you broke. 

And Katsuki knew it. He’d always known it. Even before everything had turned to shit. Kyo didn’t believe in hiding that side of yourself. He didn’t believe in pretending it wasn’t there. He let Katsuki in, gave him a space to embrace that side of himself. Kyo had let all of them in.

Katsuki’s hand tightens, instinctively, into a fist. His heart beats in his chest, a reminder of how much he still craves this. The ring. The rush. The violence. He can see people he knows. People he’s fought, people he hasn’t had the chance to yet. Every familiar face is like a jolt of electricity through his system. He loves it, the longer he takes in the heartbeat of the gym, the better he feels.

All the rage, all the guilt, melts away. It doesn’t matter here. Katsuki can throw a punch for any reason at all. And maybe that’s what’s always made this place feel like home—the absence of judgment, the freedom to break and be broken without question. Here, there’s no need for excuses. Just fight.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” A voice calls out, cutting through the thick noise of the gym. Katsuki stiffens as a man, one he’s seen talking with Kyo more than once, stumbles toward him, a bottle of something cheap in his hand. Not that Katsuki had ever cared to learn his name.

“Where ya been, boy?” The man grins, his words thick and slurred. His companion, equally drunk, bumps into him as they both stutter toward Katsuki, grinning wide, almost as if they’re sharing some joke.

Katsuki’s body tenses, but he forces himself to stay still.

“Nice thing you’ve done here,” the other guy says, his voice lowering in a half-serious attempt to make it sound sincere. “And we’re real sorry about your daddy. He was a good man.”

Katsuki nods, unsure of how to respond. His throat feels tight, but he swallows it down. “I—thanks.”

The words feeling hollow even as he says them. He doesn’t owe them anything, but he can’t bring himself to shake them off.

The drunks seem satisfied enough with that, slapping him on the back with a force that might have knocked someone else over. They disappear back into the crowd, laughing amongst themselves, not looking back.

Katsuki doesn’t try to keep track of them. It’s easier this way. Easier to let them slip into the noise and blur into the background.

He turns and heads toward the bar. The receptionist, bartender, or whatever she is, is behind it now, looking indifferent. She gives him a quick glance when he walks up, like she knows what kind of night it’s going to be just by looking at him. She doesn’t say anything. 

She slides a bottle of water towards him. Katsuki is tempted to tell her to give him something real. But he doesn’t think that's a good idea. Not really.

He grunts in thanks, grabbing the glass without making eye contact. He drinks it down quickly, the coldness slipping down his throat, grounding him for a second.

Katsuki feels the weight of his gloves in his pocket, the soft but insistent pull of them, like a reminder of something he’s been avoiding. He thumbs them nervously before setting the glass down and walking towards the back.

The crowd is louder now, more rowdy. Katsuki pushes through, weaving between bodies until he reaches the two larger rings. The fights are already in full swing, quirks flashing around the arena. People are shouting, placing bets, and the entire atmosphere feels like a goddamn circus.

It’s only when he stands at the edge of the rings that he starts to notice it— in two of the rings, Quirks being used. So openly, so recklessly. People throwing punches, fire erupting from hands, lightning crackling in the air, limbs twisting unnaturally. The raw, uncontrolled power being flaunted for everyone to see.

His stomach tightens. For a second, panic surges in him. His brain clicks into overdrive as he realizes what’s happening—the gym is fully crossed over now. No longer just an underground fight club, this is breaking every rule in the book. It’s dangerous, illegal as hell. People are using their quirks without hesitation, without regard for the consequences.

And yet, the part of him that craves the fight, the rush, the violence, doesn’t flinch. Instead, it stirs deeper inside him. He feels the draw, the pull, of a place where he can let loose, where nothing matters but the fight in front of you.

Katsuki inhales slowly, forcing the panic back down, focusing on the heat in his veins instead. The thrill of the ring. The hunger that’s been gnawing at him since the moment he stepped inside this gym. The rational part of him tells him to walk away. To get out of here before they push things even further.

But the rest of him, the part that’s always been drawn to chaos, doesn’t care.

The line’s already been crossed. So, what’s one more step?

The temptation to jump in, to throw his own punches, to take the same risks that others are willing to take—it's always there, always waiting. Katsuki knows what this is. He knows this world, and the rules are always bent or broken. His fingers curl around the edge of his gloves, still hidden in his pocket. But not for long. 

He pulls them out, feeling the weight of them in his hands as he walks toward the edge of one of the rings. The fight inside has just finished, a brutal knockout that leaves the crowd roaring. A mutant, built like a goddamn tank, is being congratulated for his victory, his body covered in fresh bruises but looking almost satisfied with the carnage.

The ring is now empty. The fighter’s muscles ripple as he climbs out, taking his winnings with him, disappearing into the crowd. The space is open. And it’s calling to him.

Katsuki steps into the ring, gloves in hand, his pulse quickening. The world around him fades as the adrenaline begins to pump through his veins. His gaze locks on the girl. She stands tall, long hair flowing like a curtain, but it’s her skin that catches his attention—white scales gleaming like something from a nightmare. The light catches them just right, and for a moment, she looks like a snake, every muscle ready to coil, every step poised to strike.

Her eyes meet his, sharp and calculating. She’s sizing him up, just like he’s sizing her up. Her movements are fluid, unnatural, like a predator’s waiting for the right moment to pounce. Katsuki feels a flicker of excitement. She’s different. This is going to be good.

He steps forward without hesitation, sliding under the ropes with a practiced ease. The crowd’s cheers, the shouts, the noise—everything fades. It’s just him and her now.

The gloves hit the ground with a sharp, definitive thud as he drops them onto the side of the ring. The space feels like a vacuum—quiet except for his own heartbeat, the sound of the girl’s breathing, and the faint rustle of her snake-like movements. Sweat gathers on his hands.

She makes the first move. With a quick twist of her body, she’s on him in an instant, her foot arcing for his ribs. He dodges just in time, the air from her kick brushing against his side. His body moves before his mind can catch up, and he’s already countering, throwing a punch that catches her in the shoulder.

But she’s fast—damn fast. She spins out of the way, and before he can follow up, her arm snakes out like a whip, catching him in the chest. Katsuki stumbles back, the air knocked from his lungs. His instincts scream at him to counter, to strike harder, but she’s already on the move again, fluid as water, her body twisting and darting like it’s made for this.

Katsuki doesn’t panic. This is familiar. He’s been in fights like this before—no quirks, just raw skill and instincts. He doesn’t need his quirk. He’s used to the grind, the exhaustion, the pain. But every time he remembers he can use it, it takes him a second to adapt. That second is enough for her to take advantage of.

She closes in again, aiming for his head this time. Her leg is quick, the kick coming from a weird angle. Katsuki barely ducks in time, the heel of her boot grazing the top of his head. He doesn’t hesitate. The moment his mind registers the danger, he counters with a fast jab—his right hand lighting up with a burst of explosion, a crackling wave of power.

She jerks back, eyes wide for the first time in the fight. She wasn’t expecting that. Katsuki feels a grin tug at his lips. The advantage shifts for a split second. He’s used to his power, knows exactly how to control it in tight spaces like this. But before he can press the advantage, she recovers with a smoothness that throws him off—her body coiling like a snake, darting behind him, landing a sharp elbow to his back.

The pain is sharp, but he doesn’t give in. He spins, swinging a wild punch toward her, but she’s already gone, dodging like she was never there.

Katsuki takes a breath, pushing the anger, the frustration, and the hunger aside. It’s just a fight. No matter how much he wants to win, he knows this is a battle of endurance. He can’t go all out—not yet. The crowd is roaring, but in his head, it’s just the rhythm of his breath, the rush of his heartbeat. He stays focused, waiting for her to make her next move.

She lunges again, faster than before, and this time, he’s ready. He catches her wrist, twisting, but she counters with a vicious knee to his stomach. He grunts, the air leaving him in a rush, but he doesn’t stop. He throws her hand off and follows with a crushing uppercut.

It connects. She stumbles back, but she doesn’t fall. Her eyes narrow, and Katsuki knows. She’s not going to give up that easily.

The fight wears on, a brutal back-and-forth. Katsuki’s getting winded, the sweat beading on his forehead, but he’s still in it. Every time he’s about to hit her, she’s gone in a blur of movement, too fast for him to catch. And every time he thinks he’s got her cornered, she turns the tables, hitting him with something unexpected.

In the end, it’s her speed that beats him. She ducks under one of his wild swings, and before he can react, she locks him in a chokehold. Her body coils around his, a vice-like grip he can’t shake. He struggles, trying to break free, but it’s too late. His vision starts to blur, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

He taps out. The moment he does, she releases him, letting him drop to the mat.

The crowd erupts into applause, but Katsuki doesn’t care. He’s lying on the mat, panting, his chest heaving. There’s no bitterness in him, no shame. This fight—it was everything he needed. The rush, the intensity, the challenge. Even losing, it feels like he’s tasted something he hasn’t had in a long time.

Katsuki pushes himself up on his elbows, looking over at the girl, who’s already stepping out of the ring. She nods at him, a silent acknowledgment of the fight. He can’t help but smile—despite the loss.

He can’t for the life of him remember why he stayed away for so long.

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s eyes are sharp as he surveys the crowd, his body coiled tight with anticipation. The air is thick, heavy with sweat and smoke, the buzzing hum of conversation cutting through the thick bass of music pulsing in the background. 

Tonight’s fight has him buzzing—nothing new, nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times, but it still feels like the first time, every time. Every punch, every hit, the adrenaline lances through him like a jolt of electricity. It’s a drug, and he’s addicted.

The crowd is a sea of wild faces, people pushing and shoving, eager to get closer. Money changes hands faster than he can count, and the betters throw themselves into the chaos with wild fervor. Drinks are spilled, and laughter is loud, but it’s the silence in the seconds before a fight starts that always gives him that thrill, that rush.

He’s been back long enough to know how to read the room. He knows the players, the ones who come to watch, the ones who are here to make a quick buck. Sometimes it’s about quirks—people using them to win, to cheat, to make things more exciting. 

Other times, it’s pure muscle. Katsuki doesn’t care. His hands crack against his knuckles, grinding against his own skin as the sweat beads on his forehead. His heart beats harder when the fight finally starts, the energy of the crowd riling him up, pushing him forward.

Tonight, there’s no hesitation. The moment the bell rings, he’s on the opponent like a beast released from a cage. A brawler, a tornado of violence that nobody sees coming. Every swing, every hit, his muscles moving in sync with his instincts, it’s all so natural—so necessary. 

This is what he was made for, he knows it as soon as his fist connects with flesh. The power, the control, the rawness of it—it lights up his mind like fire. He’s alive. He feels it deep in his bones.

The fight tonight’s not even close—his opponent’s fast, but Katsuki’s faster. Every dodge, every punch thrown at him gets swept aside like it’s nothing. His feet move before his mind even catches up, and when he lands a hit, it’s brutal. He doesn’t hold back. He never does.

The two bigger ring’s have been unofficially dubbed for these kinds of fights. It’s not something they advertise, but the more experienced, seasoned fighters know the score. The bigger guys, the heavier hitters—the ones who want to test themselves against someone who won’t go easy.

But Katsuki’s never backed down from a fight in his life. His muscles burn, his lungs scream for air, but he doesn’t stop. He never will. His whole body moves like it’s programmed for this.

The crowd’s going wild. Some are cheering him on, others just here to watch the blood spill. There’s a grittiness to the whole thing, something that makes his teeth grit in exhilaration. It’s the raw, unfiltered version of life—the kind he’s always lived for. The violence. The sweat. The fight.

But it’s the quieter nights that get to him, too. The nights when the energy’s lower, when the people aren’t just there for the noise but for the game itself. Those are the nights he feels closest to Kyo. It hasn’t stopped hurting. Not really. But it’s like a bruise, Katsuki has learned to stop pressing on it. 

He’ll always think of Kyo, every fight, but it doesn’t leave him gutted like it used to. Katsuki wonders if he got over it too fast, a month and a half already passed in a blur.

He grins fiercely as the final bell rings. His opponent’s barely standing, and it’s clear they don’t want to continue. He could break them. He could make them beg for mercy. He could make it hurt. Get in one more hit.

But he doesn’t. He just knows they’re done. His hands shake slightly from the effort. The adrenaline coursing through him leaves a hollow, empty feeling once the fight’s over. He knows he should be catching his breath, resting, but it’s not about the rest. It’s about the fight. The next one. And the next. Whether he’s participating in them or not.

This fight is just one in the endless string of them. And Katsuki loves every damn second of it.

Sometimes it’s not about the quirks. Sometimes Katsuki picks up his gloves again, and it’s just him, the person and the blood. It's nice, in a way. Reminds him of being a kid and getting his ass kicked by Kira and everyone else before he learned how to block.

The other three rings are used for quirkless fighting. They are smaller and they don’t usually get a lot of attention. The two across the room gather most attention these nights. It’s more like a cool down arena. Somewhere to try out the fighting, to dip your toes in. 

Katsuki thinks it's stupid, sink or swim. But then again, everyone comes back eventually. Drawn in, addicted just as easily as he was.

Katsuki’s knuckles crack against themselves, fingers still tingling from the fight. His breath comes out in sharp bursts, chest rising and falling as his body trembles with the aftermath of the fight. He retreats to the bar, he needs a drink. Jyun, the receptionist, only gives him bottled water. 

But something’s different tonight. He can feel it, buzzing in his veins like the aftermath of a bigger blast—something deeper, something unsettling. The satisfaction of victory is still there, but it’s tainted by a quiet realization that’s been nagging at the back of his mind.

He’s been training to be a hero at UA for weeks now. He’s worked his ass off, bled and bruised for the right to call himself a heroics student, to wield his quirk, his explosions, for a cause.

But it’s still a cage—he’s still held back by the rules of society. He gets to use his power, but it’s always within the confines of a mission, a goal, a strategy. He’s controlled, methodical, calculated. Or, he’s trying to be. Katsuki can admit his methods have been unconventional. A touch too enthusiastic. It drives him here, to give into the fight fight fight thrumming in his blood. 

He’s working on it. Katsuki is going to help Deku as soon as the internships are over and that will prove to everyone that Katsuki can be a hero. The best. He meant to start before that. But with the gym, then the offers coming out, he lost track of time. 

Katsuki got a lot of offers. This time even more than Icy-Hot this time, apparently the reviews got given to anyone who asked for it. He’s still bitter about it. After the Best Jeanist fiasco, Katsuki decided to go a different route. Ignoring the rankings, and Best Jeanist’s letter, Katsuki went straight to the best agency instead. 

There was Sir Nighteye’s one. He worked with All Might, and has a quirk that lets him see into the future. It’s a good option. Central location and a lot of range. Fast fighters, heavy hitters and everything in between. Katsuki would learn a lot. He’s got a reputation of being a hardass and no nonsense. Except.

Except Katsuki isn’t an fucking idiot When he reads in the fine print, as per recommendation from All Might for both Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki. He feels slighted. Very slighted. Katsuki is not an afterthought. He is not Deku’s support character. So, the help will be waiting until after. Deku can fail on his own time.

Katsuki is not hurting his own dream over it. So, Katsuki chooses Ryuko Tatsume, the dragon hero, instead. Her agency isn’t as big, but it’s the next best option. It’s the option that choose Katsuki for him, and not to play babysitter for the next symbol of peace for two weeks. 

When Katsuki looks out at the ring, his eyes settle on the fighters—a lot of them mutants, some with quirks that are grotesque, misunderstood, or just plain dangerous to a normal person. Their fights are raw, primal. And there’s no shame in it. No hesitation. No fear of what someone else might think. 

They get to let loose, to fight like their quirks are them—like it’s not something they have to hide or control. And when the fight’s over, it’s like the weight’s lifted from their shoulders.

Katsuki understands he gets a lot of things others don’t. He just didn’t know how much that applied to his quirk. He didn’t really think about the fact that mutants didn't get to exist in the same way. He’s starting to though.

He watches a few of them walk off the mat, eyes alight, smiles that cut through the weariness of the fight, the bruises, the blood. It’s a freedom Katsuki has always taken for granted. He should probably be grateful he never had to live like that.

But the mutants in this room? They’re different. They have to worry about all of that. Their quirks aren’t allowed to be a part of them. They are expected to be restrained, censored. And it’s clear, in the way they carry themselves, that they know it. 

But when they step into the ring, it’s not about control. It’s about freedom. They aren’t confined by someone else’s idea of who or what they should be. They just get to be themselves, quirks and all.

The tension in their shoulders dissipates, replaced by something lighter. Maybe it's a relief. Maybe it’s satisfaction. He gets to release the pressure here too. But that’s not the same. Katsuki hasn’t suffered in the same stifling way.

Katsuki leans back, rubbing at his sore shoulders, still feeling the sting of the fight on his chest. He knows how much the fighter means to them, he understands how good it feels after.

He glances over at Kira, watching her talk to some of the others in the crowd, a hard grin on her face. The tension in his chest eases just a little. She’s hard to pick out at first, shorter than most out there. He’s been getting a little too attached to her. He knows it. Always looking for her after a fight. Always making sure she’s watching, if she’s impressed. 

It’s stupid, and irrelevant. But it doesn’t change the pride that shoots through him when she offers him a good job, honey or nice punch, sweetheart. He cares what she thinks now. There’s a pride that rushes through him, sharp and bright, making his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle. 

The way she looks at him, like she sees all the mess, the fury, and the potential and doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate. It makes him want to show her. Makes him want to be better, not just for himself but for her, too.

He doesn’t need anyone else’s approval. But hers? That’s different. That feels important. He’s not sure when it happened, when she became more than just the woman who patched him up, who taught him things, who kept the gym running. 

She’s not all he has left. He has friends, he has goals, he has a future. But if he had a list, she’d be at the top. She’s the one person who’s been there through all of it. Especially when he needs her. 

The gym has become something else. Popularity had crept in, quietly at first, but now it was undeniable. What started as a place for raw, unrestrained fighting had blossomed into something else.

The crowds had grown, the ring had become more packed, and it wasn’t just the regulars anymore. And Katsuki couldn’t shake the feeling that it was teetering dangerously close to being too much—too public, too loud, too noticeable. They had to start actually closing the doors at twelve to make sure the place wouldn’t burst. 

Katsuki had never been a fan of anything resembling ‘organization,’ but now, more than ever, it was necessary. The unpredictability of the old method was starting to work against him. More people wanted in, more challengers lined up at the ropes, and the fights were starting to spill into chaos.

He’d had enough of it after the second night. Broken tables, torn-up mats, and not to mention Jyun was sporting some bruises—not to mention to his own damn ego—was enough to push him over the edge.

“Jyun,” Katsuki called, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed. The receptionist, a woman he’d come to appreciate for her no-nonsense attitude, looked up at him from behind the desk, one eyebrow raised. She was scribbling in a notebook but stopped at the sight of his stern glare.

“Set up a damn list. No more free-for-all. People put their names down, and we work our way through it.” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t care how long it takes, just get it in order.”

Jyun didn’t say much at first, but after a beat, she nodded. He liked that about her. She never really spoke. Just did things as told.

Katsuki wasn’t looking for a debate. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted anymore, but the chaos of the past two nights had left him feeling unsettled, more out of control than usual. He doesn’t want anyone dead on his floor. 

It would bring ambulances, and questions and heroes. Katsuki’s hero career would be even more tarnished than it already is. Even the thought of someone finding out about the gym—the way things were now, the popularity of it—had him tense. If anyone found out, if the wrong people showed up. He couldn’t risk it. Not now.

The new system worked, at least for the moment. The crowds didn’t mind the slower pace. There was something about watching a fight build anticipation that seemed to make it more appealing, even if it meant the gym stayed open longer, well into the early hours of the morning. But the problem was the fighters.

Katsuki now had to face a list of eager competitors each night. He didn’t think anyone even cared about him. But requests came flooding in, to fight him. Katsuki has been fighting at least three times a night for the last week and half. Before the internships start up, he’s got a list of people wanting to fight him.

Sometimes he loses, but the more he fights the more he wins. It’s drawing attention to him, specifically. Pats on the back, people clearing when he walks through the place. It’s strange, there’s respect there for sure. But Katsuki feels silly, like he’s playing pretend.

And then there were the whispers. Whispers that made his skin crawl. Some of them had figured out he was the hero student, some knew about his quirks from previous fights. The attention was starting to get to him, and his paranoia started to settle in. One slip-up, one person talking to the wrong person, and it could all unravel. The risk was mounting.

They know who he is. There’s no one in Japan who doesn’t right now, the sludge villain, USJ, the sports festival, All Might’s fall. Katsuki has had his name plastered everywhere for the last few months. They don’t say anything though. Not one word about it. Katsuki isn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Katsuki found himself looking over his shoulder more often than usual. His quirk had always been his defining strength, but now it felt like it was attracting more than just challengers—it was drawing eyes, eyes that weren’t always friendly. Or worse, too friendly.

He watched as the fights dragged on, one by one, fighter after fighter stepping into the ring. Each punch, each throw, a reminder that this—whatever this underground scene had become—was something different, something he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

Still, the fight was the only thing that kept him grounded. When it was just him and the opponent, when everything else faded away and all that mattered was the next hit, the next move, Katsuki felt in control. It didn’t matter that the gym was growing, that more people were getting in on the action. It didn’t matter that things were getting complicated.

What mattered was the fight. And as long as he had that, as long as he could still throw punches and know where to land them, nothing else really mattered. It was all working out, but Katsuki feels like he’s on a tightrope. One wrong slip is all it’s gonna take.

The second semester starts, but for the hero students, it’s more like a brief interlude than a real return. Half a week of class before their second round of internships kicks off. The thought of going back to those damn dorms is almost enough to make Katsuki want to punch something. Again.

He drags himself back Sunday evening, feeling every bruise and scrape from the past few days. His torso is covered in swollen bruises—blues, greens, deep purples. His cheekbone is already turning a nasty shade of red, and his eye is a dark, angry black. Every inch of his body protests when he moves, and his legs feel like jelly. He’s never felt more alive.

Katsuki isn't sure if the gym, the fighting, or the aftermath feels better. He’s used to the pain by now, in fact, it’s almost comforting. It’s a reminder that he’s still pushing himself, still testing his limits. But this kind of damage? It takes a toll. 

The thought of dragging himself through the school’s corridors with his body screaming at him is almost unbearable. The whole thing makes him want to hurl.

Still, there’s something in the grind that makes the pain bearable. It means he’s been doing something right. And the fact that it’s all behind closed doors, away from prying eyes? That’s part of the allure. 

Katsuki never had a problem with getting dirty. But this? This is another level of raw. Another level of freedom. It’s all on his terms, even if it leaves him a bloody, bruised mess.

Katsuki’s grateful the gym is close to a train line. If it wasn’t, he might’ve just curled up somewhere and passed out. The train ride was a blur—just one long stretch of motion, the steady rhythm of the tracks underfoot, the dull hum of the crowd.

But it’s not without its irritations. Someone—a middle-aged woman who’s clearly watching him wince every time the train stopped, had offered him a seat.

Katsuki doesn’t even need to look at her to feel his blood pressure rise. The moment the words leave her mouth, his pride flares up like a flame. He’s been through hell in those damn underground fights, cracked ribs and bloody knuckles, and she thinks he needs to sit down like some kind of weakling?

“Mind your own business,” he snaps, his voice rough with irritation, cut through the thick hum of the train. His fists clenched, the only real tension coming from his knuckles, the need to smash something rising again.

The woman seems taken aback, but Katsuki didn't care. He’s not about to show any weakness to some stranger just because his body’s battered. He’s the one who decides when he needs help, not some concerned civilian on a train. 

He’s not some poor sap to be pitied. And even if he is hurting, he’ll walk this goddamn train ride out without anyone’s sympathy.

As he stumbles off the train and starts walking back to the dorms, his body feels like it’s on fire. Every step sends an excruciating jolt through his spine, and the sting in his ribs makes his chest tighten with each inhale.

He hisses through his teeth as a particularly bad twist in his ankle makes his knee give out for a moment. He powers through it, gritting his teeth against the pain.

But, Katsuki can’t help but grin despite the throbbing ache in his jaw. That grin isn’t just for the fights; it’s for everything. For the challenge. For the power. It’s a feeling he knows too well by now. No matter how much it hurts, the fight never really stops. 

The moment he steps back into the ring, it starts all over again. The surge of adrenaline, the sharpened focus, the determination to fight harder than before. Katsuki’s pulse picks up just thinking about it, the idea of the next fight lingering at the back of his mind like a challenge waiting to be met. 

That thought is enough to keep him moving, even as every muscle in his body protests with each painful step. The pain will pass, but the rush won’t. The fight is everything. It always is. He drags himself down the hallways of UA, the familiar sound of footsteps echoing off the walls, but no one dares get in his way.

People scuttle out of his path, eyes widening as he limps past them. Katsuki can’t help the smug, almost predatory grin that curls up at the corners of his lips. 

He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know they’re all watching, giving him the space he’s earned. It’s not often he takes pleasure in people being afraid of him, but it feels satisfying right now, in this moment. The bruises on his face, the ache in his body—he’s earned their respect, even if it comes with a little fear.

As he reaches the dorms, his thoughts wander for a brief moment. He doesn't care about the others who might be missing or late—he’s not exactly here to socialize with everyone. The people who matter are already inside. Kirishima, Mina, and Ears are gathered around the couch, talking. 

Their voices rise in laughter, but it’s clear they’re not expecting him to join the conversation just yet. Katsuki rolls a twinge out of his shoulder, remembering how close it had been to being torn out of place on Saturday during the last fight. Some guy had nearly had him, but Katsuki had shown him what a dislocated shoulder really is. He moves forward, standing in front of the couch, forcing himself to ignore the pain.

“What's up, dumbasses?” he growls as he sits down beside them, throwing his bag on the floor and letting himself settle with a deep, exhausted exhale.

Ears, a girl they’ve been hanging out with more recently, is sitting on the other side of Kirishima, looking the same as always: laid-back but also quietly observant. She doesn’t say much, but Katsuki knows she’s sharp. 

She’s currently looking like Katsuki just slapped her. Weird. Mina doesn’t look too happy either. Katsuki doesn’t know who pissed in her cereal.

His mind flickers again—this time, back to the fight. The excitement, the need to push himself further. Everything’s been on track. He’s been on fire lately. He hasn’t felt this good about his progress in a while. 

Maybe that’s why he’s in such a good mood this week. He’s feeling confident—like everything’s finally coming together. 

“Did you break your phone?” She asks tensely.

“No.” 

Katsuki's phone was in his bag. Where it had been for the last two weeks–. Fuck. He’s been ignoring them again hasn't he?

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. Kirishima’s still staring at him, and it’s starting to feel like a weight pressing down on him. Katsuki’s eye twitches. The good mood he’s been carrying around, the one that’s made him feel like he’s on top of the world? It’s starting to crack.

“What?” Katsuki snaps, voice sharp as he shifts uncomfortably on the couch, trying to ignore the gnawing ache in his body. “What the hell’s the problem?”

Mina’s eyes flicker between him and Kirishima, clearly registering the tension in the air. Her brow furrows before her lips curl into a tight frown. She’s quiet for a beat, but only just long enough for her to gather her annoyance. 

“Why didn’t you answer us?” she asks snippily, her voice laced with something a little too sharp. It stings, and Katsuki can feel it, but he’s not about to let her see that.

“I was busy,” he mutters, the words leaving his mouth a little too quickly. His tone is dismissive, but inside he’s already regretting the way he’s handled this. Mina’s not the one to let things slide, and now she’s watching him with that look.

“With what?” she presses, her voice even more pointed. Her gaze bores into him like she’s trying to peel him open.

Katsuki clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms as he fights the sudden urge to snap. He doesn’t want to explain himself—he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. Not for this. But he knows if he doesn’t give her something, this conversation will escalate into something worse. 

“Things,” he mutters, his voice still thick with frustration.

Mina throws up her hands, clearly exasperated, and slumps back into Ears, clearly done with the conversation but still visibly annoyed. Katsuki doesn’t like that. Not one bit. 

He hates when she gets like this—when she shuts down, thinking he’s just some asshole who’s never bothered to explain anything. He doesn’t like the way it feels, that distance. And that frustration gnaws at him more than anything else.

He knows it’s his fault. He could’ve been more straightforward, could’ve handled this better, but the words aren’t coming out right. And he certainly doesn’t want to start explaining the details of his weekend. 

There's also the fact that he can’t tell them. Not if he wants to keep up with the balancing act.

“I...” He hesitates, feeling a knot form in his throat. The hesitation alone catches the attention of everyone in the room.

Kirishima, who’s been staring at him with concern, narrows his eyes. The others fall quiet, waiting for him to continue, and Katsuki feels all their eyes on him, as if they’re reading into him too deeply.

Katsuki curses inwardly. He wasn’t planning to explain any of this, but now that the words have started slipping out, he doesn’t want to just leave it hanging in the air like that. 

“I can’t explain it completely. Or at all. But I was actually busy.”

The silence that follows is thick, everyone digesting what he’s said. Kirishima is the first to speak up, his voice careful. 

“With things you can’t talk about?” He’s still watching the bruises scattered across Katsuki’s face, his eyes moving to the cut knuckles, the discoloration creeping up his neck. 

There’s no judgment, just concern. Kirishima might not know the specifics, but it’s clear he’s picking up on something.

Katsuki nods sharply, grateful that Kirishima doesn’t press him further. That’s the thing about Kirishima—he gets it, even when Katsuki doesn’t feel like explaining. There’s no pressure, just understanding. That’s why, despite the pain in his body and the weariness gnawing at him, he feels a little lighter when his friend backs him up.

“Yeah,” he mutters, wiping a hand over his face, “I went home and things just piled up. I wasn’t ignoring you fucks or whatever.” 

His voice softens at the end, more tired than anything else. The words come out as an apology, but not the kind he’s used to offering. It’s hard for him to admit, even if it’s a roundabout way of saying sorry. 

Mina stays quiet for a moment longer, clearly processing everything he’s said. Katsuki can almost hear the gears turning in her head. Finally, she sighs, her irritation still simmering but much quieter now. 

She’s not pleased, but she’s not pushing him further either. It’s that unspoken understanding between them—no matter how rough things get, she’s not going to press him too hard. She just needs him to acknowledge it.

“Fine,” she mutters, still a little sharp. “But next time, don’t just drop off the face of the earth, okay? We actually do miss you, idiot.”

Katsuki lets out a huff of breath, a little chuckle escaping before he can stop it.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” he grumbles, though it’s not with his usual fire. 

He rubs his face again, exhausted but feeling like the worst of the tension has passed. It’s strange, but a weight lifts from his chest, and even if the conversation wasn’t ideal, he’s glad it’s done.

Apparently Mina got a puppy over the break, to distract her from her parents separating. The dog is going to her little brothers, being a full time student and all. Katsuki lets the words wash over him. A pleasant sort of detachment as he listens. 

Katsuki doesn’t know who’s knocking on his door at three a.m., but he does know they’ll never find the body. The pounding is relentless, dragging him from the depths of a blissfully sound sleep. Annoyance flares hot in his chest as he shoves off the covers, stomping to the door in nothing but a sleep shirt and boxers.

He yanks it open with enough force to rattle the hinges, a scowl already carved into his face. “What the hell—” The words die in his throat as floppy red hair greets him.

Right. Kirishima doesn’t wake up looking like a spiky-haired porcupine; he has to style it. The sight should’ve been amusing, but Katsuki’s mood doesn’t have room for humor at this hour.

His murderous intent fades into a general, simmering annoyance as he stares into those wide red eyes. They’re shining, more awake than anyone has the right to be at this godforsaken time of night.

“It’s three a.m.” Katsuki growls, his voice rough and gravelly with sleep.

“Are you okay?” Kirishima asks, his voice quiet but steady, laced with concern.

Katsuki blinks. He had been more than okay—he’d been asleep. Soundly, happily, even. He feels the weariness creeping back now that his initial burst of anger has subsided. He rubs at his face, trying to wipe away the grogginess.

“Fuckin’ what?” he mutters, his words slurring slightly. 

Kirishima runs a hand through his messy hair, a sure sign of his stress. The action only makes it stick out in wilder directions, but Katsuki doesn’t have the energy to care. 

“Are you okay?” Kirishima repeats, slower this time, like he’s trying to ease into the question.

“I’m fine,” Katsuki snaps, though the edge in his voice is dulled by exhaustion. The words come out defensive, almost instinctive, like he’s been accused of something. He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Kirishima as if daring him to argue.

Kirishima doesn’t argue. He just stares at him, his brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. Katsuki doesn’t appreciate the wellness check—not one damn bit. He leans more heavily against the doorframe, some of his unruly hair falling into his eyes. He’s too tired to push it away, so he lets it hang there.

Kirishima’s gaze drops, slow and deliberate, scanning Katsuki from head to toe. When his eyes land on Katsuki’s bruised arms, his frown deepens.

“Bakugou,” he says, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “You’re covered in bruises.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond right away. He knows he is. He knows he looks like hell. His torso is painted with mottled greens and purples, his knuckles scabbed and raw. There’s a particularly nasty shiner on his cheekbone, dark and angry. He doesn’t need Kirishima to point it out.

“Yeah,” Katsuki finally says, his tone clipped. He doesn’t offer any further explanation.

Kirishima doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flicker back up to Katsuki’s face, searching for something—an answer, maybe, or some kind of reassurance. Katsuki doesn’t have either to give. He’s too tired for this, too drained to deal with Kirishima’s concern and the weight of the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

“You didn’t answer anyone’s messages,” Kirishima says after a beat, his voice low. “We were worried.”

“I told you. I was busy.”

“Bakugou.”

Katsuki sighs. He misses when he didn’t have friends to explain himself to. He steps back into the room. He trudges toward his bed, flopping down onto the edge. The covers are still tangled from when he’d been dragged out of them minutes earlier. 

He doesn’t bother fixing them. He runs a hand through his hair, the mess of blonde strands falling back into his face. Katsuki doesn’t care. He doesn’t look up as Kirishima awkwardly steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

Kirishima hesitates, lingering near the desk chair. He looks like he doesn’t know where to put himself, like he’s weighing whether this is even a good idea. Finally, he sits, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. His hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching as if he wants to fidget but is holding himself back.

“Bakugou” Kirishima starts, his voice quiet but steady, “you go home and then show up covered in bruises.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond. He stares down at his hands, at the bandages wrapped around his knuckles. They’re stiff and itchy, the tightness reminding him of the hours he’d spent wrapping them himself. Better this than letting the cuts get infected. His fists clench, nails biting into his palms. He focuses on the faint sting, something solid to ground himself with.

“And you never talk about your parents,” Kirishima continues, the words tumbling out of him in a rush now, “or home, or anything! You just—”

Katsuki snaps his head up, glaring at him, crimson eyes blazing with the kind of fury that could stop most people in their tracks. But the effect is dulled by the exhaustion etched into his face, his shoulders slumped from the weight of too much he can’t share.

Kirishima flinches, his shoulders stiffening for a moment under the intensity of Katsuki’s gaze, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. When he speaks again, his tone is softer, almost pleading. 

“I’m worried, man. And I keep– I keep thinking you’re going to disappear or something.”

The words hit Katsuki harder than he expected. He’s braced for the usual lectures, the nagging about how he needs to take care of himself or stop pushing so hard, but this? This is different. This isn’t about annoyance or even frustration. This is raw, real fear. Katsuki doesn’t know what to do with that. He shifts uncomfortably, his fists tightening further.

“Disappear?” Katsuki scoffs, trying to brush it off, but the edge in his voice betrays him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Kirishima leans back, dragging a hand through his unruly red hair. His gaze is steady, though his voice trembles slightly. 

“Kamino,” he says, the word landing like a heavy weight between them. He swallows hard, his fingers clenching on the edge of the chair. 

“It’s stupid because you seem fine. Everyone else is fine. But I think I’m the only one who’s not over it, and I still—” He takes a shuddering breath. “I still have nightmares, man. I still see you not hearing me. Or missing. Or—”

“I’d never fucking miss,” Katsuki snaps, the rage flaring back to life in an instant. His voice is sharp, cutting through Kirishima’s spiraling words. The intensity in his tone makes Kirishima blink, momentarily stunned into silence. Katsuki glares at him, his chest heaving. “I’d never miss.”

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of their breathing. Katsuki’s jaw tightens, his mind a storm of thoughts he doesn’t want to examine. He can’t tell Kirishima about the fights. Or the gym. Or Kyo. 

But Kirishima was the one to save him. The one to hold out his hand when Katsuki had needed it. If anyone deserves something—anything—it’s him.

Katsuki mutters under his breath, getting to his feet. Kirishima tenses slightly, his eyes widening in confusion as Katsuki stalks over to his closet. He yanks the door open, rummaging around until he finds what he’s looking for.

Katsuki pulls out a futon, dragging it across the floor and throwing it unceremoniously next to his bed. The thick mattress lands with a soft thud, and Katsuki straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. Kirishima stares at him, utterly bewildered.

“There,” Katsuki hisses, his voice sharp as ever. “Can’t think I’m gone if you’re thirty centimeters away from me.”

Kirishima’s jaw drops, his red eyes darting between Katsuki and the futon. For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Katsuki ignores him, his cheeks burning as he crawls back into his own bed. He pulls the covers up over his shoulders, turning his back to Kirishima.

“Now let me sleep,” he snaps, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Kirishima doesn’t say anything at first. Katsuki can feel his gaze lingering, but he pointedly keeps his back turned, his shoulders tense under the blankets. Eventually, there’s a soft rustle of movement as Kirishima sits down on the futon, followed by the quiet sound of him lying down. The room settles into silence again, the tension slowly ebbing away.

“Thanks, man,” Kirishima says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Katsuki doesn’t respond. He stares at the wall, his grip on the blanket loosening slightly. His chest feels tight, but not in the suffocating way it had before. It’s different now, quieter. He doesn’t think about it too much.

“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath, the word carrying less bite than usual.

Eventually, his breathing evens out, and Katsuki goes the fuck back to sleep.

Katsuki steps on Kirishima first thing in the morning. Hard. Not enough to break anything, but enough to make the idiot jolt awake with a strangled yelp. It’s partially an accident, but Katsuki doesn’t care enough to clarify.

Kirishima groans, still half-asleep, his hair sticking up in every direction. He hadn’t even bothered to grab a blanket last night, the idiot. Katsuki clicks his tongue, staring down at him like he’s an inconvenience.

“Get up,” Katsuki snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut. He nudges Kirishima again with his foot—this time more deliberate—before stalking off. “Sensei’s got us up at the ass-crack of dawn, and if you make us late, I’ll kill you myself.”

Kirishima groans again but drags himself upright, muttering something about Katsuki needing to chill. Katsuki ignores him, already moving to yank a shirt over his head.

He respects Aizawa Sensei’s approach, in a way. Tardiness means everyone suffers, which is fair enough in Katsuki’s book. It weeds out the weak links. But collective punishment is a literal war crime. Yeah, Sensei probably doesn’t give a damn.

“Five minutes,” Katsuki barks over his shoulder. “Be ready or I’m leaving your ass behind.”

Kirishima grunts something that might’ve been an agreement before disappearing into his room to get ready. Katsuki rolls his eyes and finishes dressing, already plotting his next move.

Next on the agenda: waking Kaminari. Katsuki smirks to himself as he pulls on his boots, the thought bringing him more satisfaction than it probably should.

How high-pitched is Kaminari’s scream gonna be this time?

Kaminari had screamed like a little girl when Katsuki kicked his door in. A high-pitched wail that had been everything Katsuki hoped for and more. He’s still grinning about it, the smug satisfaction keeping him warm even as they stand in the chilly morning air.

Then Aizawa drags out some guy. One guy.

Katsuki’s grin falters. He glances around at the rest of his classmates, their expectant faces. Did they all know about this? Did they actually wake up at the ass-crack of dawn for one guy?

The third-year steps forward, waving casually, like he’s greeting an old friend instead of standing in front of an entire class. His uniform is neat, his hair is ridiculous, and his smile is... cheery. Too cheery. Katsuki narrows his eyes, his good mood curdling in an instant.

What’s with this guy?

“Mirio Togata,” Sensei says, the name like a challenge as it settles over the group.

Katsuki blinks. Who?

The guy’s grin doesn’t falter, even with Katsuki staring daggers at him. His hair looks like he belongs in some dumb kid’s cartoon, all smooth and blond and stupid. And the way he’s just standing there, smiling like some damn golden retriever—what the hell is that about?

Katsuki shifts his weight, his scowl deepening as he sizes him up. A third-year, obviously. That much was clear from the way Sensei’s watching him, like he’s some big deal. But this? This is the guy they dragged them all out here for?

He’s unimpressive. Pathetic, really. Katsuki’s fought guys with skin like stone, dudes covered in scars that made them look more animal than man. He’s faced quirks that could rip him apart in seconds if he wasn’t fast enough, mutants who looked like they’d crawled out of the depths of hell itself. 

And this guy— this tin-tin looking fuck —is supposed to be some kind of challenge?

Katsuki scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back on his heels. He glances at Kirishima, who’s watching the guy with wide eyes, his lips twitching up like he’s impressed or something.

“You’re kidding me,” Katsuki mutters under his breath, his voice dripping with disdain.

“What?” Kirishima asks, glancing at him.

Katsuki jerks his chin toward him. And says nothing. Katsuki is certain his face is saying it enough.

Kirishima frowns. “Bakugou, he’s—”

“I don’t care,” Katsuki snaps, cutting him off. His gaze doesn’t leave Togata, the irritation bubbling under his skin like magma.

The guy just keeps smiling, completely oblivious to the waves of hostility rolling off of Katsuki. Or maybe he’s not oblivious at all. Maybe he doesn’t care.

That pisses Katsuki off more than anything else. Katsuki’s palms itch. Any remaining aches from the last few days at home disappear to the vicious snarling in his head. He hates his guy. He wants to fight him.   

And then Aizawa gives the word. As if he read Katsuki’s mind. He really is Katsuki’s favorite teacher, isn’t he?

"Twenty against one," Sensei announces, his voice as flat as ever. "Take him down if you can. He’s not going to hold back, and neither should you."

Tin-Tin doesn’t wait. One second he’s standing there, all smiles, and the next, he’s gone. Katsuki’s eyes widen as the guy vanishes, sinking straight through the ground like a stone dropped into water.

“The hell—?!” He starts, half his classmates scatter, confused.

There’s no time to process it because Tin-Tin pops up behind them, fist cocked back and moving fast. Tape face barely ducks in time, yelping as the punch grazes the top of his head. Tin-Tin grins, sinking into the floor again before anyone can counter.

Katsuki curses under his breath, scanning the room for any sign of where he’ll reappear. He’s fast—too fast—and the way he moves is so disorienting it’s almost impossible to predict. It’s not something Katsuki knows how to fight.

"Damn it!" Kaminari yells, sending a wide arc of electricity across the floor, but it does nothing. Other than forcing the class even further apart. Tin-Tin phases through it like it isn’t even there, his grin never wavering.

“What the hell’s his quirk?” Katsuki snarls, blasting forward to intercept, only for his hand to swipe through nothing but air as he ducks under his swing and disappears again.

“He’s untouchable,” Mina shouts, her acid splashing harmlessly onto the floor where Tin-Tin had been a second ago. “It’s like—he just phases through everything!”

"Impermeable!" He calls out cheerfully, his voice echoing as he emerges from a wall to send the Octopus flying with a well-placed punch. "That’s what they call it. Pretty neat, huh?"

Katsuki grits his teeth, fury mounting as his classmates scramble to keep up with the guy. He’s too quick, too unpredictable. Every time they think they’ve got him cornered, he slips away like smoke, only to come back swinging with a speed and precision that leaves them struggling to keep up.

But he’s not invincible. No one is. 

It doesn’t do him any good though. Because Tin-Tin is picking off his classmates with frightening accuracy. At least half of them are out of commission, not seriously harmed, but enough that Sensei pulls them to the sidelines.

“Midoriya!” Kirishima shouts as Tin-Tin barrels toward Deku, who barely manages to dodge the incoming punch. Katsuki catches a flicker of determination in Deku’s eyes as he springs back into action, yelling something about working together.

“Kirishima! With me!” Midoriya calls out, his voice sharp and commanding in a way that makes Katsuki’s skin crawl. He hates how natural Deku sounds giving orders. Hates it even more when Kirishima follows without hesitation.

Katsuki, spiteful, lets them suffer. He watches impassively, waiting for Kirishima to realize Deku was the wrong choice.

Kirishima charges, hardening his body as Tin-Tin lunges for him. For a second, it looks like his fist is going to smash right through Kirishima’s face. Tin-Tin slides through Kirishima like a ghost, and punches his undefended back.

“Now!” Deku shouts, lunging forward with a well-timed kick. Useless.

Tin-Tin phases again, slipping through both of them like it’s nothing, but the coordination catches Katsuki’s attention. It buys them time—a split second, but long enough to regroup.

Katsuki hangs back, watching, thinking. There’s a pattern here. There has to be. He needs to figure it out. He wants to break Tin-Tin. He wants to punch his stupid face. And unfortunately, Katsuki might need Deku for a distraction. Fuck.

He debates it for a moment, which he wants more. To win or to watch Deku lose. His own ambition wins out. 

A plan starts to form, sharp and clear as he watches his classmates try and fail to pin Tin-Tin down.

“Oi, Deku!” Katsuki barks, his voice cutting through the chaos. Deku skids to a stop, looking over with wide eyes.

“What is it, Kacchan?”

“Your useless ass better keep him busy for thirty seconds. Kirishima, you’re with me!” Katsuki doesn’t wait for a response, grabbing Kirishima by the arm and pulling him to the side. 

“What’s the plan?” Kirishima asks, his tone steady despite the chaos around them.

Katsuki’s grin sharpens, feral and full of teeth, the kind of expression that makes most people take a step back. Kirishima doesn’t flinch, but his throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“Get hard,” Katsuki says, low and deliberate. His crimson eyes flicker to the ground as if Tin-Tin might be listening, his voice barely above a growl.

Kirishima nods, his jaw tightening. His quirk is already creeping up his arms. “Got it.”

Katsuki doesn’t elaborate further, instead glancing toward Deku, who’s already charging back into the fray, throwing himself into Tin-Tin’s path like the reckless idiot he is. Katsuki’s lips twitch in irritation, but he shoves it aside.

“He’s gonna focus on that nerd first,” Katsuki mutters, his gaze snapping back to Kirishima. “Deku’s good bait—always is. All that yelling and flailing. You’re the next target, so we make it count.”

Kirishima frowns slightly, his brows knitting together. “Why me?”

“Because you can take it, you need to stand here alone” Katsuki snaps, narrowing his eyes. “Unlike the rest of these extras.” 

He jerks his thumb toward the chaos unfolding behind them, where Sero is dodging another swipe. Kirishima needs to be the next best target. 

Kirishima blinks, then nods, his expression firming. “Alright. What’s the rest of the plan?”

Katsuki steps closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “I’ll go airborne. Get above him and wait. He’ll come at you—he has to. And he has to be solid to hit you, so the second he is—”

“You blast him,” Kirishima finishes, his mouth twisting into a grin that mirrors Katsuki’s.

“Damn right,” Katsuki says. His palms crackle with sparks, the faint smell of nitroglycerin filling the air. “You just stand there and don’t die, shitty hair.”

“Not planning to,” Kirishima replies, pounding a fist into his palm as his body hardens. The faint metallic sheen of his quirk glints under the harsh training ground lights.

Katsuki doesn’t bother with a response. He launches himself into the air with a deafening explosion, the force propelling him high above the battlefield. From up here, the chaos below looks almost manageable. He spots Deku darting left, then right, yelling commands to Mina and Kaminari as they scramble to corner Tin-Tin.

He is a blur, weaving through their attacks with an ease that sets Katsuki’s teeth on edge. Every time someone gets close, he vanishes, only to reappear behind them and send them sprawling with a calculated punch.

But Katsuki doesn’t care about the rest of them. His eyes are locked on Tin-Tin, tracking his every movement, waiting for the moment he shifts his attention to Kirishima.

It doesn’t take long. Kirishima stays away from the fray, a bait dog.

Deku overextends, leaping too high with a kick, and Tin-Tin sidesteps him effortlessly. His gaze flickers toward Kirishima, who’s standing firm in the middle of the field, fists clenched and ready.

There it is.

Tin-Tin lunges, his grin widening as he phases straight through Kaminari’s desperate bolt of electricity. He’s moving fast, his sights set on Kirishima, who doesn’t flinch even as Tin-Tin closes the distance in a blink.

Katsuki’s muscles tense. His hands itch. Sweat builds in his palms. He waits.

He re-materializes, his arm pulling back for a punch. Katsuki moves.

The explosion rips through the air, a concentrated blast that sends Katsuki hurtling downward with pinpoint accuracy. Tin-Tin’s eyes widen, his confident smile faltering for a second as the blast connects. His body jerks from the impact, a sharp gasp escaping him before he’s sent skidding across the ground.

Kirishima lets out a triumphant shout behind him, his fists pumping. But his gaze stays locked on Togata, ready for what’s next.

It’s not over. Not even close.

Katsuki crouches between them, his palms sparking with energy. Smoke billows from his hands. Tin-Tin’s uniform is charred, but Kirishima is unharmed behind him.

“Nice one,” He says, his voice annoyingly cheerful even as he brushes dirt off his uniform. “Didn’t think you’d figure that out so fast.”

Katsuki bares his teeth in a snarl. “Tch.”

He adjusts his stance, brushing his hair back with one hand. His grin shifts—less playful now, sharper, more serious.

“Let’s see if you can pull that off twice,” he says, his tone lighter than it should be.

Katsuki snarls, but Tin-Tin is already gone, melting into the ground like a ghost. He’s fast—too fast—but Katsuki doesn’t care.

The battlefield shifts, and Tin-Tin’s grin sharpens as he sizes up the remaining classmates. Katsuki sees it—sees the exact moment he decides to pick them off one by one, clearing the board.

It’s less collateral for Katsuki to worry about. There was a reason why Kirishima had to be so far from the class after all. Green blurs next to him, Deku. Ugh.

Deku hesitates, glancing between Tin-Tin and Katsuki. “Kacchan, if we—”

“Shut up and get lost!” Katsuki snaps, not bothering to look at him. “He’s mine!”

Tin-Tin tilts his head, that annoying smile still plastered on his face as he phases through Kaminari’s desperate bolt of electricity. A sucker-punch later Kaminari joins the rest on the sidelines.

“You sure about that?” he calls out, his tone infuriatingly casual. “Teamwork is important, you know. If you send them off, you’re all alone.”

Katsuki’s lips curl into a feral grin. “Yeah? That’s the point, dumbass. Don’t need extras slowing me down.”

He vanishes again, slipping through the ground before reappearing behind Ears. He takes her out with a calculated tap to the shoulder, sending her sprawling with a wince. His movements are precise, efficient—too much like a hunter clearing prey.

But Katsuki’s not prey.

The heat under his skin builds, sweat pooling in his palms as he bides his time, watching how he moves, how he picks his moments to phase and reappear.

“Oi, Tin-Tin!” Katsuki yells, his voice cutting through the haze of smoke he’s already begun stirring up. “Are you always this slow? Or are you just getting old?”

Tin-Tin chuckles good naturedly, turning his attention to Katsuki now, his grin unwavering. “Trying to rile me up, huh? Not gonna work, kid.”

“Yeah? Looks like it’s working just fine,” Katsuki sneers, his tone dripping with mockery. “Look at you—does that quirk even do anything, or are you just another hero who got in on their daddy’s name? Because you sure as hell don’t look like you’ve got the talent to back it up."

His smile tightens, the first crack in his composure, and Katsuki knows he’s hit a nerve.

“Alright,” He says, his voice dropping into something more serious. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The battlefield is empty. Deku and Kirishima are the only ones not forced to the sides. But neither of them interfere. Good. 

Katsuki stalks forward, the smoke around him thickening with each calculated blast. Tin-Tin hesitates for a fraction of a second, his head tilting as he tries to track Katsuki’s movements through the haze.

That’s all Katsuki needs.

“Can’t see shit, huh?” Katsuki taunts, his voice echoing from somewhere in the mist. “Bet it’s real hard to fight when you can’t tell where I’m coming from.”

Tin-Tin doesn’t respond, his eyes narrowing as he shifts to a defensive stance, his body half-phased as he waits for Katsuki to make a move. Katsuki can only make out the barest outline.

He can’t see that well either, but the smoke comes with Katsuki’s explosions. He’s a lot more used to fighting blind than Tin-Tin is. Evidently.

“You know,” Katsuki says, his voice low and mocking as he moves, never staying still long enough to pin, “for all that hype about the Big Three, you’re not that impressive. Bet I’ve fought scarier villains in my sleep.”

The only reason he can’t get out of the smoke is because there isn't any space without smoke. The training ground is overflowing with it, anytime it starts to settle Katsuki fires off again. Stirring up more.

Tin-Tin’s turns toward the sound of Katsuki’s voice, appearing close enough for Katsuki to get a glimpse. Katsuki capitalizes on the moment. He detonates a flash-bang, the blinding light cutting through the smoke and forcing him to shield his eyes as he sinks into the ground.

Tin-Tin is quick to recover, rolling back onto his feet with a laugh that grates against Katsuki’s nerves. But there’s something different in his expression now—something sharper, more serious. 

It’s cat and mouse. Neither of them can get close to each other. It’s getting ridiculous. Every time he thinks he’s got Tin-Tin cornered, the boy flickers again, vanishing into nothingness. Katsuki’s blast grazes the air.

“Damn it!” He pivots, but the next instant, Tin-Tin’s solidified form comes down from above, his leg slamming into Katsuki’s shoulder with enough force to make his vision swim.

Katsuki growls, hitting the ground with a roll that sends more dust flying. His ribs feel like they’ve been crushed by a freight train. He’s not going to let that be it. He can’t.

“You’ve got more fight than I thought, Bakugou,” Tin-Tin comments, but there’s a hint of exhaustion in his voice now. That’s it—Katsuki can hear it, feel it in the air. Tin-Tin’s not as invincible as he pretends to be.

Sensei’s voice kicks up across the field. Commanding. “That’s enough!”

Katsuki’s brain skids to a halt. Enough? It’s not over. It’s not even getting good yet. He just needs to figure out–

It’s like the world has just gone still. Katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest, the adrenaline fading but leaving behind that raw ache of disappointment. He’s ready to charge again, to blow this whole damn thing wide open, but the power in his hands flickers and dies, the heat of his explosions snuffed out like a candle.

His eyes flicker toward Sensei, his red irises glowing with that damn, all-knowing calm. That’s when Katsuki realizes what’s happened— Sensei’s stopped him.

“Are you kidding me?” Katsuki snaps, taking a step forward, but his palms remain cool. The fire’s erased. “I was just getting started.”

Tin-Tin, the smug bastard, gives him one last look—just enough to make Katsuki grind his teeth. He's too damn composed. He’s not even sweating.

“Next time, Bakugou,” Tin-Tin says, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, his voice just enough to irk him. “You’re not so bad. Thanks for the stretch.”

Then, without another word, he waves off Sensei and heads for the exit. “Gotta go—class and all that.”

Katsuki’s fists clench, his nails digging into his palms. Class? He didn’t get to finish this. He didn’t get to win.

He’s already moving, and Katsuki’s left standing there with nothing but the taste of dust in his mouth and a gnawing sense of defeat clawing at his insides. He growls in frustration. Even as the class gathers around him. 

They look nervous, eying him like he might snap. Kirishima opens his mouth, only to be cut off by Aizawa Sensei immediately.

His eyes narrow, but his tone is bored. "I expected you all to lose. Swiftly. I expected this to be a simple exercise—a chance for you to get knocked down a peg before your internships. You’re not ready for the real world yet. Not for the danger you’ll face when you’re out there. You think you’ve learned enough, but there’s a long road ahead of you. You’re still learning."

Katsuki wants to snarl, he can see his classmates nodding. Katsuki is able to handle himself, thank you very much. Aizawa’s eyes land on him, piercing. Any protest dies in Katsuki’s throat.

“Bakugou.” He says, “You performed well. Most first years wouldn’t have a chance against a third year student. Let alone Togata. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Katsuki huffs. Crossing his arms but doesn’t argue. The acknowledgement soothes the spite temporarily. 

“You got close, but you’re still green. You think you’ve got the skills to handle yourselves out there, but reality isn’t the same as a training ground. There’s no second chance. If you mess up in the real world, there won’t be a safety net.”

Aizawa pauses, letting his words settle in the room. The students all stand a little straighter now, a mix of determination and apprehension hanging in the air.

"So, I’m going to say it again, even though you probably won’t listen," Aizawa says, his eyes locking onto each of them in turn. "You’re still learning. Every last one of you. You may have potential, but don’t get comfortable. You’re not invincible, no matter how strong you think you are."

Aizawa gives them all one last look, his eyes scanning the group, before he nods and turns away. "Now, get out of here. You’ve got your internships to prepare for. Don’t go thinking you can handle anything just because you held your own in a match. You’re far from ready for what’s out there."

Katsuki stands still for a moment, his fists clenched tight at his sides, his gaze locked on Aizawa, who’s walking away. The words from earlier are still ringing in his ears— you’re still learning . They sting, but it’s not just that. It’s the fact that they’re true. And that’s what pisses him off more than anything.

His heart pounds, but not in the usual fiery way it does when he’s about to fight. No, this is different. There’s a pressure building in his chest, something heavier than anger, like he’s been waiting for something, some reason to ignite.

He wanted to be the strongest. He wanted to be the one everyone looked at and said, That kid’s gonna be the next Number One. And for so long, that was enough. Surpassing All Might—becoming the best, the undisputed. The pinnacle. He thought that was the goal. That was his fight.

Now All Might’s shadow looms a little less. Katsuki doesn’t feel it as closely anymore, but it leaves an empty space behind. 

Tin-Tin’s not like the others. His quirk isn’t as flashy as Katsuki’s explosions, but it’s unpredictable, agile—a perfect counter to everything Katsuki’s been taught. He doesn’t just rely on brute strength.

And the bastard’s got a happy attitude that makes Katsuki want to shut him down. Every move, every flicker of Tin-Tin’s body, is a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there’s someone else out there who’s as good, or better.

The thought gnaws at him. It doesn’t sit right.

Katsuki didn’t expect to feel this. But he does. The want is back. The aching in his teeth, the fire in his palms. Katsuki wants to surpass him. He looks at Tin-Tin and sees a challenge.  The same drive that brought him to UA festers in his mind. 

Katsuki follows his friends out, he’s got work to do.

Chapter Text

Katsuki is to report to the base of Ryuko Tatsume’s agency at nine in the morning. He plans to get there at half eight. 

He’s been instructed to arrive at the building, already dressed and ready to work. With his provisional hero license. It burns a hole in his pocket, all the things he doesn’t want to think about with it. 

He was not, however, expecting to see Uraraka and the frog girl also on the same train. Decked out in their respective hero costumes. 

Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge them. Why would he? Uraraka is a good fighter, yeah, but she doesn’t like him. And the frog girl has made her own opinion clear several times. So Katsuki is more than happy to ignore them. 

They, apparently, don’t feel the same way. 

“Bakugou? Hey! You got a work study too?” Uraraka chirps brightly. 

Katsuki grunts in acknowledgment. Unwilling to exchange niceties. She doesn’t even notice. Only a few people got studies. The girls, Deku, Kirishima and him. It soothed his ego a lot.

“We both got a recommendation from one of the big three! Nejire? She got us into the same agency she’s sidekicking at—“

“Dragoon?” Katsuki interrupts. A sick satisfaction curls in his chest. He didn’t need a recommendation. Katsuki attracted enough attention without some loser third year vouching for him. 

“Are you going to the same one, Ribbit?” Asks Frog-face. 

Katsuki is ninety percent sure that she doesn’t actually need to say ribbit, she just does it to be funny. Katsuki frowns at her and jerks his head in a nod. 

“So we’ll all be working together?” Continues Uraraka. “That’s a relief.”

Katsuki doesn’t think so. He’s not sure what to expect, but anything has to be better than Best Jeanist's. Frog Girl and Uraraka continue chatting about expectations and bullshit. 

Katsuki knows what he wants out of this. He wants cold hard experiences. The provisional means that they are treated like sidekicks, or pro hero’s themselves. Not just interns. 

Katsuki barely saw any action last time. He craves it now. Especially with the fact that Kamino is so far away that Katsuki will be getting back to the gym, and upstairs to his flat in the early afternoon. If he’s lucky. 

He’ll be too wrecked to fight, if this study proves to not be a total waste of time. 

Kira had insisted on him returning every night, instead of just finding a place to crash around Tatsume’s agency. She had said something about wanting to ‘hear all about his day’. Katsuki hasn’t said no to her in a while. And he sorta wants to tell her. 

So he’ll have to get his dose of fights out here. The girls are staring at him. Did they say something? Fuck. 

Katsuki grunts and half-shrugs. The frog girl frowns but Uraraka looks delighted. Great, Katsuki is sure he just picked a side in a fight he could care less about. The train slows. They get off together. 

Katsuki adjusts his bag. He left his gauntlets back at the dorms. Hatsume was doing some other bullshit to them. Apparently, the machine gun she had built is against the rules for him to have. 

The tower looms. It’s not as big as Jeanist– maybe six floors. But it’s classy. Nice. Makes Katsuki palms itch and the want crawl up his spine. He can’t wait to have his own agency. 

Dragoon is different. Not bad. Just. Different. She’s nothing like Jeanist. Doesn’t bitch at his appearance at all. Or his attitude. Katsuki was expecting at least one lecture about keeping himself in check. He's almost disappointed.

The first thing they do is patrol. The blue girl is split up with his classmates on one route, and he’s with Dragoon. She’s a lot quieter than he thought she’d be. A simple walk, really, around the block. 

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Katsuki hates quiet. It means waiting, and Katsuki sucks at waiting. That’s a universal law. She isn’t even watching him. Just walking along, people clear out of their way as she moves. Easily. No fanfare like Jeanist, no one stops them to ask for an autograph or god forbid, talk.

He kicks a rock. It flies ahead of them and tumbles into a drain. Katsuki might actually start a fight just so he has something to do. 

“Boring isn’t it?” Dragoon says.

Katsuki kicks another rock, sneering. “Fucking of course it is. Is this what heroes do all day? Fuck about?”

She huffs, a light thing, could be a laugh. But doesn’t correct his language. “Some. Not me.”

Katsuki is pretty sure they are doing exactly that right now. He’s unimpressed. Maybe he should have gone with Deku. At least Katsuki wouldn't be bored. 

“You wanna know what I think?” She asks. And he doesn’t, not really. Doesn’t matter because she’s going to tell him anyway. “I think UA has spoiled you kids.”

Katsuki hands pop dangerously. She doesn’t even blink as they move down the street. “You’ve had what? Three real villain encounters?”

“You think I fucking enjoyed them?” Katsuki snarls. He had, a little bit, the fighting anyway. But how the fuck is that spoiling them?

“I’m gonna be honest, Bakugou. Petty crimes make up about forty percent of what we do. Theft. Assault. Disputes. Another ten is just paperwork, five is fixing that paperwork. And maybe another ten percent, on a good day, is fighting actual villains.”

Katsuki grunts. “And the last thirty five is spent walking in circles?”

“I wish.” She says. The tone makes him pause. It’s serious, heavy. “The rest is usually welfare. Domestics, abuse cases. Sometimes it’s psychotic episodes.”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything. Yeah, he knew heroes deal with that stuff too. Objectively. In the same way he knows that Deku manages to break bones Katsuki didn’t think was possible. Seeing it in person is a different story. 

“I’m not saying this to piss you off. Or discourage you,” she says. “Heroes are glorified police, but we are firefighters and EMTs and therapists if it's needed. We're supposed to do it all. I’m not gonna lie. Those calls are going to be the worst of your life.”

Dragoon hums. Continues walking. He keeps up with her. Katsuki is a little miffed. They only glossed over de-escalation tactics in class. Katsuki knows the five steps, he just hadn’t thought about needing them. 

“Be brash and be an asshole. I don’t care how you decide to fight villains. But Bakugou? The most important tool a hero has is de-escalation. Stop it from getting out of hand in the first place.”

He nods, gruffly. She’s not wrong but Katsuki never plans on being the hero they call to hold someone's hand.

Dragoon lets it sink in. “Good. Because that’s what we’re doing today and you will be leading every response we make from here on out.”

Then she reaches onto her waist and turns on her pager. Katsuki blanks. Did she seriously have him walking in a circle for twenty minutes just because she can? And then his brain catches up to the rest of her sentence. 

“Wait–” He’s interrupted by a loud beep. An address spilling out, codes. Quirk usage and one Katsuki doesn’t catch.

“Well?” But she doesn’t move. Not until he does, Katsuki leading the way. 

It’s a shop. A common chain. Some kid has melted a lock on a storage room and locked themselves in. Their dad is pacing outside it. Snappy. When he sees them he relaxes.

“Ah, Dragoon! I'm so sorry, it’s my daughter. Etsuko. She’s throwing a tantrum but I can’t get her out.”

And the dad seems fine. A little frazzled but not a threat. There's no good reason for Katsuki to want to put his fist through his face. None. Dragoon talks to the dad, but nods to Katsuki. 

“You’re the brats dad?” He snaps. His palms sweat, why does he feel this way?

The dad jerks a nod. “Yes?”

“Do you have an ID?” Katsuki snaps, Dragoon raises an eyebrow. But says nothing. 

The dad stammers out something. A negative. Katsuki wants to throttle him. It makes no sense.

Why is he acting like this? Why did the kid lock herself in a storage room?

Katsuki sneers, and blasts the door open. He holds up a hand to stop the dad from rushing forward. “Wait here.”

The lights are off. The kid is curled up, a tiny flame flickering in her hands. She’s only six, seven maybe. Katsuki crouches down. De-escalation. Here he goes. 

“Oi. Brat”

The brat in question sniffles. “Go away.”

Katsuki resists the urge to snap. He’s leading this call. Katsuki is not going to make a mistake. “No. Come on. Your old man is outside.”

The girl jerks her head in alarm. Bells go off in Katsuki’s head. Something is wrong here. Very wrong. “No–Please, I’m sorry. Don’t make me go back–Don’t-”

Katsuki blinks—then suddenly he’s got an armful of weepy child. She throws herself at him, clutching tight. He barely has time to catch her. Fuck. Okay. Whatever the hell is going on, Katsuki doesn’t like it. He stands with the kid latching onto him. 

He stands, the kid clinging to him like he’s a lifeline. She’s warm, still crying, little flames flickering at her fingertips. They don’t burn him — perks of being mostly fireproof.

Katsuki turns and walks out, eyes already narrowed.

The dad perks up the second they exit.

“Thank you— Etsuko, come on now—”

Katsuki doesn’t hand her over. He shifts her on his hip, keeps her tucked in tight. He doesn’t need to look at Dragoon to know she’s watching. But she doesn’t step in. He doesn’t know what this kid’s story is. Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want to go back, and something in his gut says she shouldn’t.

“We’re taking her in.”

The man blinks. “What? That’s not— She didn’t do anything! She’s just dramatic, she gets this way when she doesn’t get what she wants.”

“Quirk Usage. Property damage.” Katsuki snaps. Lying. “We’re going to the station,”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. The dad is sputtering, saying she’s just a kid — and yeah, most of the time, you let accidents slide. There is no real reason for Katsuki to bring her in for this. 

But as he walks straight past the guy, the kid starts trembling in his arms. Dragoon falls beside him, calm as ever. 

“Station’s three blocks,” She says.

“We’re walking,” Katsuki growls. He doesn’t trust himself not to explode in a squad car. Or the kid to not set it alight.

The girl’s fingers twist in his collar. He adjusts his grip automatically.

She doesn’t want to go back.

So she won’t.

In the station, they get split up. Officers take the dad aside. Dragoon heads off to file a report.

Katsuki stays with the kid. 

She won’t let go of him anyway. Not even when someone offers her juice or a blanket.

She whispers, shakily. “Are you gonna make me go back?”

Katsuki just scoffs.

“Tch. What kind of hero would I be if I did?”

She has big, big eyes. Looking up at him like she’ll believe anything he says. Katsuki ignores the way it makes him feel. He’s a bit worried. That they won’t be able to prove anything and the kid will be sent home. That Katsuki has made it worse.

But when the officer, a young woman, sits them in a room. Katsuki stays as the kid tells them everything.

It’s dark. The case is officially under review. But Dragoon’s expression tells him the kid’s not going back tonight. Or probably ever.

Katsuki’s arms ache, but he doesn't regret carrying her the whole way. He doesn't say anything, just stares at the sidewalk.

Dragoon speaks softly, just loud enough for him to hear. She’s not looking at him. She’s watching the kid go with someone, a foster parent. Katsuki hopes he didn’t put her somewhere worse.

“You did good.”

Katsuki grunts. He might have done good. Or he might have fucked up her life forever.

“No, really. You saw something was off. You acted. That’s the job.”

She taps the side of her head. “You’ll second-guess yourself later. Everyone does. But trust that instinct, Bakugou. Every time.”

He frowns. Looks over at her. He’s second-guessing himself now.

“Even if the kid’s just throwing a tantrum?”

“Then you apologize for the false call.” Her face is unreadable in the dark, “But if you ignore it? And you’re wrong?”

Yeah. He gets it.

He clenches his fists. Feels the faint burn in his palms. The residue of when she hugged him too tight.

Deku is walking down the steps of the dorms. Katsuki is already standing next to Kirishima, they are all in their uniforms, as told. Katsuki rolls his eyes and Kirishima greets Deku. 

“Hey Midoriya! Heading to your work studies?” Kirishima speaks as they all turn towards the train. Katsuki’s hands shoved into his pockets. 

They meet the girls on the way there. Kirishima looks puzzled, Katsuki doesn’t understand why. 

“Are we all going the same way?” Kirishima says. “That’s weird.”

Katsuki blinks, once, twice. The train moves off. Kirishima’s a fucking moron. Then the girls nod and agree, and Katsuki has to resist the urge to slam his head into the window. They were there when Dragoon told them of the team up. Is he the only one who pays attention to anything?

“Oi fuckheads–” Katsuki ignores Deku’s squawk of Kacchan!, “The team up? Nighteye’s request?”

As realization finally clicks across their dumb faces, Katsuki scoffs and drops his head back against the train window.

God help the future if these are the heroes it's depending on.

He’s the first one off the platform the second the doors open, shoulder-checking through the crowd with no apologies. Kirishima’s still mid-sentence. Deku’s probably still blinking. Katsuki doesn’t care. He knows where they’re going. Knows what’s waiting for them. And he's not showing up late to the first real fucking thing that matters.

They round the corner and the third-years are already waiting.

He clocks TinTin in the hallway—arms crossed, chin up, still radiating that smug, try hard older-kid energy. Katsuki’s hands prickle on instinct. His quirk flares at his fingertips before he shoves them into his pockets.

Not here. Not now.

The tension knots itself between his shoulders.

This isn’t a classroom. This is a war table.

One wrong word, one dumbass outburst, and everyone in that room will remember exactly what he is: a student. A kid. A liability.

He swallows it. Hard.

The blue-haired girl—the perky one—waves them into the room. Katsuki follows. He doesn’t say a word. His eyes scan the crowd. Most of the pros here are nobodies, regional types. One or two have faces he half-remembers from the news. No one special. Well, almost no one. 

Fat Gum and Nighteye. Are the two other biggest heroes in the room. The rest are from all over the country.

His jaw clenches.

You don’t pull this many names unless something serious is on the line.

They take their seats. Katsuki ends up next to the blue girl, who gives him a sunny smile. He doesn’t return it.

Nighteye starts.

A symbol flashes across the screen. Shie Hassaikai.

Katsuki folds his arms, eyes narrowing.

Old name. Old blood. Yakuza. The kind of scum who used to own half the city blocks in Katsuki’s neighborhood—until the rise of heroes pushed them into the dark corners. But that was years ago. 

Nighteye’s voice is cold. Detached. He lays out the logistics like a lecture. Territory spreads. Quirk suppression bullets. Suspected distribution networks.

Katsuki doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But with every sentence, his skin itches hotter.

Because this isn’t theory. This isn’t training. This is real.

Every time one of his classmates interrupts, his eye twitches. Deku asks something too soft. Tsuyu jumps in with another question. Katsuki grits his teeth. It’s reminding everyone in the room that they are kids. Children. That they don't belong.

How hard is it to shut the fuck up and just listen?

Sensei speaks, calm and clear, explaining his own erasure ability. Katsuki leans into it. Familiar ground. A real hero talking like one.

Then—

“Her name is Eri,” Nighteye says.

A photo hits the screen. A little girl, maybe six, with white hair and bare feet and a face that looks like she hasn’t slept in years.

Nighteye’s tone doesn’t shift.

“We believe she’s the source of the bullets.”

Katsuki’s fingers curl against the underside of the table. He tucks his sparking palms into his sleeves before anyone notices. Jesus Christ. 

“She’s being used,” Nighteye continues. “By Chisaki. Possibly his daughter, or a hostage. Deku and Lemillion encountered her on a patrol.”

The whole room tenses.

Katsuki doesn’t look at them. Not yet.

“She ran to them,” Nighteye adds.

Now he looks.

Deku’s pale. TinTin’s face is slack with guilt. Katsuki wants to throw something at both of them. Possibly a chair. 

Ran to them. And they let her go?

There’s a static buzz under his skin. His throat burns from biting back the words. He wants to hit something. Someone.  

Nighteye waves a hand, like it’s nothing. “They couldn’t have known. They were unprepared. Lemillion chose to wait for a better opportunity when rescue was more likely.”

Bullshit. Katsuki wants to scoff. A better opportunity? After she’s been dissected and sold off?

The chairs screech as both of them shoot to their feet. Deku’s fist clenches. “We’re going to save her,” he says.

TinTin echoes him. “No matter what.”

Katsuki doesn’t stand. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t move. He just stares. They had a chance. And they fucking wasted it.

Rock Lock speaks, hands folded in front of him. “She may have gotten away from Chisaki, but she still got herself seen by two heroes. You think he’s going to keep her at home? Hell, I know I wouldn’t. If we go busting into their headquarters and she’s not there?”

Katsuki nods with the rest of the table. Shit. If the Hassaikai have more than one base, which they do, and they have no idea where she’s being kept, which they don’t, then they only have one chance to get it right. 

“He has a point.” Dragoon says. “Do you have a plan for that Nighteye?”

A map flies onto the screen behind him. Bases all over Japan. Katsuki thinks for a moment. It seems too big. They don't have enough time. Or people. 

“This is why the success of our first strike is crucial. We may only have one chance.”

Gran Torino grimaces, “He’s right. We shouldn’t rush. If we show our hand, and don’t end up rescuing her then we’d just be throwing gas on a fire.”

Fat Gum flails, “But if we keep yapping about it, we’re never going to get anything done-”

Aizawa sensei raises his hand. “Excuse me?”

Katsuki smothers a grin when everyone turns to him. It’s a little cool. For all Sensei’s lack of flash, he’s able to command a room pretty well.

“I’ve got a question,” he says. “I don’t know the specifics of your quirk Nighteye, feel free to correct, but what I've heard of it, your quirk foresight allows you to see into the future. So why not use it on us? It’s logical right?”

And, Katsuki thinks this isn’t a shot in the dark. If Nighteye can see into the future, it should be fucking easy. Get Aizawa Sensei in the same room as Chisaki, and beat the shit out of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Says Nighteye. “But I cannot.”

Katsuki physically twitches. Other heroes swivel to Nighteye, speechless. Did Nighteye get hit with a bullet too? Has it not worn off?

“My foresight has some limitations. I need a full twenty four hours between activations and then I’m done for the day.” He continues. “That means I get one person. Think of it like viewing a film strip, for one hour. The issue is, everything I see is from a tight perspective. I have no context.”

Sensei tilts his head. “That should still provide more than enough information to be useful, don't you think? And it doesn’t explain why you can’t do it.”

Katsuki bites his cheek, it’s always fun to see Sensei humble someone else. Nighteye pushes up his glasses. 

“What if I saw imminent death in your near future? Worse, what if it were a cruel, merciless demise?”

Deku gasps across the table, Katsuki resists the urge to throw something at him. Deku has done enough right now.

“My quirk should only be employed after we’ve confirmed the most likely location. Then it can help ensure our victory.”

Katsuki scowls. There's no way he’s serious. He’s got to be joking. They aren't saving her tomorrow, if it’s the cooldown. It probably won't be for a few days. That gives them plenty of chances. Rock Lock leans forward.

“Woah, woah, woah. Death is still information. If we know what’s coming we can figure out how to survive.”

“You don’t understand. It’s possible what I see is unavoidable–”

“Bro! That’s the only excuse you have, for real?”

Katsuki agrees. That’s so stupid. Sometimes heroes die. It’s part of the fucking job. They all know that. 

“I can’t!” Nighteye raises his voice. Rock Lock hand falls back to the table, looking away.

Katsuki… Katsuki can’t believe them. He actually cannot believe them. That’s it? They all just drop it. Rock Lock leans back. Aizawa doesn’t push. Even Dragoon doesn’t speak.

Like that was an acceptable fucking answer.

He stares at the table for a heartbeat, two. His fingers twitch under the surface. His jaw flexes. The weight of the room presses down on him like concrete. They’re all just gonna let this go?

“What the fuck?” Katsuki says. Incredulously. 

A few heads turn.

Katsuki lifts his gaze. "No. What the fuck?"

His voice is low. Dangerous. His palms are sparking beneath the table now. “You can, Nighteye. You can use your quirk.”

Nighteye frowns. “I’ve already explained—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

A stunned silence falls.

Kirishima’s breath catches. Deku’s eyes go wide. Nejire drops her pen. Even Fat Gum looks startled.

Katsuki stands.

“You can use it. You just won’t. Because you’re scared of what you’ll see. That’s the truth, right? You’re scared you’ll see her die. That you’ll see us die. And it’ll make you feel bad. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

“Bakugou-” Dragoon starts. 

But he’s beyond stopping now.

“She’s a child. She is six years old and she’s in hell right now, and you have a fucking magic ticket to the future and you're sitting on it like it's yours to hoard.”

Nighteye tries again. “We didn’t know he was creating the bullets—”

“What if he wasn’t experimenting on her?” Katsuki slams his palms down. It scorches the stupid table. Good.

The room goes dead still. A confused silence falls over them.

No one breathes.

“What if he wasn’t using her to make bullets? What if instead he was—” Katsuki’s voice doesn’t break, but it gets cold. Too calm. “What if instead he was fucking molesting her?”

Deku makes a choked sound. Uraraka presses a hand to her mouth. The silence is deafening.

“You don’t know, right?” Katsuki sneers. “Because no one’s looked. No one’s done a fucking thing. You’re all sitting here talking in circles about logistics and maps and how to maybe not inconvenience your day. Like she’s not out there with that sick bastard right now.”

Nighteye’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Katsuki steps forward, voice razor-sharp now. “The yakuza are slum rats, right? Thugs. No resources. Living off scraps. You know who fits that profile a lot? Predators. So why the fuck aren’t you running?”

“Bakugou,” Aizawa says.

But Katsuki rounds on him. Because no, no, they are not going to sit here and not use every fucking advantage they have because someone doesn’t want to get their feelings hurt.

“You all took the job,” he spits. “You signed up for this life. We all did. Heroes die. That’s part of the fucking job. And if you can’t handle that—if you’d rather sit here jerking each other off about who wants to do what instead of actually saving a kid—then maybe you should pick a different one.”

His palms snap with a burst of heat. Smoke rises from his fingertips, curling into the still air.

“Because I’m sure the brat is having a great fucking time right now.”

A long, terrible silence follows.

Dead and heavy. 

No one meets his eyes.

Katsuki’s heart punches against his ribs, furious and disgusted. The smell of scorched laminate lingers under his nose. He wants to laugh. He wants to flip the table. He wants to go find the bastard himself.

“Bakugou.” Dragoon’s voice cuts through the tension.

He looks at her. She’s not glaring at him. Not even looking, really. Just studying the middle of the table like she could burn a hole through it.

“Take a walk,” she says. Flat. Final.

Katsuki sneers, fury still boiling in his gut. “Gladly.”

He turns on his heel and stalks out, slamming the door hard enough behind him that the frame cracks. The sharp sound echoes down the hallway.

They won’t keep him on the mission. No way in hell.

He just called the leader of the whole operation a coward in front of twenty pro-heroes.

He’s off the team.

He knows it.

And he still wouldn’t take a word of it back. 

Chapter Text

Every step away from the meeting room drags breath back into his lungs. Not enough. Just enough to feel how shallow it is. His head’s buzzing—loud, metallic. Like he’s still stuck in the aftershocks.

The hallway’s empty. Eerie. Like a bomb went off.

Maybe it did.

Katsuki’s shoes hit the tile, too loud in the hush. The door slam still echoes behind his ribs. His hands haven’t stopped smoking. His jaw aches from clenching.

He’s not sorry.

He meant it.

But—

Did he just say the words jerking off in a room full of Pro Heroes?

A pause. A single, stunned beat in his own skull.

He did.

Out loud.

In front of Sir Nighteye.

He told the guy to shut the fuck up.

To his face.

There goes his career. Gone. Vaporized. Boom. Hope U.A. has a good exit package.

…Still. He’d do it again.

Because someone had to say it.

Heroes don’t get to be cowards.

Katsuki’s fists clench. Sparks pop, then snap across his knuckles like angry fireflies.

Horrible images flicker behind his eyes—too vivid, too fast. That little girl— Eri —what’s happening to her now? Being carved up? Bottled into bullets? Left alone in some dark room, crying, with no one coming?

How dare they sit there and talk.

How dare they waste time.

His hands shake. He tries to breathe, and the exhale comes out like a hiss through his teeth. Smoke curls from his palms.

“Bakugou.”

A voice cuts across the hallway, crisp and level.

He whips around.

Dragoon.

His heart kicks hard in his chest. His palm sparks. Reflex. She’s alone. Good. She’s here to flay him alive, obviously. But it’s nice of her to do it without an audience. Nicest mentor he’s had yet. Best Jeanist would have done it in the meeting room. 

He stomps toward her, jaw set.

He’ll take it. The grunt work. The demotion. Hell, if she wants to knock his teeth in right here—fine. He probably deserves it.

But he’s not apologizing.

He wasn’t wrong.

She just looks at him. Not angry. Not smug. Just… calm. Like she's watching a forest fire from a safe distance. Evaluating damage.

The smoke curling up his forearms doesn’t faze her at all.

“Come on,” she says.

And turns, walking away.

Katsuki blinks.

...What?

No lecture? No yelling? No dramatic point-and-scream about being blacklisted from hero work for life?

What the fuck?

He stumbles after her, too off-balance to do anything but follow. Maybe she’s dragging him to public shaming. Maybe she’s gonna chew him out in front of his classmates.

Maybe he deserves that. His brain’s already writing the speech for her. Something about respect. About protocol. About how heroes don’t throw tantrums. And how he’s clearly not one.

But Dragoon doesn’t look back.

She leads him down a hallway, stops outside a smaller briefing room, gestures him inside—and then just leaves.

As in, walks away.

Katsuki stands there like an idiot for a full thirty seconds, waiting for the trap to spring. For someone to leap out screaming, Gotcha! You’re fired, dipshit!

Nothing.

Is that it?

Is he… off scot-free?

Maybe they’re cutting all of the interns. Maybe that was the final straw. Maybe they finally realized none of them are ready. He sure made a hell of a case for it.

But— She didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything.

Katsuki walks in.

The door clicks shut behind him. The air inside is thick—humid with tension. Like the room itself knows what he said.

Aizawa Sensei’s already there, talking quietly to Deku. Something about trust. Katsuki doesn’t catch the words. He doesn’t want to.

He throws himself into a chair at the far end of the table and folds his arms tight across his chest.

Uraraka glances at him like he shot her dog.

Frog-face’s expression is blank. That unreadable, vaguely disappointed stare that makes Katsuki want to punch a wall.

The third-years don’t look at him at all.

Deku, though. Deku hasn’t stopped staring since he walked in. Hasn’t even blinked.

Katsuki grits his teeth. If Deku looked at him like that any longer, Katsuki was going to slap the stupid off his face.

Sensei finishes talking—something about unity, adapting under pressure, the same shit he’s always saying—and then straightens like nothing happened. Like his student didn’t just verbally body slam a table full of heroes ten minutes ago.

Katsuki doesn’t move.

He sinks deeper into his seat, arms still folded, jaw locked so tight it hurts. The silence stretches.

The jittery one sits ramrod straight, like he’s trying not to breathe. The one with blue hair fidgets once, like she might say something, but swallows it back. And TinTin won’t even look at him.

No one’s talking about it.

Not out loud.

But they’re thinking it. He knows they are.

Katsuki had said it. Loud. Clear. Called them cowards. Told a room full of veterans they weren’t doing enough. Threw Sir Fucking Nighteye under the bus and then reverse-ran him over. In front of Sensei.

Find a different job.

That’s what he said.

And in the moment, he’d meant it.

Still does.

A few minutes later some no-name sidekick from Fat Gum’s agency shows up at the door, calling for Kirishima and the third-year. They leave hastily. Kirishima shooting Katsuki wary glances the entire way out the door.

Then Deku and TinTin follow, quiet and quick. 

Katsuki starts to stand with Uraraka and Frog face, already bracing for the lecture from Dragoon. There is no way he’s getting away without so much as a slap on the wrist.

“Bakugou,” Sensei says, voice smooth and even. “A word.”

Yeah. Katsuki had been expecting that. 

The silence in the room is a different kind than before.

Smaller. Tighter. It scrapes under Katsuki’s skin like grit under a bandage.

Aizawa just looks at him. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Hasn’t changed since the first fucking day of class—impossible to read, like a locked box with no keyhole.

Katsuki folds his arms. Digs his fingers into his biceps. Feels the throb in his jaw. He might as well commit.

“I’m not saying sorry.”

Aizawa Sensei sighs. A real one—deep, old, like it came from somewhere buried. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

That gets Katsuki’s hackles up immediately. His palms snap—sharp, uncontrolled bursts like microwave popcorn.

Sensei’s gaze sharpens. Calm, but cutting. “You told a room full of professional heroes to find another job.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he can.

“You called a senior hero a coward. In front of the entire tactical team. You undermined a mission briefing.” His voice is flat. Like he's reading off a checklist. No heat. Just the facts.

Katsuki stiffens. He did do that, yeah.

“I’m not apologizing,” he says again, firmer this time.

Aizawa Sensei raises a brow. Not surprised. “Didn’t expect you to.”

Silence again. Heavy. Waiting.

Katsuki braces for it—the yelling, the reprimand, the you’re benched or you’re expelled. It doesn’t come.

Instead, Sensei just folds his arms. Stares him down. Measuring. Like a blade being weighed in the hand.

“You called me a coward.”

There it is. The words hang in the air like smoke. Katsuki lifts his chin. Wants to flinch. Doesn’t. Sparks flit across his skin.

“Good,” Aizawa Sensei says. “I wanted to make sure you understood what you did.”

And just like that, the fire comes roaring back. His blood spikes. His voice follows—low, certain, steady.

“I do.”

Aizawa Sensei narrows his eyes. “So you stand by it?”

“They are cowards.”

The words crackle out. Hot. Clear. Sure enough to blister.

Katsuki doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t stumble. He steps forward, heat coiling under his skin—but this time, his voice stays level. He’s not out of control. He’s just done holding it in.

“I don’t care what they’ve done before. I don’t care what they usually do. If they were really gonna let Sir Nighteye sit on his quirk—because he didn’t wanna feel bad about what he saw—then yeah. Cowards.”

Sensei doesn’t move.

Katsuki keeps going. Not like in the meeting, where he couldn’t stop. He could now. He’s choosing not to. Sensei has to hear it. Has to understand.

“She’s a child,” he says, louder now. “A baby. And they were all just— fine with her staying there. With him. Longer. Just because it might hurt.”

He scoffs. The sound comes out strangled. Furious all over again.

“It’s your job to hurt. It’s your job to put yourself second. Every time. That’s what being a hero is.”

His hands tremble, sparks flicking across his fingers, but he doesn’t detonate. Katsuki just burns.

And still, he doesn’t cut in. Doesn’t deflect. Just watches him with that unnerving stillness.

Katsuki breathes hard. “If you were one of the people who was gonna let that happen, then- that’s not on me, Sensei. I’m not gonna pretend that’s okay just because you’re standing in front of me.”

The silence that follows isn’t explosive. It’s waiting.

Katsuki’s sure this is it. He’s about to be kicked off the mission. Hell, maybe the school. He wonders briefly if he’ll need a plastic surgeon when Sensei decks him.

“You’re not wrong.”

Katsuki freezes.

Aizawa Sensei looks tired. Thoughtful. Just the slightest bit off-balance.

“You’re not wrong,” he repeats. “But you’ve got no brakes. You crash through every wall even when the door’s open.”

Katsuki frowns. “…So what—now you’re gonna bench me?”

“No,” He says, like it’s obvious. “Because someone needed to say it. I just wish it hadn’t come with the words jerking off. ”

Katsuki makes a strangled noise. Immediately looks away. “Yeah. That one—uh. Just happened.”

“Hm.”

A beat.

“I’m not gonna coddle you, Bakugou,” Sensei says. “But I’m not gonna punish you for caring too much, either.”

That throws him.

Katsuki stares. No one’s ever accused him of that. Not seriously. Not without turning it into an insult. Maybe Kira has. Once. Kind of.

“It’s rare,” He says. “Caring this much. Most people burn out. You haven’t. Yet.”

Katsuki scowls. “You’re making it sound like I did something right. ”

“No,” Aizawa Sensei corrects, “You did something necessary. And you made it impossible to ignore.”

There’s nothing left to say after that.

A long exhale. And Sensei turns, walking out the door.

So, Katsuki isn’t kicked off the raid. Not even benched. He’s just… on the edge of it now. Kept away from the strategy rooms. Hasn’t been in the same space as Nighteye since he lit him up.

Not that Katsuki’s surprised.

Somehow—miraculously—Nighteye found Eri’s caretaker. Got a location. They know where she’s being held.

Katsuki is still bitter. Half convinced they could’ve been here days earlier if Nighteye had just pulled his head out of his ass.

Now, He stands with the rest of the main group. Sun hammering down, sweat already gathering at his collar. Good. He’s going to need the adrenaline. No excuses. No hesitation.

There are cops everywhere—geared up, bristling with weapons. Katsuki overhears it as they move to their positions: If any of them get a clean shot, they take it.

Overhaul’s quirk is too dangerous to play fair.

A villain bursts out of a side alley—huge, foaming, eyes wild—and three more thugs follow him, like rats boiling out of a drain. Dragoon’s already on them. Uraraka and Frog-face stick close, steering civilians out of range.

Katsuki doesn’t wait for orders. He doesn’t need to be told. He knows his role. He’s not built for crowd control—he’d cause more damage than the villains.

So he moves. Just like that. With the rest of the group—tight, fast, silent.

Nighteye takes point. Deku sticks close to Sensei, flanked by Kirishima and Fat Gum. Katsuki brings up the rear, boots heavy, palms hot. Behind him, the nervous third-year keeps glancing over his shoulder like they’re being followed. Katsuki hopes he trips.

“How’d they know we were coming?” he hears someone mutter. “Think the mission leaked?”

“Unlikely, man,” Rock Lock says, jogging beside them. “This op was airtight.”

“They’re not leaking,” Sensei cuts in, voice low, unreadable. “They’re stalling. Buying time for the higher-ups to run.”

“That’s so unmanly! ” Kirishima growls.

Nighteye suddenly stops—drops into a squat like he’s done this a thousand times. Doesn’t even look winded. “Here,” he says, pressing his hand to a stretch of concrete. “There’s a hidden passage.”

Of course there is.

One of Nighteye’s sidekicks lights up, eyes wide with awe as a chunk of the wall shudders and swings open.

“See?” they chirp. “He’s never wrong!”

Katsuki bites his tongue. Hard. Resisting the urge to mutter congrats on doing your job.

Three goons spill out as the door opens—one swinging a bat like it’s going to save him. It doesn’t.

They’re handled in seconds.

The rest of the group pushes forward. Nighteye’s sidekicks stay behind to cuff them up. No time to celebrate. No time to breathe. They don’t get far.

It’s a dead end.

They skid to a stop—concrete wall ahead, no door, no markings. Just a stretch of stone that shouldn’t be there. 

TinTin steps forward, squinting, one hand brushing the surface. “Hold on, maybe there’s—”

Katsuki is a step behind him. They don’t have time to fuck about like this. His palms are already hot, and what’s a little concrete? 

“Move!”

Katsuki barrels forward and doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t care. His palms ignite— BOOM —and the wall disintegrates in a blast of heat and smoke.

He doesn’t look back.

Because whatever this is, whatever bullshit illusion they’re pulling, Katsuki doesn’t have time for it. There’s a little girl somewhere in this building, and he is not going to let a concrete inconvenience slow them down.

The hole he blasted leads into another hallway, but it’s wrong.

The walls ripple.

Not just heat distortion— they move. Swelling and shifting like something alive, like the building’s breathing around them. One corridor becomes three. Then five. Then one again. The floor shivers beneath their feet.

“What the hell is this?” Rock Lock mutters.

“Mimic,” Nighteye says grimly. “He can enter and control objects. He’s made himself the stronghold.”

Of course he has. A living fucking labyrinth.

Katsuki’s teeth grind. He could try blowing it up again, but the walls are shifting. He can’t tell what’s solid, what’s bait, what’s gonna fold back in on itself. The whole place feels like a trap. Like being inside someone else’s skin.

Beside him, the third year with dark hair stiffens. His posture slumps slightly, like a string cut loose. His hands twitch at his sides.

“We’re… we’re not gonna find her in this,” he murmurs, voice quiet, fraying at the edges. “Not in time. It’s… too big. Too many turns. It’s hopeless.”

TinTin places a hand on LimpDicks shoulder. A reassuring smile on his face. Like this is the place to lose confidence. 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Katsuki snarls, cutting off whatever emotional bullshit TinTin was about to spew.

LimpDicks blinks. Freezes.

Katsuki’s breathing hard. Hands smoking. “You don’t get to fold now,” he snaps. “We’re not losing her. Not one fucking inch. You think I came this far to get lost in a hallway?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“...I’ll go ahead. The maze can’t stop me,” TinTin says quietly. And then he’s gone.

Literally—just drops straight through the floor like a ghost through fog. Stupid. Brave. Katsuki hates how much he respects it.

They barely have time to register the loss of one teammate before the floor explodes beneath them—cracks spiderweb out like lightning, the sound a hollow CRACK that splits the air.

There’s no time to think. No time to breathe.

Katsuki’s instincts kick in, arm snapping up—but there’s no room, not like this. The group’s too tight. A blast would hit someone. Probably Deku. Probably Kirishima. Probably someone Katsuki actually gives a damn about.

So he eats the fall.

He hits the ground shoulder-first, a dull crunch echoing up his spine. Rolls with it, dragging air into his lungs even as it burns. Rubble rains down, the echo of stone against stone deafening. Smoke clouds his vision. Every breath tastes like dust and blood.

Deku lands hard beside him, coughing as he pushes himself up, eyes wide behind smeared lenses. The ceiling above seals shut like a mouth snapping closed, sealing them in.

The building groans—actually groans—as Mimic reshapes it again. The air feels wrong. Off-kilter. Like the walls are watching.

They’re divided now. Even more than before.

Katsuki’s already up, teeth bared in a snarl, smoke coiling from his palms. He hears Rock Lock grunt as Sensei helps him up. Deku hovers near Nighteye, who’s already scanning the walls, calculating. Kirishima’s brushing dirt from his arms, a smudge of blood above one brow. The anxious third-year's got his back to the wall, eyes flicking everywhere. 

“Well, well, well,” a voice drawls through the dust. “Nice of you to drop in.”

Figures start to emerge from the haze.

More thugs. Only three. All armed. All smiling like they’ve got the upper hand.

Great.

Katsuki’s palm starts to heat, little sparks dancing between his fingers, ready to end this. He shifts his weight forward, scanning for the best target to drop first—and then he sees him.

Setsuno Toya.

Katsuki’s chest stutters.

He knows that face.

Not from hero work. From the ring.

Setsuno wasn’t a regular. Wasn’t around since the beginning. But he was there. Sometimes. Mostly quiet. Efficient. And after it all went to hell—after Kyo died—he patted Katsuki on the shoulder one night. Just once. A simple sorry, kid. 

Back then, Katsuki hadn’t known what to do with grief. With silence. He’d just stood there, fists shaking. And Setsuno… didn’t feel like a bad person. Katsuki keeps forgetting the people in the ring aren’t all good people.

Setsuno pauses too. Eyes flicker with recognition. It’s subtle. Just a flash of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t look away. Mouth open staring directly at Katsuki. He knows Katsuki. 

Katsuki knows him too. From the crowd. On a night when Katsuki was bleeding from his ribs and still grinning through it. One of the guys who nodded in approval when Katsuki got back up after taking a hit that should’ve dropped him.

Fuck.

Katsuki’s chest goes tight. He’s completely fucked.

And then he sees the others. Two guys, one looks like a fucked up sock puppet and the other is growing crystals out of everywhere. 

There’s a pause. A second. Katsuki is sure, he’ll say something. Anything and when this mission is over Katsuki will be cuffed with the rest of them.

And then— nothing.

No words. No acknowledgement.

Just… silence.

Because that’s the rule. Sensei was right, loyalty is everything to these guys. You don’t talk about the ring. You don’t talk about anything. You don’t remember each other in daylight. Katsuki didn’t think it would apply to him. Didn’t think it would be honored. 

Katsuki swallows down whatever the hell is twisting in his gut. For a second, though, there’s understanding. Not peace. Not forgiveness. But recognition. A type of clarity. Setsuno isn’t a good person. 

He’s been helping Overhaul keep a little girl captive and experimented on. 

He’s also someone who cheered Katsuki on.

They aren’t friends. Not here.

The silence stretches.

Katsuki’s jaw ticks. His hands are still smoking, tension coiled under his skin like live wire. He swears the dust around them is holding its breath.

And then—a nod.

Small. Barely there. A dip of Setsuno’s chin, like this, was just a chance meeting on the street. Like Katsuki hadn’t just stared into a mirror version of himself, cracked and refracted through bad choices and worse loyalties.

And then everything breaks.

“I’ll handle this,” The nervous one says—louder than usual, voice shaking but holding. Katsuki blinks. His face is pale, but there’s steel in his shoulders now.

He steps forward.

One of the three lunges, swinging a sword that looks like it was grown from shining crystals. Fast. Dirty. No warning.

A flash of grey.

Sensei’s scarf snaps out like a whip, tangling the blade mid-swing. The guy’s yanked off-balance with a grunt and slammed hard against the wall. Katsuki doesn’t even see Sensei draw the capture weapon. 

The message is clear, back the fuck off.

LimpDick doesn’t stop. He’s already muttering under his breath, something about clam cells and octopus nerves, and then he’s moving—fast—limbs stretching, morphing. He crashes into the first one with a mass of tentacles and beak-like strikes, sending them sprawling. It’s messy. Not perfect. But it works.

Still, Katsuki’s already scanning. Setsuno hasn’t moved. LimpDick stumbles as he takes out a second guy, gasping, eyes wide.

“We can’t waste time,” he snaps, surprising everyone. His voice is sharp. Angry. “They’re trying to slow us down. That’s all this is.”

Katsuki’s lip curls. Finally, Someone else saying what he already knew.

“No shit,” he mutters.

The room groans again. Mimic’s quirk is still moving around them, like some pissed-off beast shifting in its sleep. Somewhere, further down, someone screams. Muffled. High-pitched.

Eri.

Deku tenses like he might run through the nearest wall. Katsuki grabs his collar before he can try something stupid.

“We do this together, nerd,” Katsuki growls. “No detours.”

“Right!” Deku says, too damn chipper, like Katsuki doesn’t know this idiot is going to run the second he thinks he has to.

Still, he doesn’t argue. Not out loud. They keep pace, trailing behind Aizawa-sensei. Katsuki doesn’t look back.

But he meets Setsuno’s eyes one last time. No nod this time. Just—mutual disregard. Like they both know this was the last time they’ll see each other and walk away.

Fine.

Katsuki turns.

Walks away from a fight. For the first time in his life.

They move quickly. No time for chatter, no room for doubt.

Then— wham.

The walls around them move. The air shifts like a lung sucking in.

A section slams shut, right in front of Aizawa Sensei, aiming for him. Katsuki sees the blur just in time. Shit.

“MOVE—!”

But someone’s already there. A heavy blur— Fat Gum, shouldering Sensei out of the way just before the stone crushes in. Kirishima’s right behind him.

And then they’re gone. Swallowed by the hall.

“Shit—Kirishima!”

Katsuki’s fists crackle as he surges forward, ready to blow the wall apart, but Sensei’s hand lands firmly on his shoulder.

“No time,” Sensei says. Voice grim. Unshaken. “They’ll hold their own. Trust them.”

Katsuki’s mouth moves to argue—but doesn’t.

Kirishima will be fine.

He better be. Or Katsuki will kill him.

The halls twist again. Up becomes sideways. Down slants at a stupid angle.

“Fucking Mimic,” Katsuki mutters.

“Too narrow,” Rock Lock snaps from behind, “fall in tighter—I'm locking it down.”

His quirk slams into place and the walls freeze mid-shift, like someone hit pause. Katsuki exhales.

His gauntlets scrape the sides of the hallway. Too tight. He grits his teeth, unfastens them, and lets them drop with a clang. Is it a bad idea to leave an extremely combustible substance behind? Yeah. It is.

Katsuki falls in behind Nighteye and they keep moving. Break through one. Two. Three walls.

Then—the floor beneath them twists again.

More separation.

Katsuki’s grabbed—yanked back. Not falling this time. A hand on his collar.

Aizawa Sensei.

Deku’s grabbed too, caught in his scarf as the rest of the group is swallowed by stone.

Only them three left. And the second Katsuki turns, it’s obvious why.

“Shit,” he breathes, seeing them. “Of course it’s you freaks.”

Toga tilts her head, smiles sweet and bloodthirsty. Twice is mid-sentence, already arguing with himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, stepping closer. “But I’m so glad you are. It’s good to see you again, Katsuki!”

Katsuki snarls. Sensei’s scarf is already floating. Deku’s in a stance beside him. And oh—Katsuki’s got a fucking bone to pick with the knife bitch.

She lunges.

He lunges first.

They slam into the wall hard, skidding through dust and debris. Katsuki twists, ripping free before her knife can slide between his ribs, and swings an explosion at her ribs. The blast connects, sending her flying—

Only for her to twist midair, flipping with unnatural ease. She laughs—breathless and delighted—as she lands in a crouch, boots scraping against stone.

“You’re so fun,” she purrs. “I missed you.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki spits. “Miss this, freak—!”

He closes the gap. Fists smoking. He feints left, lets her dodge, then catches her hard in the ribs with an uppercut.

She cracks against the wall. Hard.

And she still giggles.

“You’re so violent,” she sighs, slumping for a second. “It’s adorable.”

Katsuki snarls and swings again, palm flaring, ready to blast her—

But she’s fast.

She drops, rolls under him, her knife whistling past his ribs. Too close. He barely twists away before she slashes upward—

The blade nicks his cheek.

Katsuki growls, twisting with the motion and catching her with a backhand that sends her sprawling.

Blood drips down his jaw. Her pupils blow wide.

“Oh,” she pants, eyes fixed on the red staining her blade. “Oh, Katsuki, you—”

“SHUT UP —!”

Another blast—too wide. It hits the wall instead, sending debris crashing down. Toga disappears in the smoke.

Katsuki whips around, scanning—

Another rumble.

Shit— Mimic is shifting the halls again.

Katsuki barely registers it before the ground shudders—another barrier slams between them, blocking her from view.

She’s hurt. But not down.

Twice is gone too. The hall is empty now—except for Deku and Sensei.

At least they weren’t separated again. Aizawa Sensei is panting, a dark stain on his arm, hurt. Deku looks worried. Katsuki forces himself to breathe. Forces himself to move.

“We need to keep going,” Aizawa says.

Deku nods, adjusting his stance. Then—he shifts, raising a fist.

KRAK—!

The wall shatters under the force of his punch, revealing another passage—Nighteye and Rock Lock on the other side.

Relief is brief.

Because then—

Katsuki sees it.

Rock Lock—down.

Another Rock Lock—up?

One of them is wrong. Katsuki hesitates just a second too long. But Aizawa doesn’t. His gaze snaps —eyes red, hair floating—and the second Rock Lock flickers.

Toga. A-fucking-gain. Katsuki never gets a god forsaken break. 

Her knife is already in motion.

Aizawa yanks her back, scarf wrapping tight—

But Katsuki is already there . He slams her away with an explosion—scorching, close-range, enough to send her crashing into the opposite wall.

The stone between them slams down. The knife stained in Katsuki's blood dropped on their side.

A wall.

Sealing her off.

Katsuki breathes hard.

She’s on the other side. Screeching.

But she’s not stabbing anyone. Not today.

Then the walls scream.

A horrible, teeth-grinding wail—not from a throat, but from everywhere. The stone shudders. Metal groans. The entire building convulses like it’s alive and dying all at once.

Mimic’s rage pours through the maze like venom in a bloodstream.

Pillars slam from the ceiling. Erupt from the floor. The hallway becomes a throat, a coffin, a collapsing rib cage trying to crush them alive.

“MOVE!” Nighteye barks, leaping back as a stone column crashes where he stood a second ago.

Katsuki’s already in motion. Instinct roaring. He weaves through narrow gaps, shoulder clipped by falling rubble, ducking under jagged stone teeth.

And then—he sees it.

A flicker. A body. Small, hunched, half-swallowed by the wall.

Mimic. The real one.

“There!” Katsuki snaps. “In the wall—there!”

He grabs Deku, spins him toward it.

“On my mark—!”

“Kacchan, wait—what are you—”

“SHUT UP!”

He throws him.

Not gently. Not with care. Like a weapon. Like a fucking missile.

Because Katsuki can’t get there. Not with the maze still gnashing. But Deku can. Green lightning arcs as he rockets forward, slamming into the stone like divine wrath—straight into Mimic’s body.

And then—

Everything stops.

The walls freeze. The pillars hang mid-collapse. The floor stills beneath their feet.

Silence. A groan follows. Deep. Ancient. Like the building itself is breaking.

And then… stillness.

The maze doesn’t fight anymore.

Katsuki exhales. His chest burns like he hasn’t been breathing. Maybe he hasn’t. Nighteye steps forward, glasses cracked, nods once. 

“Move.”

Deku punches through the wall—stone explodes—and they break into the next chamber.

It’s wrecked.

The floor’s torn like an earthquake ripped it open. Smoke curls in the air. Blood slicks the tiles.

In the center—

TinTin.

Still standing. Barely. Cape shredded. One eye swollen shut. Bruised and shaking, but there—between Overhaul and a tiny, crying girl.

Eri.

Katsuki hears her sobs from across the room.

Nighteye is gone, already at TinTin’s side, hauling him up, shielding the girl with his body. Katsuki sees red.

“Come on,” he growls at Deku.

They launch.

Green lightning and explosions crash into mutated flesh and shifting ground. Katsuki hits first, forcing Overhaul back a step. Deku slams in next, driving him further.

But Overhaul is ready. And he’s strong.

He doesn’t look human anymore. His body bends wrong—arms fusing, ribs spiraling, the ground warping beneath him. It halts, just for a breath—Sensei’s here.

Then—A scarf whips through the dust. Aizawa’s eyes burn red.

But he blinks. Just once. It’s enough.

Overhaul vanishes. The ground erupts. A wall rears like a wave between them—swallows Deku whole. Katsuki’s shout is drowned in chaos. He spins. Aizawa Sensei is gone, buried behind debris.

And then—

BANG.

Katsuki’s body jerks.

Shot.

Dead center in the chest. Not pain—not real pain—but something cold. Wrong. A spreading numbness that doesn't belong.

He stumbles.

The floor splits beneath him.

And Katsuki Bakugou falls into the dark.

Chapter Text

He wakes up.

Which is weird. Because he’s pretty sure he got shot.

Everything hurts. That’s the second thing. His ribs are screaming, his chest is burning, and his head—his head feels like it’s been cracked open and filled with static.

He’s lying flat on something cold. Smooth. A marble floor, maybe. Doesn’t matter.

There’s light above him, filtering through a perfectly round hole in the ceiling. No—floor. Ceiling? Whatever. Overall must’ve dropped them. Katsuki blinks. The light pulses in time with the pounding in his skull.

His hand moves, slow and clumsy, to his chest.

Dry.

Okay.

Okay, that’s… good.

No blood. He rolls his head to the side and instantly regrets it. The world spins. His stomach flips. He tastes bile and metal.

Concussion. For sure. He’s had enough of them to recognize the burn behind his eyes, the throbbing buzz in the base of his skull. His ribs—at least two are cracked. Maybe more. The fall did a number on him.

He’s dizzy. Everything feels far away, like someone turned the world down.

There’s movement across the room. A sound—a murmur. Wet and smug.

Katsuki squints toward it, vision swimming. He forces himself to sit up, and his body protests with every twitch. Something howls behind his eyes. Black and white spots bloom in his vision.

Aizawa Sensei. On the ground. Some freak squatting on his back, running his mouth.

Katsuki’s arm lifts automatically. Instinct, reflex. He braces for the kickback, the burn, the rush of—

Nothing. Not even a spark.

His hand is just a hand.

The bullet.

It hits him, then. For real. Cold and sudden. A quiet, creeping kind of horror that starts behind his ribs and works its way up.

No.

No, it’s fine. It’s temporary. That third-year Kirishima is interning with got hit too. His quirk came back.

It’ll come back.

It has to.

Because if it doesn’t—

The guy’s still talking. Something about time. Slowing people down. Katsuki can’t make the words stick. They slide off his brain like oil. He doesn’t care.

He pushes himself to his feet. The ground lurches. His legs don’t want to hold him. The world tilts sideways and then flips again.

His palm lands against the wall, keeping him from going down. He breathes through his nose. Short. Shallow. Doesn’t help. Punch and breathe.

There—corner of the room. A pile of crumbled wall. Something metal sticking out from it, curved and rusted like a sword.

He stumbles toward it. The pipe’s cold when he wraps his fingers around it. It doesn’t even fight him—just slides free, like it wants to be used.

The guy doesn’t notice. Still yammering. Still sitting on Sensei, like he owns the place.

Katsuki doesn’t think. He plants his feet. Swings.

The pipe connects with a sickening crack,  and the bastard’s whole head jerks sideways. He drops like a puppet cut from its strings, a dent already swelling at his temple. Blood spills down his face.

Katsuki lets the pipe clatter to the ground. The clang is sharp, metallic. It echoes too loud in the empty space.

He winces.

“Oi,” he rasps. “You alive, Sensei?”

A groan answers him. Aizawa Sensei rolls off his stomach, onto his back, dragging himself upright like a man older than he is.

Katsuki doesn’t move to help.

“I’m fine,” He mutters. “And it’s Eraserhead.  And we need to—”

He winces as he stands. Katsuki says nothing. Just nods.

They need to get back. Upstairs. To the fight.

Except there’s no upstairs anymore. Just a hole, and no way to blast through it.

Katsuki’s hands stay cold. Damp with sweat. Useless. He doesn’t smell the sharp, sweet tang of nitroglycerin. Gross.

He sighs, long and quiet, and holds out a hand. “Come on. Get up.”

They start moving. Slow, limping steps toward the hallway. Debris crunches under their boots.

Another crack above them. Then a scream.

Katsuki tilts his head up, like maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of Deku still fighting. He doesn’t see anything. Just dust and broken concrete.

Aizawa Sensei’s steps are slow. “What is it, Bakugou?”

“Nothing.”

“Bakugou.”

A beat. Then another.

“Got shot.”

A hand closes around his forearm. Tight. Stopping him mid-step. Sensei’s face looks worse than Katsuki’s ever seen it. Pale. Lined. Angry in a way.

“When?”

“During the collapse. Chest. S’not bad.”

“Bakugou—”

“One of those fucking erasing bullets,” Katsuki mutters. “It doesn’t hurt.”

It does. His chest is burning. His head is pounding. His arms feel like they’re full of sand.

But he’s not bleeding. So that’s something.

They reach the stairwell. The climb starts.

He kicks a chunk of broken concrete out of the way.

“But I’m pretty much useless now, Sensei. Can’t use my quirk.”

He doesn’t say yet. Doesn’t let himself.

Because what if it’s not coming back?

What if this is it?

What if this is the last time he ever gets to feel heat in his palms, or the charge building in his chest, or the way explosions sing through his bones?

His quirk made him strong. Made him something. Without it—

He’s just a loudmouth with broken hands and anger issues.

And he knows—deep in his bones, deeper than fear—that if this is permanent, he won’t make it.

Not as a hero.

Maybe not as anything.

So it’s temporary.

It has to be.

Sensei doesn’t argue with him. Doesn’t press. Just walks. But he keeps looking over his shoulder, like Katsuki’s going to fall apart right there on the stairs.

The ceiling shudders. Dust rains down on them. The whole damn place groans.

Double time.

They limp faster. Avoid falling beams. Jump a crack in the stairwell that almost takes Katsuki’s leg off. The upper floor is gone.

Just—gone. Like it was never there to begin with. Like the building gave up and peeled itself open.

So Katsuki stumbles out onto the street instead. Or what used to be a street.

The world looks wrong. Tilted, broken. Asphalt split wide open like cracked skin. Smoke curls in lazy ribbons around the wreckage. The sky is too bright and too quiet. There’s no civilians, thank god. Katsuki cannot deal with any screaming right now.

His boots crunch on glass. Something groans behind him—Aizawa Sensei, dragging himself up the last few steps. He doesn’t sound good. Neither of them do.

And it’s—

It’s over.

Katsuki knows it before he even sees it. Feels it in the stillness. In the way the air isn’t screaming anymore. No more collapsing walls or tearing metal. No more shaking ground. Just breathing. Just wind. And maybe that should be a relief, but—

He feels a flicker of something bitter. Ugly. Disappointment?

God, what the hell is wrong with him? All he’s thinking about is the fact that he didn’t get to break Overhaul's nose.

He drags his eyes across the wreckage.

Nighteye is crumpled in one corner. Slumped like a discarded puppet. There’s a spike through his torso—huge. Sharp. As thick as Katsuki’s damn head.

Blood. So much blood. Pooling fast.

He’s not going to make it. Katsuki knows that kind of wound. That kind of silence. Even from here, it’s too still. Still medics are crowding him. Maybe they will save him. Probably not though.

Farther ahead—Overhaul is down.

Not just down— restrained.

And of all people—it's Uraraka who has him pinned. Keeping his hands in the air, away from everything. She looks exhausted. Hollow. Her hair plastered to her face with sweat and grime.

On the other side of the mess, Frog face is crouched beside TinTin. He’s conscious, somehow. Barely. Propped against a pile of rubble like it’s the only thing holding him upright. One of his eyes is swollen shut. Blood on his cape. He’s gripping a jagged piece of rebar like it’s a sword.

But none of them are moving.

No one is.

Because of her.

The girl.

Tiny. Barefoot. Filthy. Tears streaming down her face in fat, silent drops. Her arms are wrapped around Deku like a lifeline. Like if she lets go, she’ll vanish.

Her horn is bigger. Much bigger than it was before.

Long as Katsuki’s damn forearm, and glowing—crackling with yellow light that pulses in waves. The air around her hums, electricity prickling against Katsuki’s skin even from meters away.

And Deku—

He drops.

Not a stumble. Not a slow collapse. He drops. Like he’s been unplugged from the wall. Folds underneath her.

Katsuki’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

That’s not a normal quirk. That’s not a healing quirk. That’s something else. Something dangerous.

They can’t even get close. No one dares. One step, one movement, and who knows what she’ll do—what she’s already doing.

Katsuki tenses to move—stupid, reckless— because Katsuki still has to fix things, fix All might’s legacy and then suddenly—

The light cuts out.

Just like that.

Her horn sputters, fizzles, then dims entirely. Her body slumps forward like a marionette whose strings have snapped.

Aizawa Sensei.

Eyes glowing red. Breathing hard. One hand on his knee to stay upright. Right. Of course. That’s what he does.

That’s why he matters.

The tension drains from the air, fast and sharp. Katsuki exhales—and it comes out ragged. Shaky.

His knees buckle without warning. The concrete rushes up to meet him. He doesn’t even get his hands out in time.

Katsuki wakes up in a hospital bed.

White walls. White ceiling. White sheets. Too white. Too clean. The kind of sterile that buzzes in your teeth. That makes your skin itch like it’s not yours.

There’s something in his arm. An IV line. Something warm, slow, crawling through his veins, muting everything. Dulling the edges of pain until it feels distant—like it belongs to someone else.

His chest is bandaged tight. His head’s stuffed with cotton and static. Every thought is slippery. Every breath thick.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Tries to sit up.

Regrets it.

Instantly.

The room lurches, and pain flares white behind his eyes—sharp and punishing. He slumps back into the pillows, blinking against the spin of the ceiling tiles.

Then—

“Jesus Christ, Katsuki.”

A voice. Familiar.

Dry. Exasperated. Tired in that bone-deep, you-idiot way.

Kira.

He turns his head. Slowly. Like swimming through glue.

She’s there. Perched at the foot of the bed like she owns the place, legs crossed, tablet balanced on one knee. Her hair’s tied up. Sharp suit. Clean lines. Her jacket draped casually over the back of the hospital chair like she’s been here a while.

She looks annoyed.

And—relieved.

“What the fuck, Katsuki,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Stop doing this to me.”

He tries to respond. Tries to shape something like Didn’t mean to around the cotton in his mouth.

What comes out is more like a grunt.

She snorts. Shakes her head. Smiles, even if it’s tight around the edges.

She’s here on some pro bono case. Just a quick visit, she claims. Just stopping by.

He can tell from the suit—tailored sharp, the kind she only pulls out for court appearances and high-profile bullshit. She’s not here for long. But she made time.

To see him.

To check if he was still alive.

That he hadn’t gone and gotten himself erased from existence.

He has. Practically. But not literally. Not yet.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles. Which is a lie.

But Kira would stay if he asked. Katsuki knows that. Could see it in the way her fingers curl tight around her tablet. The way she hasn’t put her jacket back on yet.

But he doesn’t ask.

Her job’s important. She’s got people to save. He’ll see her later. When his mouth isn’t filled with sand and regret.

Her lips twitch. That I know you’re full of shit, but I’ll allow it kind of look. She nods anyway. Accepts the lie like it’s enough.

Before she goes, she leans forward. Ruffles his hair.

It’s a small thing. Fast. But it hits harder than he expects.

Like back when they first met—when he was all teeth and fury and she’d touch his head like it meant something. Like he was someone worth soft moments.

“Don’t make this a habit, sweetheart,” she says, low.

And just like that, she’s gone.

A quick exit. Clean. Sharp heels on tile and a door whispering shut behind her before Sensei can appear and start asking questions.

Questions Katsuki isn’t in any shape to answer. Not right now.

He sinks back against the pillow, floating in the warm fog of too many drugs and not enough answers.

Lets himself drift.

Lets the quiet hold him.

Just for a little while.

Katsuki wakes again.

Smoother this time. Slower. The pain’s still there, but it’s a dull ache now—manageable. Like background noise. He blinks blearily at the ceiling, the sterile tiles too bright, too clean. Feels the tug of the IV in his arm, the tight wrap of bandages around his chest.

The room’s quieter than before.

Too quiet.

There’s a stillness to it that sets his teeth on edge. Like the air’s holding its breath.

And then—he feels it.

That itch at the back of his neck. The weight of eyes on him.

He turns his head—and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Aizawa Sensei’s sitting in the corner. Just sitting there. In the dark. No clipboard. No phone. No movement. Just elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely, staring like he’s trying to read Katsuki’s soul through his skin.

Katsuki blinks. Frowns. “...Sensei?”

A pause.

Then, flat and quiet. “Use your quirk.”

Katsuki’s drug-fuzzed brain scrambles to catch up. “What? Sensei, I’m inside. ”

Still, Aizawa Sensei doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift.

“Use it.”

Katsuki blinks again. His mind stutters. Somewhere in the haze, a voice mutters something about fire alarms, hospital regulations. Something dumb and logical.

But his hand twitches anyway.

Katsuki likes using his quirk. It’s not even a thought, not really. It’s just there. Muscle memory. A reflex.

He reaches for the burn in his palms. The familiar charge. That bubbling, hot-cold rush of nitroglycerin sweat. The hum in his blood. The pressure under his skin that builds and builds until he lets it loose.

And—

There it is.

Faint, but real. The hiss-crackle of a tiny explosion flaring against his fingertips. A whisper of heat in his palm.

His quirk is still there.

Katsuki exhales, sharp and shaky. Like he’d been holding his breath without realizing.

Across the room, Aizawa leans back. Not relaxed, exactly. But something in his shoulders lets go. Just a fraction.

“Okay,” he says, quiet. “Good.”

Katsuki licks his lips. His mouth is dry. Sandpaper-dry.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?”

Sensei looks at him for a long moment. Then, without ceremony, without softening it. 

“Mirio Togata got hit with a permanent bullet.”

The words hit hard. Not all the way—Katsuki doesn’t know the name. Not really. But the idea.

Permanent.

Katsuki’s stomach twists. “Wait. Permanent—?”

“It’s not just temporary anymore.” His voice stays level. Controlled. Like he’s holding something back. “They cracked it. The one Togata took erased his quirk completely. No trace of it left. No sign of recovery.”

Katsuki goes still.

The room tilts around him. Not physically. Just—something in his world shifts.

His chest tightens. Not from the bandages, but from the thing curling cold behind his ribs. Dread. Panic. Something worse than pain.

He looks down at his hand. At the faint, familiar scorch on his palm. The heat still lingering.

Proof.

Barely.

He almost—

He could’ve—

Katsuki’s breath catches in his throat.

He wouldn’t have survived that.

Not mentally. Not emotionally. Not in any way that counts.

Some people might. Some people are strong in ways he’s not. Someone like that guy—Togata, whoever—might still find a way to smile. Might still walk tall.

But Katsuki?

Katsuki needs it. Needs the noise. The blast. The recoil in his arms, the burn in his chest, the power. The usefulness.

His quirk isn’t just a tool. It’s not just a weapon.

It’s him.

It’s the only thing that makes him special.

Without it—

He’s nothing. No one.

Not a hero. Not even close.

His hands curl into fists, nails digging into raw, bandaged palms. His breath comes faster now, shallow and hot.

He almost lost everything.

Sir Nighteye dies.

No one tells Katsuki right away. Maybe they think he can’t handle it. Or maybe they just don’t want to deal with how he’ll react.

Which is fair.

Because Katsuki didn’t like him.

Didn’t respect him, either. Not really.

From the start, Nighteye rubbed him the wrong way. All that cold calculation, all those percentages and predictions. Like the battlefield was something you could spreadsheet your way through. Like fear was strategy.

He’d said someone could die.

And Katsuki—he’d said so what.

Because that’s what this job is. That’s what it means. If you can’t accept that, then what the hell are you doing wearing the uniform?

But then—

He’s the one who died.

The guy who warned them. The one who saw the future. Who built his entire identity around control and still couldn’t stop it.

Gone. Just like that.

And it messes with Katsuki in a way he doesn’t know how to name. Doesn’t feel like guilt. Doesn’t feel like grief.

More like… irritation.

Or maybe shame.

Because it’s easy to talk about death like it’s just part of the deal—right up until someone cashes out.

Katsuki doesn’t go to the funeral.

Doesn’t say anything when the nurses whisper about how the others are getting ready. Doesn’t acknowledge the folded uniform someone leaves on the chair beside his bed.

He just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about how a man who wouldn’t commit to the fight still managed to die in the middle of one.

What if he’s cursed?

Katsuki can’t shake the thought as he leaves the hospital, bag slung over his shoulder, a week’s worth of recovery slapped on him like a half-hearted band-aid. 

Kira’s vague threats about getting his ass back to the gym are still fresh in his mind. Of course he’s going. He doesn’t need anyone telling him to do it.

But as he steps outside, something gnaws at him. First, All Might. Then, TinTin.

Katsuki’s brain flashes to what Sensei had told him about the quirk-erasing bullets. The permanent ones.

Every person he’s tried to beat, to surpass, to close the gap between—they’ve lost their quirks. Or worse. They've broken. Disappeared. Gone.

What the hell does that even mean?

He doesn’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that dumb shit. He doesn’t. It’s all too easy to think those are just words to explain the things you can’t control. But—

It’s a pattern. And it's starting to mess with his head.

What if every time he takes a step forward, someone else is paying the price? What if the reason he’s still here, still standing, still loaded with power—is because the universe is taking it away from everyone else?

He hates it. He hates how it makes him feel small. Like his victories are built on the backs of people who’ve lost everything they were. Like the only way he gets stronger is by watching others break.

His fists clench, nails digging into his palms, teeth grinding so hard his jaw aches.

It’s not logical. It doesn’t make sense. But two people—the best of the best—gone, just like that? Once is unrelated. Two times is a coincidence. Who’s going to be unlucky number three?

He exhales sharply, frustration burning in his chest, and shoulders the bag. He doesn’t look back as he heads for home, trying to ignore the quiet gnawing at the back of his mind.

And the part of him that wonders if he’s cursed.

Chapter Text

Yuki’s Gym, Katsuki’s gym, is in the opposite direction of UA. It’s a long journey either way. Katsuki doubles it for the fact that he wants the familiarity. Katsuki won’t get to stay long enough to see the fights. Which sucks. He actually misses it. A lot.

Still, he has just enough time to wash the hospital off his body and clean his flat. Because that’s what it is now. His flat. Above his gym.

It’s a pain in the ass to get there, a longer train ride than his parents’ place, but he still goes. Even if it’s just for a couple of hours. It’s worth it.

Then, it’s back to UA. Back just in time for Four-Eyes to lecture him about curfew.

Katsuki wants to check on Kirishima, though. He wasn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital, which made no damn sense. They were in the same wing. Katsuki thinks the nurses just liked the power trip.

The sun is already setting by the time he gets to the dorms. His class is all crammed into the common room, piled together in a way that screams group huddle.

Sensei is there too, sitting near the couch where they’re all gathered around something. Maybe the rabbit again? Someone in the dorm definitely owns it. Probably.

The door slides open with a quiet hiss. Mina and Kaminari glance up at the same time. Kirishima’s there too, further in the group—not even a bandage. Good.

Then, a small voice.

“...I like apples?”

Katsuki blinks. Is he going insane? Probably. But then Bird Head nods. “A capital choice.”

Mina waves him over, grinning. “Bakugou! Get over here, this is Eri!”

Eri? Eri, as in small-kidnapped-girl, Eri? Why the fuck is she here?

Katsuki blinks but stuffs his hands into his pockets, wandering over. The first thing he notices is how tiny she is. Barely up to his hip.

Malnourished, most likely. She’s got long sleeves and leggings under her dress. Like someone bundled her up on purpose. Probably to hide scars.

She stares up at him. Her little horn is almost hidden by her hair.

She has red eyes. Like his. Weirdly similar to his. If her hair were blonde instead of white, they could’ve been related. Which is a weird thought to have. 

Instead of acknowledging that, he turns to Aizawa Sensei. “Fuck’s she doing here?”

A chorus of scandalized gasps and scolding follows.

Sensei sighs like he already regrets his life choices. “Language, Bakugou. And she’s staying at UA.”

Katsuki looks back at the kid. Then at Sensei. “With you?”

Aizawa Sensei actually looks uncomfortable.

“Her quirk is unpredictable. I can erase it when required. It was the most logical decision.”

Which—okay. Maybe. A quirk that strong, in foster care? Probably not a great idea. But how the hell does Sensei plan on handling this? Is he just gonna drag her to class? What about school? Doctors? Who’s making sure she actually eats?

How are they going to watch her all the time? How–

A tiny finger pokes his knee.

Katsuki looks down. What now?

“What.”

Big red eyes blink up at him. “Who’re you?”

Katsuki knows Mina just said his name. Is she brain damaged? He folds his arms. “Bakugou Katsuki.”

She frowns, tilting her head. “You’re... Bakugou?” 

Like she’s testing the name, making sure she got it right. Some of the girls coo at how cute it is.

Katsuki doesn’t know what the hell Eri wants from him. “Do you want something?”

She screws up her face in a way that definitely means yes—but doesn’t say anything. Either she doesn’t know how, or she doesn’t want to. Not his problem. Katsuki rolls his eyes. He did his job. 

“I’m going to my room.”

Kirishima raises an eyebrow. “Man, it’s eight. You’re seriously going to sleep?”

He’s not. He’s going to change and find Deku—who’s probably off staring at the sunset, grieving over Nighteye, instead of doing something actually productive. Like training.

Deku is exactly where Katsuki knows he’ll be. Sitting in his dorm room, brooding like a fucking loser.

Katsuki doesn’t knock. He just slams the door open hard enough that it bounces against the wall, and it nearly makes him smirk when Deku jerks upright like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“Wha–! Kacchan?”

“Get your nerdy ass into workout clothes.”

Deku blinks at him, still looking halfway between confused and guilty, and it pisses Katsuki off.

“Kacchan, what—?”

“I said I’d fix this shit, didn’t I?” Katsuki snaps, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Get up.”

Deku still isn’t moving, and Katsuki folds his arms, scowling. He doesn’t have time for this. Training starts now. Every two days, from eight to nine-thirty, no excuses.

Because he said he’d fix it. All Might's retirement. Destroying the world's symbol of peace. He is going to get Deku ready for it. And that’ll make it right. 

Deku finally stands, rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes darting away like he’s embarrassed. “I don’t know if—”

Katsuki glares. “Did I stutter? Get up."

Deku flinches like he wants to argue, but he must see something in Katsuki’s face that shuts him up, because he moves. Fast. Scrambling for his sneakers and grabbing a hoodie like Katsuki might actually drag him out the door if he doesn’t.

Which. Wouldn’t be wrong.

It’s a little pathetic how quickly he listens, but at least it means they won’t waste time.

Katsuki leans against the doorframe, arms still crossed, waiting. His eyes flick to a new poster on Deku’s wall—some limited-edition All Might print, framed like it’s worth something. Probably is.

Weird. Katsuki doesn’t think he’s seen that one before.

Deku finishes tying his shoes, still looking like he’s about to second-guess this. Katsuki doesn’t give him the chance.

“Move.”

By the time they make it to the training gym, Deku’s muttering has started.

“I really don’t think—”

“Yeah, I know you don’t think.” Katsuki shoves the door open and strides in like he owns the place, already stretching. “That’s why we’re here.”

Deku shuts up, because deep down, he knows Katsuki’s right.

Katsuki doesn’t go easy. Not because he wants to push Deku to the limit, but because he needs to drill this into his thick skull. The problem isn’t Deku’s strength—it’s the way he uses it. Or more accurately, the way he burns himself out like an idiot.

They hit the gym floor, and Deku is already hesitating, like he’s thinking about saying something Katsuki won’t like.

Katsuki doesn’t give him the chance. He tosses a resistance band at him. “Start with mobility. Shoulders first.”

Deku catches it, frowning. “Kacchan, I really don’t think—”

“No, you don’t think. That’s why we’re doing this,” Katsuki snaps, because it was funny the first time. And it’s funny the second time. 

Dropping into a squat stretch. “If you actually thought about your body instead of throwing it around like a ragdoll, you wouldn’t be spending half your damn time in the nurse’s office.”

Deku scowls. “I don’t try to get hurt—”

“That’s the problem,” Katsuki cuts in, sharp and impatient. “You don’t try not to either.”

Deku opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but Katsuki steamrolls him.

“You train until failure. Every time. You push yourself past your limit like it’s some kind of flex, but all you’re doing is making sure you never reach that limit in the first place.” He gestures vaguely, like Deku’s entire existence is frustrating. “The more you break yourself, the harder it is to get stronger. You’re just locking yourself into a cycle of getting weaker.”

Deku bristles. “That’s not true—”

“Yeah? How many times have you had to dial back because you overdid it? How much time have you wasted recovering instead of improving?" Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “You wanna be a hero for a year? Or for a lifetime?"

Deku glares at him, gripping the resistance band too tightly. “That’s not fair.”

Katsuki scoffs. “What’s not fair is how you keep setting yourself up for failure instead of playing the long game.” He rolls his shoulders. “What, you think Endeavor trains until he can’t move? That Hawks pushes his body until he breaks? No. Because pros don’t train like dumbasses. They push to improve, not to self-destruct.”

Deku’s jaw tightens, frustration clear on his face. But he’s thinking. Good.

“…That’s not how my quirk works,” he mutters after a long beat.

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Then explain it, nerd. Because it’s sure as hell not working your way.”

Deku exhales, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I—I visualize it in percentages.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes. “Meaning?”

Deku shifts on his feet, clearly uncomfortable, but he keeps going. “Instead of thinking of it as one whole thing, I break it down. Using five percent of One For All is different from using the full one hundred.” He gestures vaguely. “It’s like… like slowly turning a dial instead of flipping a switch.”

Katsuki frowns, crossing his arms. “…And you think you control it that way?”

Deku nods, but there’s uncertainty in it. Like even he doesn’t fully believe it.

Katsuki snorts. “That’s dumb.”

Deku’s expression tightens. “It works.”

“Barely,” Katsuki shoots back. “You’re trying to regulate something that’s way bigger than you. That’s why you keep breaking yourself—you’re not building up to it, you’re just cutting it down to something you can handle. And that’s why your body keeps fucking failing whenever you push past what you’re used to. You need to be able to handle it all.”

Deku doesn’t respond, and Katsuki knows that means he’s right.

“Ugh, whatever.” He stands, rolling out his shoulders. “We’re fixing this. Now stretch.”

Deku sighs, but he listens.

They run drills. They work form. They go through Katsuki’s schedule, fixing Deku’s diet, and adjusting his rest days. It’s a start. They’ll do more. When Katsuki can match their days together properly.

Katsuki makes him work—agility drills, explosive bursts of movement, balance exercises. He’s watching everything. More than once, he has to snap at Deku to slow the fuck down.

Deku tries to argue. Once. “Kacchan, All Might–”

Katsuki doesn’t give a flying fuck what All Might thinks or says or did.

“You think you can just go all-out every day and not pay for it? You think that’s what All Might did?” He snaps. “Spoiler alert: look at the bastard now."

That shuts Deku up.

At exactly 9:30, Katsuki calls it. No more. No less.

Deku looks tired, but not wrecked. That’s the point.

As they walk back, Katsuki side-eyes him. “Go shower, nerd. And sleep.”

Deku glances at him, hesitating. “…Thanks, Kacchan.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, shoving Deku out the gym door. “Get away from me”

The night air is cold. Katsuki hates the cold. The sweat on his skin cools too fast, making him shiver as he and Deku walk back in silence.

They’re close enough to see the dorms when something shifts. Voices—raised, frantic. The glow of lights from every window.

Katsuki meets Deku’s eyes for half a second before they both bolt.

Deku reaches the door first and nearly crashes into Four-eyes, who’s blocking the entrance, arms out like a damn traffic officer. 

“Keep your voices down,” he hisses. It’s the only time Katsuki has seen him on edge like this.

That’s when Katsuki hears it—soft, stuttering, and desperate. Crying.

Eri.

Katsuki pushes past Four-eyes, Deku a step behind him. The common room is crowded, his classmates standing in uncertain half-circles around the couch. Aizawa Sensei is kneeling in front of her, speaking low. Eri is curled up tight, her tiny fingers gripping her own arms, eyes shut, body shaking.

Sensei’s quirk is activated.

Rock head stands off to the side, looking devastated. Katsuki is pretty sure he’s the one who owns the rabbit.

Said rabbit is missing.

Owned the rabbit then.

Deku is already moving forward, voice soft. “Eri? It’s okay, no one’s mad, we just—”

She flinches when he takes another step. Deku freezes. Katsuki exhales sharply. Damn idiot. The problem isn’t comfort—it’s contact. The kid doesn’t want anyone near her.

He turns on his heel and heads straight for his room. He can’t help. He’s not like Deku or Kirishima. Katsuki is bad with people and emotions. He’s not any help there.

His room is dark. Katsuki doesn’t bother flicking on the light. They can handle it. Sensei has erasure. Deku has emotions. They don’t need Katsuki interfering. 

Twelves seconds later Katsuki is stomping back down the stairs. Fucking bullshit.

He had found them easily. Shoved beneath his shirts. His first pair of gloves—worn down, too small for him now. They’d be massive on her.

He kept them. Of course he did. Kyo gave them to him. But Katsuki has an entire gym to remember him by and— the kid needs them more. Or maybe not. Maybe it won’t even help and he’ll look like a moron. But then Katsuki could get some fucking sleep.

For half a second, his fingers press into the material, and the memory hits like a sucker punch. He hesitates outside the common room. Low voices on the other side. Eri obviously hasn’t calmed down.

Kid, if it's that big of a deal, wear some gloves.

Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose, shaking off the feeling. The gloves hadn’t stopped his quirk. They were thin. Cheap material. But the idea of them worked. Like a security blanket. He has a couple pairs. Both in the dorms and when he goes to the gym. For the days he wants to fight like he used to. 

Katsuki opens the door. Eri is still curled in on herself, barely listening. The others are still talking, all trying to help, but it’s too much.

He crouches in front of the couch, shoving Ears over and drops the gloves in front of her. 

“Bakugou, what are you—”

He ignores them.

Eri blinks at the gloves, still curled up, still small.

Katsuki doesn’t hesitate. “Put them on.”

She sniffs, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve, but she doesn’t look away. Slowly, she reaches out and drags them toward her. Good.

Katsuki doesn’t react, doesn’t move closer.

They’re ridiculous on her, swallowing her fingers, the fabric bunching up at her wrists. His classmates are holding their breath behind him.

She’s not crying anymore.

“It’s your hands, right?”

She nods, voice wobbly. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to pet it.”

Katsuki sighs. The bunny’s definitely dead. Or rewound. Or whatever the fuck it is she does.

He sits cross-legged in front of her and holds out a hand, letting his palm spark. Just a little. Just enough to catch her attention.

Eri blinks at the flickering light. At him. She uncurls. Just slightly. Kids are so stupid. Always distracted by shiny things. 

Katsuki pretends not to notice her leaning forward.

“When I was a kid—” He hesitates. Hyper-aware of the eyes on his back. If any of them bring this up later, he’s going to break something expensive. “I’d spark all the time. Over nothing. Half my shit got destroyed so bad, my parents gave up replacing it.”

A lie. Small one. He was never stupid enough to do that. The gloves are for fighting. Always have been. 

Eri’s eyes go wide, enraptured. “The gloves are magic?”

“No. They’re fucking gloves.” Her expression falls, just for a second. Katsuki bites his cheek to avoid smiling. She’s an idiot. “But they did help.”

A beat. Two. Then, from behind him, Kirishima, voice thick.

“That’s so manly.”

Katsuki ignores him. Looks at the kid. “Have you eaten?”

She frowns. “I’m not hungry.”

Katsuki scoffs. “Liar. Will you eat an apple?”

She hesitates. That’s a yes. Katsuki turns his head toward Deku. His eyes are shining. Gross. If he cries, Katsuki is going to beat him up for it.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?”

Deku jerks into action, practically tripping over himself to get to the kitchen.

Katsuki scowls after him. “And peel it!”

The room exhales at once, tension slipping away as Eri focuses on her gloves, flexing her fingers against the fabric. The weight of his classmates’ attention presses on him, but he pointedly ignores it.

Sensei is still watching. Unreadable.

Katsuki doesn’t look at him, but he knows he’s assessing. Calculating. Figuring him out like some puzzle that isn’t worth solving. 

He should leave it alone. He’s done enough. But as Deku reappears with an apple—properly peeled, cut into neat slices—Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose and stands. His joints pop. He feels wrung out. Training and dealing with emotions in one night. What a fucking nightmare.

Eri is settled on the couch, curled up, TV flickering soft blue light over her pale skin as she picks at an apple slice. Behind him, Kaminari leans over.

“Dude. Are you secretly good with kids?”

It’s not even teasing. Katsuki could call it proud. Katsuki doesn’t even look at him. Kaminari isn’t making fun of him. Not really.

“No. Fuck you.”

He makes his way toward the stairs, leaves Kaminari laughing behind him. Sensei steps into his path by the stairs. He doesn't block him, not really, just lingers. Watching. Considering.

Katsuki folds his arms. “What?”

Aizawa Sensei tilts his head slightly. “You’re good with her.”

Katsuki grimaces. “No, I’m not.”

A pause. Katsuki exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just know what it’s like.” 

Another pause. Another long, measuring stare. Katsuki winces a little. That makes him sound like Icy-Hot.

“With hands, I mean. Not being able or wanting to touch anything …just in case.”

It’s coming out all wrong. That's not what he means or how he means to say it. But Katsuki isn’t sure what he means.

Katsuki shifts his weight, gaze flicking back to Eri. She’s calmer now, nibbling at an apple slice, still small, still too quiet. The gloves swallow her hands whole, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

His fingers tighten in his pockets. He remembers how it felt. Wearing them.

“…How’s this gonna work?” he mutters instead. “How are you gonna take care of her and do UA?”

Sensei doesn’t look surprised by the question. He lets out a slow breath. “It’s being ironed out.”

That should be unsettling, but it’s not. It’s honest. It’s not Katsuki's place to decide who does what. He did his job. The kid is alive. That’s where his involvement ends.

He turns on his heel and heads up the stairs.

Katsuki goes to fucking bed. 

Chapter Text

When Katsuki was fourteen, he’d been around the gym long enough that he basically did everything. He cleaned. Repaired. Took stock of the equipment.  Replaced the broken tape and rewrapped the handles on every barbell with quiet precision. He made coffee he didn’t drink. He collected towels.

He also annoyed Kyo enough to get himself put into a headlock at least three times a week. It was practically a sport.

Kira had started coming by more that year. Not just Wednesdays anymore, but Fridays too. Sometimes Mondays. She wasn’t the best in the ring — she said that herself — but she was solid. Fast on her feet. Knew how to duck a punch and throw a cleaner one in return. Her fights were always early. Always fun to watch.

Katsuki, on the other hand, was still only allowed two fights a week. A rule. Non-negotiable. Kyo enforced it like gospel, even when Katsuki argued until his throat burned.

But he was improving. Fast. Especially with the gloves. Something had clicked— his balance, his reach, the way he snapped punches like he meant them.

He had about a million pairs now. Cheap ones. Custom ones. Taped-up ones. All flung across Kyo’s apartment like it was normal. Like he lived there.

And maybe it should have been weird — the fact that most days, Katsuki didn’t even bother going home. He took the train across half the prefecture alone, every evening, and made sure he had enough of his stuff at the gym that he didn’t need to leave. It was easier that way.

Just over an hour on the train. That was it. And at the end of the night, after the last fights were done, after the mats were cleared and the lights dimmed low, Kyo would help him clean. Wrapping his arms or ribs or whatever Katsuki pretended wasn’t bothering him. 

The whole bedtime routine should’ve felt off. It didn’t. He’d been crashing on the same pullout couch for so long it barely even creaked anymore. Kyo always left the remote on the floor next to it. Always turned the fan on low. Always made sure Katsuki had the blanket with the stitched-up seam — the one that didn’t itch.

At fourteen, Katsuki didn’t even share pencils in class. But he still shared a whole-ass room with a man he’d known for two years. Point is, Katsuki knew the gym. Every beam. Every creak of the floor. Every loose edge of the mat that caught underfoot. 

Which is why, maybe, he should’ve been more careful.

They’re both standing dead centre in the ring, necks craned upward. Monday afternoon. Gym’s quiet. No classes. No drop-ins. Just that weird echo of fluorescent lights and distant city noise leaking through the back window.

“So,” Kyo says slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “That’s… something.”

Katsuki flushes. His fists tighten automatically, like it might help him roll back time. “You said throw it.”

“I meant metaphorically.”

“How do you metaphorically throw—”

The door swings open before Katsuki can finish his shout.

Kira strides in, gym bag slung over one shoulder, her dark ponytail bouncing. She slows. Blinks.

“What are you guys— Is that a kettlebell in the ceiling?”

Kyo doesn’t look away from the hole in the tile. Hands on his hips like he’s contemplating divine punishment.

“Bakugou threw it up there,” he says.

Katsuki bristles. “He told me to!”

Kira stares up at the weight, then at them. Then back at the ceiling. 

“How’re you gonna get it down? If that drops on someone, that’s one hell of a lawsuit.”

They’d already checked for a ladder. No one nearby had one. The shops all closed at five.

Katsuki snarls. Pushes Kyo in the side until he shifts out of the way. “Hold out your hands. I’ll get it.”

Kyo raises an eyebrow. Grins. “Sure you will.”

Still, he interlocks his fingers. Lowers them. Braces himself.

Katsuki steps into his hands, then clambers up his arms, balancing on his shoulders like it’s not a fourteen year old climbing a grown-ass man like a jungle gym. He wobbles once. Kira leans against a weight rack, looking far too entertained.

“Hold still,” Katsuki grits.

“Kid, I am.”

“Hold stiller.”

Kyo sighs. But steadies.

The weight’s really in there. Lodged into the tiles like it belongs. Katsuki grabs the handle and yanks. Nothing. He nearly slips, legs kicking slightly.

“Don’t fucking drop me!” he yelps. His stomach flips. His grip tightens.

Hands grab his ankles, firm and solid.

“I’m not going to drop you,” Kyo says. Calm. Like it’s obvious.

Katsuki grumbles under his breath. Tightens his grip. Tries again.

He tugs at the kettlebell, shoulders straining. It doesn’t budge. He frowns, shifts his weight. Wraps one arm through the handle and braces his foot harder into Kyo’s shoulder.

“Don’t move,” he warns.

“I’m not moving,” Kyo says, long-suffering.

Katsuki ignores him. Grits his teeth.

Pulls.

With a loud crack, the tile gives. The kettlebell wrenches free with a shower of dust and ceiling grit, tile splintering in chunks. 

Katsuki has exactly one second of triumph — weight secured, mission complete — before the momentum yanks him backward.

He pitches with it, slipping fast—

And Kyo’s grip on his ankles clamps tight. To the point of pain. Bone-deep and sharp.

But it’s the only thing that keeps him from flipping fully over and crashing head-first into the mat.

The kettlebell — dented, dirty, victorious — rolls a foot away and clunks to a stop. The gym spins. Katsuki is upside-down, hanging like a ragdoll from Kyo’s back, arms flailing and brain three steps behind his body.

For a second, he just breathes.

His shirt’s fallen halfway up his chest. His ribs sting from the flex of landing. His heart is beating way too fast.

“You okay?” Kira calls out, casually. Her voice carries a smile.

“I’m fine,” Katsuki says automatically, shoving his shirt down with one hand. “I said I’d get it.”

His voice is carefully neutral . Even though blood is rushing to his head and his legs are starting to tingle.

“Put me down.”

Kyo doesn’t.

“Kyo.” Katsuki frowns. “Put me down.”

Nothing.

Then — motion.

Kyo starts walking.

Katsuki sways with the movement, stomach flipping. “Kyo! The hell?!”

“Do you hear something?” Kyo says. Innocent. Almost sing-song.

Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice.

Does he think this is funny?

Kira — still lounging by the weight rack — shakes her head slowly, completely unbothered. “Nope. Must’ve been the wind.”

Katsuki gapes. “You—! You’re not funny! Put me down!”

Kyo spins lazily, like he’s listening for something. Katsuki wobbles on his back, clutching at air. 

“Someone say something?”

He’s gonna die like this. Upside down. Dignity in tatters.

“Stop being an asshole,” Katsuki snaps. He means to growl it. Really mean it. But his voice cracks somewhere around the edges.

He clamps his hand over his mouth to muffle the stupid, traitorous smile pulling at his lips.

Kyo doesn't let him down until Katsuki starts going floppy with dizziness and Kira mutters something about child endangerment laws.

He’s lowered, finally, like an unruly duffel bag. Lands on his feet with a scowl and a wobble. Kira’s already pointing at the tile debris on the mat.

“You’re cleaning that,” she says.

“I got the weight,” Katsuki snaps.

“You also broke the ceiling,” Kyo adds helpfully, stretching out one shoulder.

“You told me to throw it!”

“And you did,” Kira says, with a grin. “A little too well.”

Three people asked about the cracked tile and the dent in the floor that night.

Katsuki blamed it on gravity.

No one believed him.

“Hey, Bakugou—didn’t you say your parents made you take drum lessons?” Kirishima calls, too casual to be innocent.

Katsuki pauses. Halfway out of the room, eyes already locked on the stairs, on freedom. He sighs. Loudly.

“So what?”

Mina beams at him like she’s just won the lottery. “That’s great! That’s already half a band—and with Jirou singing we can—”

“You want to perform?” Katsuki says, voice flat. He turns, arms folding.

Mina nods, bright. “Yeah! What’s gonna make people happier than a concert?”

Katsuki just stares. He doesn't give a single shit about the other classes. Not about what they think of 1-A, not their bitching, not whatever grudge they’ve decided to cling to.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, slow, dry. “Two kids, from another class, complained about us being attacked and getting too much attention… and your fix is to get up on stage and show off even more?”

Mina frowns. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” he deadpans. “We put on a show, sing a little song, and make them clap about how talented we are?”

“Everyone likes a concert,” Mina argues, but her voice is gone defensive.

Katsuki narrows his eyes. He still doesn’t care—but he sees it, the way Mina clearly doesn’t. And this won’t change shit. Their class is already top of the school. Everyone else is just waiting for them to trip.

Whatever. He turns to Kaminari. Katsuki’s got no reason to say no.

“You’re helping me bring my kit to the dorms.”

If he’s doing this, he’s doing it his way. His kit. His sticks. Nothing else will do.

Kaminari blinks, surprised. Like he thought Katsuki was going to cuss everyone out and leave. Then he grins, nods. “Right! When?”

“Now.”

“What?” Kaminari squeaks. “Dude, it’s already six! If we’re late back, Sensei’s gonna—”

“We won’t be late.” Katsuki’s drums are at his parents’ house. Half hour both ways. Easy. “Come on.”

Kaminari yelps, lunging for his shoes, yelling something about waiting up as Katsuki walks off. He can hear Iida shouting after them about curfew. He ignores him.

The rest of the class swirls around Mina, already roping people into choreography. Typical. Tragic.

By the time they’re outside the dorm gates, Kaminari’s caught up. Barely. “So, Bakugou—do I get to meet the parents?”

Katsuki grunts. Hands in pockets. Keeps walking.

Kaminari keeps chattering, swinging his arms like he’s trying to flag down air traffic.

“What’re they like? I always imagined your dad was some stoic, silent dude. Y’know, big and scary.”

Katsuki snorts.

Wrong.

His dad’s a doormat. Quiet, soft-spoken, polite to a fault. His mom? She’s—well. She’s exactly like him. Or maybe he’s like her. Doesn’t matter. Not anymore  

The train station’s quiet when they get there. Perfect timing Katsuki slips onto the train without pause. Kaminari skids after him.

“Wait—don’t we need a ticket?!”

Katsuki drops into a seat, grinning. “Yeah, probably.”

The doors hiss shut.

Kaminari gapes at him, then collapses into the seat beside him. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“Not unless you start looking guilty.”

It’s a short ride. They’ll be fine.

Kaminari taps his fingers against his knee. “So. Drums?”

Katsuki shrugs. “What, your parents never shoved you into ten different clubs?”

“I mean, yeah. But I never stuck with any.”

Figures. Katsuki hums. “Drums. Soccer. A year of self-defense. Wrestling. Anything with teams.”

“All that?” Kaminari whistles. “Was there anything you weren’t good at?”

“They were trying to find something I was bad at,” Katsuki mutters. Because they were. His mother would rant about his ego endlessly. 

Kaminari stares.

Katsuki doesn’t elaborate. “C’mon. This is our stop.”

Two hours later, they’re back. Kaminari whines the entire way, despite the fact that he’s carrying the lightest gear.

The dorm’s a disaster. Sheet music everywhere. Guitars propped up in corners. Instruments on the floor like someone summoned a tornado and told it to vibe.

Mina’s trying to teach Deku how to dance. It’s going… about as well as expected.

Katsuki watches for a second—because watching Deku try and fail at rhythm is never not funny—then starts setting up his kit.

Kirishima wanders over, apparently banned from anything musical. “So, what was Bakugou’s place like?”

Kaminari, now flopped on the couch, hands over a cymbal. “Big. Like, stupid big. Weirdly clean though.”

Kirishima nods, understanding. “Yeah, same when I visit home. My moms don’t have to clean up after me anymore. It’s unnerving.”

Kaminari laughs.

Katsuki screws in the stand with careful precision, muscle memory flawless.

“His folks weren’t even there though,” Kaminari adds, a little disappointed. “Was kinda hoping to meet them.”

Over his dead body. Katsuki hasn’t talked to them in months. They weren’t in the house, car gone. Katsuki would bet they aren’t even in the country. 

“Are you gonna keep gossiping or actually be useful?” he snaps, before the subject can linger.

Both boys shout, “Right!” 

Like it’s a military drill. Dorks. 

Besides. Katsuki has spent too long making sure no one every looks too close.

Ears is scribbling a table, lost in chords and melody lines. Katsuki nudges in beside her and snatches a sheet.

“Bakugou! Give that back—!”

He doesn’t answer. It’s guitar work. Not for drums. But not bad.

“You playing this?”

She nods. Still reaching for the page.

“Good. Run it through. I’ll match you.”

“What?” she blinks. “But I haven’t worked out melody, or tempo, or—”

“Only way to do it is to do it. Go get your fucking guitar.”

He stomps back to his kit. Twirls his sticks once, twice—just to show off. Because he can. Because he’s that good.

Ears huffs and finally grabs her guitar, fingers settling into the strings like they’re an extension of her. Katsuki watches the way she hesitates—uncertain, almost apologetic.

“Start playing,” he says, adjusting the snare with a short twist of the tension rod. He doesn’t look up.

She strums once. Then again. A riff, tentative and slow. Raw, but catchy. A hook forming under her fingertips.

Katsuki rolls his shoulder and gives the hi-hat pedal a tap. Closed. Sharp. Tick. Good.

His grip shifts automatically—matched grip, traditional grip—it doesn’t matter. His hands know what they like. He spins the stick between his fingers once, just to feel the weight of it. Wood tip. Slightly worn. He should replace them soon, but they’ve still got a little life.

She keeps playing.

Katsuki listens. No overthinking. Just the tempo in his chest, the pulse under his skin. He taps the kick—quarter notes—feeling for her pace. The riff’s clean, simple. Repeats in a loop like she’s testing the waters.

Perfect.

He clicks his sticks once. Twice. Then drops in.

Snare. Kick. Beat—tight and controlled. A straight groove to start, a solid pocket. Four-on-four to give it some bounce. The hi-hat flares open just slightly on the offbeat, giving it some color. Nothing showy. Not yet. Just enough to lock in.

And they do.

It’s not perfect, not polished, but it fits. Like puzzle pieces. His limbs move without thought, spacing the hits like he’s breathing between her chords. The ghost notes on the snare add texture, almost subconscious. A little shuffle with the left hand, loose on the rebound, while his right foot keeps a steady thump on the bass pedal.

He leans into it. Loosens the grip on the stick in his left hand, lets it ride the snare with more swing. He can feel the pocket now— that invisible, perfect groove where time settles into your bones.

She glances up, eyes wide. Grinning.

Katsuki grins back. Can't help it.

This. This is what he’s good at. No rules. Just feel and instinct and noise that makes sense.

He throws in a quick fill—a bang-bang-bang light on the rack, heavier on the floor tom, then snapping back to the main beat like a whip crack.

Ears matches him, shifts the rhythm of the riff, adding an extra strum on the upstroke.

Katsuki answers with a tight flam on the snare and a ride bell accent. Ping. Sharp. Shiny.

His hand slips. Katsuki isn’t out of practice, he’s incredible at this. But it may have slipped his mind that friction plus sweat equals disaster.

The stick spins too fast in his fingers. It catches his palm wrong. And instead of snapping into the next beat—it launches.

The stick arcs like a missile and clocks someone directly in the forehead.

Thunk.

Silence.

Purple goes down like a sack of bricks. No one even moves.

Katsuki blinks. The groove evaporates. His hand still hangs mid-air, the second stick balanced in his grip like a threat.

Ears gapes at him. Open-mouthed. Frozen mid-chord.

Katsuki pauses. “Uh…. Whoops?”

And then Mina explodes behind him—wheezing with laughter like she’s been holding it in all day.

“Holy shit , Bakugou!” she gasps. “You sniped him!”

Kirishima’s across the room shouting, “He’s out cold! Someone check if he’s breathing!”

Kaminari is doubled over, hands on his knees, howling.

Katsuki just leans back, spins the remaining stick between his fingers again, and mutters, “Should’ve kept his head down.”

The concert comes. And they rock it.

Of course they do.

Katsuki doesn’t know how to give anything less than a hundred percent. Not at fighting. Not at drumming. Not at showing off in front of a crowd of people he doesn’t give a single shit about.

He had invited Kira. Well, no he didn’t. 

But he did mention it to Kira. Once. Complained about the time, the setup, how anyone could go. It was an open event, stupid, really.

She’d stared at him. Called him a moron. Which, yeah. That’s basically a yes.

He’s not nervous. Katsuki doesn’t get nervous.

He just… wants to know if she liked it. That’s it. That’s all.

His class is still cleaning up—dragging cords and folding chairs. Katsuki vanishes into the crowd without a word. Zero hesitation. He’s got no issue ditching chores when he's already carried the whole show.

The festival's still going strong. Other classes manning food stalls, games, all that shit.

But she’s not there.

Someone shoulder checks him hard enough to twist him half around. He turns, scowl ready.

“Yuki?” says the guy.

Tall. Brown hair. Familiar.

Katsuki blinks. Contractor. One of the guys who helped fix up the gym. He’s seen him in the ring too. A couple times.

“Oh,” Katsuki says blankly. “Hey?”

“Saw you up there, kid. Good job, by the way,” the man says.

Katsuki nods, scrambling for a name. “Thanks… sir?”

It doesn’t even sound natural coming from him. The guy laughs.

“Relax, kid. It’s Otoya. Otoya—“

“Dad?”

Katsuki’s stomach drops.

He turns. Horrified.

“Ochaco! There you are! You didn’t tell me you were in the same class as Katsuki?”

Uraraka is standing there, blinking at both of them. 

“Katsuki?” She says, looking at him like he shot someone. “Dad, you remember Bakugou. He’s the guy I fought at the Sports Festival.”

His chest seizes. Cold sweat drips down his back. Fuck.

This is it. This is where it all comes out. Any second now, it’s gonna be so long, hero license.

Otoya is still grinning. “Ah, you know I don’t watch that stuff.”

“Dad,” Uraraka says, slowly, like she’s explaining physics to a dog. “How do you know Bakugou?”

The ring. The gym. The definitely illegal, totally unlicensed fight ring. Katsuki’s gonna spend the next ten years in jail.

“Oh, I’m friends with his parents,” Otoya says, laughing. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

“He does? ” Uraraka looks like she just learned gravity isn’t real.

Katsuki forces a grin. It might be more of a grimace. “Right. Well. Gotta go find—uh—glad you liked the show.”

He bolts.

Heart hammering, sweat sticking his shirt to his spine.

Holy fuck.

He’s going to get arrested.

No. No, he’s fine. Otoya is not gonna say anything. If he does, he’s just outing himself. And dragging Uraraka with him. He wouldn’t do that. Does Uraraka know? About the gym? No. No she couldn’t. 

This is fine.

Then—he sees her.

Kira. Her dark hair catching the lights as she turns, scanning the crowd. Their eyes lock.

“Hey!” she calls.

Katsuki shoves the panic down. Deep. He’s fine. He’s good. They just crushed it on stage. No one’s dead. Everything’s perfect.

“Hey,” he says, hands stuffed in his pockets.

She eyes him. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He swallows. “Just. Stage nerves.”

“Stage nerves,” she echoes, an eyebrow raised. “Sure.”

He changes the subject. “What’d you think?”

She grins. Walks up and ruffles his hair like he’s a damn puppy. “You’re really good at that. How come I’ve never seen you play before?”

Something in his chest unclenches.

Yeah. He’s fine.

He turns and falls into step with her, ranting about wrist pain and how playing too long leads to carpal tunnel. How it’s not that he hates drumming, he just doesn’t care for it much anymore.

The night air is cooler now. Softer. Maybe that’s why the crowd’s mellowed, why he doesn’t see any of his friends. Or maybe it’s just that everything feels a little slower, a little quieter now that the spotlight’s off.

“Hey,” Kira says. “It’s Friday, right? You staying here or heading back?”

Katsuki shakes his head. “Nah. Coming home.”

The forms are always ready. Every weekend. Like clockwork. Sensei is never impressed. 

Kira nods. “You want a ride instead of taking the train? I’ve gotta stop by my place first, but it’s in and out.”

Katsuki agrees without thinking twice.

Katsuki doesn’t usually snoop. He doesn’t. People are allowed to have their own business. He’d be a massive fucking hypocrite if he didn’t like it. 

But Kira is in her office trying to hunt down some files for whatever case she’s winning, and Katsuki is bored. He opens a cabinet. Two. A drawer has takeout menus. Another one full of pots with a layer of dust. Does she never cook?

Another drawer. Further into the living room. Pictures. 

Pictures she took down. 

Ones he saw about three months ago and hasn’t since then. Kyo and her. Young. Eighteen maybe. Arms around each other, at some beach in the dark. A bonfire going in the background. Happy. 

One is older. Kira is maybe twenty something. In a graduation robe. Kyo is wearing a suit, beaming. Katsuki touches the photos like he’s scared to break them. 

For all that Kyo gave him. He had a life before Katsuki. A good one it seems. He was happy. Had Kira. A gym. A ring. 

Katsuki pulls the drawer out more. Loose photos slide with it. An entire history he never knew. Wasn’t welcome to. 

A notebook is cramped at the back. Nearly bent in half and only a fraction of it has writing. Katsuki pauses. But pulls it out slowly. Flips to a random page.  

02/09 ¥2300 1-4 Bakugou. 

What?

Katsuki flips back to the first page. First sentence. 

27/05 ¥3000 1-8 Bakugou. 

That’s the first day he had a fight. The first night. 

“—Okay, found it,” Kira says. Walking back into the room. Katsuki doesn’t jump. Too busy reading. “Hey what are—shit.”

“Kira.” Katsuki says. And it’s like his head is under water. “What the fuck is this?”

Kira looks at him. Caught. Panicked. Between Kyos betting ledger in his hands and the drawer. 

Because that’s what this is. Every fight. All of them that Kyo had organised for him. Two fights a week for the first year. More as time went on. As Katsuki asked and begged and annoyed until he got it. 

And all of them? Kyo was betting. On him. That’s— that’s why they were organised so easily. Again and again. 

Katsuki flips the book. To the middle, it’s half empty. Jesus Christ. He— Katuski was making Kyo some serious money. 

For years. 

“Katsuki— it’s not what you think. Kyo was in trouble, okay? He had-“

“Been gambling?” Katsuki cuts her off. Voice dead. “Yeah. On me.”

She winces. And folds her hands. Like she doesn’t know what to do. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”

“You knew?” He asks. “You knew the entire time?”

Did Kyo not even care about him? Was Katsuki an idiot? Letting himself be used like that? 

Katsuki had thought— he thought Kyo cared. That he gave Katsuki a place and a couch because — maybe he saw himself in Katsuki. 

Not— Not a fucking bait dog. 

“I did.” Kira admits. Head down. “You were good kid. Really good. Kyo could see it. I saw it. You were a teenager fighting people who had been doing it twice as long as you and winning. Not every time. But. Enough. He wanted to stop— but you pulled the gym out of debt.”

Right. Katsuki was useful. A gamble—literally, that paid off. 

Was all of it a show? Was Kyo only ever tolerating him to keep Katsuki coming back? Did— did he even give a shit about Katsuki? Did Kira?

She steps forward. Katsuki steps back. 

“Honey—“

“No.” He says. “No. I’m—I’m going hom— to the gym. I’ll walk. I need some time.”

Katsuki edges around her. Not getting too close. Shoving the whole book into a pocket. 

He was a fucking asset. That’s it. 

Katsuki had— fuck— he had thought he found something. People that were his people. Did everyone know? Was he a massive idiot?

Katsuki had thought the betting started in his gym. But no. No, it was always there, wasn’t it?

Kira's door clicks behind him. He didn’t slam it. He wouldn’t. He just— he needs time. To think. 

Chapter Text

Katsuki lets Kira's door slam behind him. Notebook clutched so hard it’s bending the spine. She doesn’t follow him. He doesn’t know if he wants her too. He should go home. To the gym, like he said. But it feels tainted now. Wrong. 

He zips up his jacket. Shoving Kyo’s book into his pocket. The gym’s not far. Maybe ten minutes by train. Fifteen if he walks. The air will help. It’ll give him time to think. Katsuki doesn’t want to think.

And Katsuki doesn’t want to go there either. He had said he would. But— fairs fair right? Katsuki’s entitled to four years of lying to her. He wants to hurt something. He wants to walk into somewhere and detonate and let everyone else pick up the pieces.

UA is closer. Much, much closer anyway. 

It’s late. Late enough that he’s going to be asked some questions, probably. But Katsuki’s pissed enough that he finds he doesn’t care. 

Maybe he will. Maybe Sensei will ask him what he’s doing and Katsuki will tell him everything. Let it all go down in a ball of fire. 

He won’t. But it’s a nice thought.

He swings his ID through the gates. It’s dead. Robots are buzzing about picking up litter from the crowd earlier, not a soul to see him march his way across the campus. 

Katsuki hands crackle. Every fight. Every well done, kid —meant fuck all. 

The encouragement. Letting him get a taste for it. Did Kyo have a laugh? When Katsuki begged to let him fight more often? Did he think of Katsuki in terms of profit?

Katsuki could go to the dorms. He has to eventually, students can walk into UA at any time. But they can’t leave after curfew. There’s a constant popping and flashes of his explosions in the corner of his eye. He could go find Kirishima or Kaminari or even Mina. They’d let him talk about things he can’t in half words and nod sympathetically. 

No. Katsuki needs to break something. Because if they knew. They wouldn’t be his friends. They go right back to treating him like a landmine. And they’d be right to.

He could have fought someone by now, in the ring. In his ring. But the idea of anyone betting on him right now? Katsuki would scream. The bets are part of it. Have always been part of it. Katsuki’s a moron. 

Katsuki shrugs his jacket off as he steps into Ground Theta, letting it fall in a heap behind him. The air here always smells like concrete dust and ozone. Cold wind slides down his spine like a blade.

The buildings here are sturdier. Rescue simulations, mostly. Not meant to fall easily.

Good.

He cracks his knuckles once. Then again, louder.

The first blast is weak—just smoke and heat. A warning shot. His body isn’t ready yet. His hands tingle, still caught somewhere between exhaustion and overload. But that doesn’t matter.

He squares up to the wall in front of him and lets it rip.

Boom.

The whole wall shudders. Cracks spiderwebs out like lightning. Dust rains from the ceiling. It’s not enough. Not nearly.

Katsuki snarls and charges, throwing another explosion into the corner beam. This one detonates—a sharp flash and a thunderclap that echoes off the nearby buildings. Concrete fractures. Steel screams as it bends– like it knows what’s coming.

He doesn’t stop moving.

Another boom. Another hit. Smoke starts to choke the space. His vision blurs from sweat, from tears, from the sheer force of the concussions.

He crashes through a doorway with his shoulder. Doesn’t slow down. There’s a support column in the next room—he shoves his palm against it and blows it to hell. Debris flies past his face. A brick clips his temple. He doesn’t care.

The building groans. He can hear it now. Hear the bones of it starting to fail.

So he jumps. Vaults a half-collapsed stair rail and blasts himself into the next building before the first can bury him.

His hands are shaking. His ears are ringing. The air tastes like blood and ash. He keeps going. His eyes burn from the dust. Making it hard to breathe.

One building down. Smoke curling into the sky like a signal flare.

The second building gets no warning. Katsuki just tears through it. There’s no strategy. No technique. Just violence. He’s a wrecking ball with a heartbeat. He wants to break things. 

His shoulder slams into a wall and he loses his footing for a second—catches himself with an explosion and keeps going. He’s panting now. Quirk overheating. Palms stinging with the early hints of friction burns.

He’s still not done.

A steel girder creaks ominously. Somewhere above him, something snaps.

Katsuki doesn’t flinch.

He opens both palms. Looks up at the ceiling. Annoyed at it’s fucking audacity. 

Boom.

He’s sweating now. Despite the cold. Hands aching as he warms up. This is the kind of damage he came for.

Katsuki is angry. Of course he is. He’s angry at Kira. At Kyo. At the whole damn world. He’s good at angry. The best, as is fucking evident by the two collapsed buildings behind him.

Wham. Craaaack.

Three.

He’s halfway through the fourth building when he sobs.

It catches in his chest—choked off and ugly and too loud in the echo of ruin. It slips out before he can shove it down.

Because if Kyo had told him—if Kyo had asked—Katsuki would’ve done it. Would’ve fought every fight, crawled into the ring bleeding and grinning. Happy to help. Happy to matter. Katsuki would have done it with pride. 

And that’s the worst part. That’s the part that twists. And hurts in a way Katsuki didn’t know he could. 

Because either Kyo didn’t tell him because he didn’t care. Because he never cared. Just used Katsuki for money. For entertainment. For violence.

And that version sucks. But it’s simple.

The other one—

The other one hurts worse.

Because betting on him didn’t mean Kyo had to sit with him after. Didn’t make him wrap sprained wrists. Didn’t make him pick up frozen yogurt. Or throw an extra blanket over Katsuki when he thought he was asleep. Or switch to decaf because Katsuki kept bitching about it.

That version? That version means Kyo did care.

And used him anyway.

Katsuki punches the wall. Just his fist this time. No quirk. Just bone and skin and fury.

The crack that echoes back is less satisfying than it should be.

He’s tired. Too tired to blast anything else. Too tired to scream. He wants to pretend he never saw the fucking book. That he never flipped through page after page of bloodstained proof. Why didn’t Kira burn it? Hide it better?

His tears won’t stop. Not big, gasping sobs. Just steady, silent. Salt streaks across soot-smudged cheeks. His whole face is damp.

He slides down what’s left of the wall. Concrete scraping his back. Arms fold over knees like a shield that won’t do shit.

He’s not even mad anymore. Well, he is. But it’s like he’s already halfway to forgiving Kyo. Like he already has. His head a mess and he can’t stop fucking crying like some–

“Bakugou?”

Fuck.

Sensei is standing in the dust, stepping over debris. Head on a turn like he’s looking for something and Katsuki can’t stop fucking crying. He scrubs at his face, sniffling. Trying to pull it back in. He should have gone to the gym. Or just fucked off into the city until he found someone to fight in a back alley. 

Katsuki doesn’t even try. He’s too wrung out. He wants to go to bed and pretend nothing ever happened. He doesn’t have the energy. 

Aizawa Sensei gets closer anyway. He doesn’t even have his capture weapon with him. He looks surprised. Eyes wider than they usually are, hair tied back. He was probably grading when he got told to deal with Katsuki. Probably busy with someone worth his while.

Katsuki shudders around another breath. Sensei stops mid step. 

“Are you hurt?” 

Katsuki can’t stop his shoulders heaving. It’s nothing he means to say. Instead, Sensei gets: 

“I didn’t– I would— I didn’t know.”

Eyebrows raise, but Sensei doesn’t come any closer. Smart, Katsuki’s dripping explosive sweat like a leaky faucet right now. Katsuki's hands come up to his hair, gripping. 

“You didn’t know what?”

Katsuki feels gutted. Like a nightmare where he looks down and realizes he’s not wearing pants. Like his feelings are spilling out of a tightly packed case and everyone except him knows it. 

“I’m a fucking moron. Fuck, I thought they– I thought– and I let them.” Katsuki cuts himself off with a gasp. A sound like drowning. 

A fresh new wave of tears. He’s said nothing, and too much. He needs to shut up. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Dead silent. The occasional crack of steel and concrete finally failing in the dark after the damage Katsuki did. Katsuki gets his breathing under control. 

Barely. He stops crying. Probably because he doesn't have any tears left. 

When Katsuki looks up, drops his arms away from his face. He’s expecting a lecture. Another house arrest. A detention probably. He gets none of that. Because Sensei looks like he’s been stabbed.  

Like all the blood has drained out of him.

He’s pale. Mouth pulled into a grimace like he’s trying not to taste something awful. His eyes—usually flat, tired, practical —have gone wide. The kind of wide that belongs in emergencies. The kind that sees too much, too fast.

Katsuki blinks at him. Smoke still stinging at his lashes. A drop of blood rolls down the side of his face, but he doesn’t move to wipe it.

“What?” he mumbles. Or maybe just mouths. His throat’s raw. Voice shredded from tears and grit and too much yelling. He can’t tell if it even made a sound.

Aizawa Sensei swallows. The tendon in his neck jumps.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

The words are too calm. Too practiced. They land like a rock in Katsuki’s gut. Cold. Heavy. Off.

What the fuck is Sensei talking about?

There’s no way—he didn’t—Sensei isn’t that good. He didn’t even say anything real. He didn’t. Katsuki’s heartbeat stutters.  He sits there in the rubble, too stunned to do anything but stare. The silence between them stretches out like a live wire, hot and humming.

He opens his mouth. Tries again.

“The fuck?” he rasps. It’s confused. Quiet. Barely audible. He doubts Sensei even hears it.

But Sensei’s already moving.

He kneels. Slowly. Like Katsuki’s something fragile. Or feral. Or both. Each movement is careful. Intentional. Like he’s used to this. Like he’s done this before.

Katsuki doesn’t fucking get it. Because if Sensei knows– then Katsuki should be arrested right now.

“Bakugou,” He says, low and even. “I’m going to ask you something. And I need you to tell me the truth. All right?”

And Katsuki—stupid, exhausted Katsuki—he freezes.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

That tone. That look. He does know.

Katsuki fucked up. Somewhere. Somehow. Maybe he saw him at the wrong train station. Maybe he heard something. Maybe someone ratted him out. Maybe—god, maybe the book. Maybe someone said something. Or the cameras—

It doesn’t matter.

Sensei knows.

Katsuki’s lungs feel like they’re full of concrete. His hands curl into the hem of his ruined shirt, tight. Still shaking. Still burning from the explosions.

“I—” he tries. Swallows. His mouth is dry. “Sensei—”

He needs to confess. Obviously. It’ll be a lighter sentence that way. He’s never going to be Number One now. But maybe he’ll be out before he’s thirty. He’s going to need a lawyer. Not Kira– Not if Sensei hasn’t figured it all out yet.

“Has anyone touched you,” Aizawa Sensei says, soft but sharp, like a blade wrapped in cotton, “without your permission?”

Has anyone fucking what?

He stares at Sensei. Long enough that it should be funny. Long enough that his ears start ringing again. He blinks. Once. Twice.

And then his whole body reacts.

Katsuki launches to his feet like he’s just stepped on a landmine. The motion is jerky, too fast, powered by instinct and panic and absolutely no conscious thought. His palms snap and crackle with heat. Not enough for a blast, but enough to warn.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Katsuki snaps, voice high and raw and frayed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

Sensei flinches—barely. Not like he’s scared. Not like he thinks Katsuki will hurt him. More like Katsuki’s words just confirmed everything he feared. That look on his face? That’s not confusion. That’s not anger.

That’s heartbreak.

And it’s all over his expression now. The wide, wounded eyes. The slow, careful breath. The way he doesn’t stand. Doesn’t move.

Like he’s waiting. Bracing. Like he knows what comes next, and it’s going to be awful.

Katsuki’s still standing there, hands shaking, chest heaving. His mouth keeps opening, but the words won’t line up.

“You—” he chokes. “You think— ?”

“I’m not accusing you,” Sensei says, quietly. “No one is blaming you.”

Katsuki stares at him.

Then down at his own hands. The state of them. Blistered. Burnt. Trembling.

Down at the dust and soot smeared into his clothes. The blood on his jaw. The four buildings he just tore apart because he couldn’t scream loud enough.

The look on Sensei’s face. The caution. The pity.

“Oh my god, ” Katsuki says, horrified. “You think someone— you think— that’s not— what the fuck?! ”

He stumbles back a step like the idea is a live grenade. He’s a little sick to be honest, the idea alone makes his stomach churn. Sensei stands, hands palm up. Like he is facing a firing squad. 

“Sensei no one– I’m not being molested!”

 The shout rings in the silence. Bouncing off the rubble and echoing back. Molested Molested Molested. Katsuki’s face is hot. Humiliated. Of all the things– Why would Sensei even think that?!

He’s standing too straight. Too defensive. His hands crackle with half-formed blasts, and it’s not threat—it’s desperation.

Sensei doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax, doesn’t say something cutting about how Katsuki needs to watch what he’s saying. Doesn’t believe him.

Sensei’s already watching. Eyes narrowed. Quiet. The way he gets when he’s waiting for someone to lie to him. And Katsuki isn’t. Well, he is– but not about that.

Katsuki’s stomach turns.

“I’m not—” he says again, and stops, breath snagging on something he doesn’t want to name. Don’t mention the ring. Don’t say a name. Don’t mention Kira or Kyo or Chiharu or Otoya. “It’s not—it’s not like that.”

Aizawa Sensei doesn’t interrupt. Just watches. Like a trap waiting to spring. Katsuki wants to scream.

“I would say if something was wrong!” he bites. Too loud. “I’m not—I’m not some dumbass who—who’d just take it .”

He realizes too late that his fists are clenched. That he’s started pacing in a tight circle, like a tiger in a cage. That he’s still bleeding down his neck. His lip is split and he doesn’t remember when that happened. 

“Okay,” Sensei says. Calm. Not like he believes him—like he’s cataloguing every tick, every dodge, every word that feels too careful.

“You’re not listening!” Katsuki barks. “You’ve got the wrong fucking idea!”

Sensei’s silence is worse than any shout. Worse than detention. Worse than disappointment.

It’s pity.

Real, quiet, aching pity.

“I just need you to know,” Aizawa Sensei says gently, finally, “that if something is happening—if someone’s hurting you, using you, controlling you—it’s not your fault. And it’s not something you have to protect.”

Katsuki recoils like he’s been slapped. It hits Katsuki like an insult. Like a dirty, poisoned word.

He opens his mouth—and a strangled sound comes out. “Sensei, I'm a walking bomb. No one could– Who the fuck could even– I’m not being fucked groomed!”

Katsuki’s jaw hurts, it feels like he’s cracked a tooth. Sensei’s mouth pulls tight. A crease between his brows. He hears him—but he doesn’t relax. Not even a little.

Still scanning. Still reading him like a battlefield.

“People lie,” Sensei says, and it’s almost kind. Almost. “Especially when they think the truth will get someone they love in trouble.”

Katsuki shakes his head, furious. “There’s no one to protect! Sensei I was just– upset. Mad. Nothing happened!"

Another silence. Aizawa Sensei finally drops his hands. Like he’s thinking of believing Katsuki. “You filed the form to go home. Like you do every week and this time you came back four hours later, alone, because something upset you?”’

Katsuki nods. “It’s– Sensei. It’s not that. Never that.”

Aizawa Sensei doesn’t answer right away. He watches Katsuki like he's looking for signs in smoke. Like he's seen too many kids say it's not that and mean exactly that.

“Okay,” Sensei says. Just that.

Not I believe you. Not you’re dismissed. Just okay. It’s worse than anything else could’ve been.

Katsuki feels something tighten in his throat. His stomach’s a knot of acid. There’s blood drying on his shirt, a dull sting in his gums, dirt ground into his palms. He’s shaking. Not from fear—just from humiliation.  

He can’t be here anymore.

“I’m going back,” he mutters, already turning, voice rough and low like a scraped knee. “I’m going back to the dorms.”

“Bakugou.”

He stops. Doesn’t look over his shoulder.

“If something changes,” Aizawa Sensei says, still quiet, still maddeningly patient, “You know you can tell me.”

Katsuki glares. “Nothing happened.”

And then he walks, grabs his hoodie, making sure the book stays deep in the pocket.

Away from the rubble. Away from Sensei.  Away from the ache in his throat and the ringing in his ears.

Back toward the dorms. Where it’s quiet. Where everyone’s asleep. Where he can slam the door and sit in the dark and not think about the fact that, for a second there—just one—he almost told the truth. That Sensei said tell me the truth, and Katsuki nearly folded under it. About the ring. Kyo, Kira. 

Katsuki isn’t sure what's worse. The fact that Sensei was so off base, that Katsuki is humiliated. Or if he had figured it out.

Katsuki wakes up Saturday and everything is awful. His head hurts from dehydration probably. He stumbles down stairs into the kitchen, squinting like the lights offended his bloodline.

His idiots are already there, gathered around arguing over something on Kaminari's phone. Kirishima glances up for half a second, and refocuses on the screen. Then his head whips up.

“What? Bakugou?” He’s grinning. “Man, I thought you went home?”

Katsuki shakes his head. Moving to pull a glass down. He wants water. His throat hurts. Kirishima beams like this is great news. Why’s he so happy that Katsuki didn’t go home? Katsuki will never know. 

“That’s good– I mean, not good. But good!” Kirishima rambles, Mina elbows him hard. Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “Any plans then? Do you want to do anything?”

Katsuki takes a long controlled sip. Letting the cool water soothe. He shrugs. “Not really. What do you–”

“Kacchan–?!”

Katsuki looks at the ceiling for help. Right. Deku. Kaminari pretends to cough into his hand, Katsuki flips him off. Deku is standing in All Might pajama pants, Bronze Age. And a sleep shirt that literally says sleep shirt. 

“Why?-- I thought you went home? Did Auntie and Uncle not make it? I didn’t see them yesterday–”

Katsuki tries to tune him out. It doesn’t work. He takes another mournful drink. Kirishima is still smiling. No one’s looking at him weird. No one’s asking if he’s okay. No one’s pulling him aside like Sensei warned them he might crack open at the seams.

Maybe they don’t know. That’d be best.

“I was thinking,” Katsuki says, voice weirdly scratchy and deep. Probably from yesterday combined with the early hour. “Of doing some extra training later.”

Kirishima nods so hard, Katsuki worries his head will fall off. “Okay! Then we can watch a movie? Or– Mina, you have Mario Kart right?”

Katsuki lets them debate which is better, Mario Kart or Just Dance. Doesn’t matter to him, Katsuki will just watch. He doesn’t play video games. Uraraka walks while stretching. Already yawning and her hair tangled. 

“Hey Midoriya. Morning guys– Bakugou?”

Okay, that's getting old real fast. Katsuki grunts out something that could be a yeah. Or a fuck off. Uraraka slides into a counter chair looking at him like she’s waiting for a confession. Katsuki stares back. 

“So,” She starts. “You know my dad.”

Fuck. He’d forgotten about that. Katsuki forces his jaw to unclench and shrugs, rolling his shoulders in a way that he hopes is casual. Kaminari stops ranting about the importance of finger dexterity to glance over.

“Wait, what?”

Katsuki sighs. “Otoya– Uh, Mr. Uraraka, knows my parents. I didn’t know he was your dad.”

Uraraka blinks. Slowly. Katsuki shrugs again. Mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do, and shoves any and all feelings about calling Kyo and Kira his parents deep, deep down. “We never even met before UA. My dad’s never said–”

“It was a work thing. I think.” Katsuki lies easily. “It’s not like I was questioning it. I talked to him maybe half a dozen times. He’s probably just got a good memory.”

Uraraka’s face is furrowed. Like she’s seeing the logic in that. Katsuki turns back to Mina, “So, Just Dance?”

She lights up. Deku is still staring. Katsuki slowly raises his middle finger. Deku sighs, dropping his shoulders and moves into the kitchen to pull out some cereal. 

That has way too much sugar. Deku could lick a sidewalk and get more nutrition. Katsuki scoffs, reaches over and swats it out his hand. Instead pulling his own, high fibre, cereal. It's not even open because Katsuki prefers fruit and eggs for breakfast. Deku looks like he’s going to argue. 

Until he sighs and opens the box. Good. Katsuki said he’d help. This is helpful. Kirishima nudges his side to get his attention.

“So, training?” 

Katsuki feels a grin pull at his face. Nodding. “Two hours?”

Kirishima agrees easily. 

Kirishima must have been expecting a spar. He’s in full gym gear, wrist wraps on, practically glowing with anticipation. And yeah, a part of Katsuki wants to. Wants to burn something out of his system, maybe bruise his way back to balance.

But his palm still aches from the training field, and his shoulder’s sore from where he landed wrong. And, more honestly, he just doesn’t want to right now.

So instead, he packs a gym bag. Three towels. One for wiping the nitroglycerin off anything he touches. One for cleaning the benches down. One for the shower. He packs them with care. With intent. Like it’s a ritual that keeps him human.

Kirishima is already waiting in the hall when he opens the door, practically vibrating.

“There he is! Gym buddies! This is gonna be awesome!” He’s beaming, bouncing in place like he’s been rehearsing this in his head all morning. “So—wait, wait—what music do you even listen to when you work out?”

Katsuki grunts, shifting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Kirishima’s still staring at him expectantly.

Right. Answer the question.

“…Mendelssohn and Schubert mostly. Sometimes Brahms.” Katsuki hits the elevator button like it personally offended him. “Mostly Brahms when I’m working out.”

There’s a beat.

Kirishima blinks. Once. Twice. Half nods in that way that screams I am being supportive but I don’t know what that is.

“Like… Mozart? Beethoven?” Katsuki offers. He’s not embarrassed. It’s just weird having to explain it. His favorite composers are all Western, but everyone knows Beethoven. That’s neutral ground.

Kirishima follows him into the elevator, still chewing on the words. “…Like classical?”

Katsuki nods once. That’s it.

Kirishima makes a noise like he’s trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly. Not at him. Just—processing. 

Katsuki stiffens. “Fucking what?”

“No, no, nothing,” Kirishima waves his hands like that’ll fix it. “I just didn’t see that coming, I guess? You just give off, like, One OK Rock vibes.”

Katsuki snorts, short and sharp. “Too predictable.”

Kirishima huffs a laugh. “I figured you’d be into something loud. Angry.”

Katsuki shrugs.

And then Kirishima laughs, soft and honest, pounding his fists together with a grin. “Yeah, okay. That’s manly as hell.”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything. But his lips twitch, just slightly.

When the elevator doors open, he lets Kirishima lead the way.

The gym is empty this early. Just concrete, polished steel, and the hum of air conditioning. No music playing—Katsuki prefers it that way, he's not in the mood for any sound right now. He can think this way. Can hear the clink of weights, the rustle of towels, the beat of his own breath.

Kirishima trails behind him, watching as Katsuki moves like he owns the place. Because, in some ways, he does. Not this gym, but it’s similar to his one. The whole rhythm of it—racks, machines, mats—feels like muscle memory to him.

Katsuki starts with arms. He always does.

Not because he’s chasing size like Kirishima—he’s not trying to bulk up—but because control is everything. Every rep builds precision. Every curl, press, and extension is about shaping his body into a weapon that moves when he says move. His arms burn by the end of the second superset, but it’s the good kind. The familiar fire.

Kirishima is off to the side, hoisting what looks like a frankly idiotic amount of weight. Sweating. Grinning. Making noises Katsuki refuses to acknowledge.

He watches for a beat between sets—Kirishima’s form is good. Better than some idiots in their class. But it’s all power. All sheer brute force. The kind of strength built because he has to. No quirk-borne boost, no internal reservoir of extra. Just red blood and stubborn will.

“You gonna tear your spine doing that,” Katsuki grunts mid-set.

Kirishima laughs, not stopping. “Bro, I need to hit this PR. I’m stuck under 300 and Tetsutetsu is this close to beating me”

Katsuki doesn’t know who that is. But he does know competition. “Try not locking your knees, dumbass.”

“Oh shit. Thanks!”

Katsuki shakes his head and moves on. Triceps next. Then shoulders. His rotations are strict, calculated—fifty seconds on, twenty off. He wipes down everything as he goes, meticulous. The towel stained slightly from sweat. Kirishima joins him halfway through abs, holding the medicine ball for resistance while Katsuki does weighted crunches.

“How the hell are you this fast and still have a six pack?” Kirishima wheezes, watching him go. “I do one run and I lose a whole ass inch off my biceps.”

“I don’t need mass,” Katsuki says between reps. “I need to move.”

Kirishima watches, arms crossed. “Yeah. I guess that’s the difference. You’re, like, tactical.”

Katsuki shrugs, breath controlled. “Can’t fly with too much dead weight.”

They switch—Kirishima’s ab routine is chaos, mostly just him gritting his teeth and going hard, and Katsuki lets him. Just tosses a few corrections when his form starts to slip.

Leg day is lighter for Katsuki today—his quads are still sore—but he does it anyway. Controlled. Balanced. He needs to maintain. And when he hits the treadmill, incline up, sprint mode, Kirishima claps and cheers like an idiot from the weights section.

“You’re a machine, dude!”

“Shut the hell up.”

He doesn’t mean it. Not really. Kirishima grins in a way that says he knows. They finish with cooldowns. Katsuki stretches out on the mat, breathing through the tightness in his shoulder. Kirishima flops beside him, arms out, legs wide like a starfish dying in the sun.

“I swear I saw god mid-sprint,” he groans. “She told me to hydrate.”

Katsuki snorts. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re terrifying.”

Katsuki shrugs. “You kept up.”

Kirishima grins at that. Lets the silence stretch a little. Lets it breathe.

Then, too casual. “You know, it’s cool you stayed this weekend.”

Katsuki grunts. It’s noncommittal. Which is probably safer. Where’s Kirishima going with this?

Kirishima doesn’t press. Just hums like he’s thinking. “Dorms are nice when it’s quiet. Like… no schedule. No alarms. You can sleep in. Raid the kitchen. Hang out. Or not. Just chill, you know?”

“Mm.”

“I was thinking later we could hit the common room. Bring some snacks up, maybe try to beat Kaminari’s record in Time Trials—Mina swears she can take him down if someone blocks him from picking Yoshi.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “That’s cheating.”

“Strategic,” Kirishima says with a grin. “But seriously. It’s been cool. Having you here.”

He doesn’t say more. Katsuki squints. There's something unsaid there. But Katsuki has had enough emotions this weekend, so he doesn’t ask. 

He just leans back on his elbows, looking up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers, and adds, “I’m glad we’re gym bros now. It’s manly as hell.”

Katsuki doesn’t even throw the towel at him. It takes him a minute to realize he hasn’t thought about Kira since they walked in. He’ll call her later. Go home again at the end of the week and let her explain. 

The week comes and goes easy. Katsuki is feeling much better. Sensei hasn’t said anything to anyone. Thank god. Katsuki fills out the leave request on Tuesday like he’s supposed to. Thursday comes, and he doesn’t get the approval back. It’s not like Sensei to miss deadlines. 

So, Katsuki stays after class. Waits for everyone to file out and then stands up. Sensei is still at his desk, looking over the worksheets he handed out. Well, pretending to anyway. Katsuki walks to the desk. Slowly. Casual. 

Hands in his pockets, nothing to see here. 

Sensei doesn’t glance up. Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Oi, Sensei.”

A glance. A flicker of eyes. Not unsure, but waiting. “What, Bakugou?”

“I submitted the leave request on Tuesday.” Katsuki frowns. “I didn’t get the approval back.”

He should go home this week. He needs to. The lack of fights, routine, made him itchy. He’s never been so unbruised since he was thirteen. It’s like he’s forgotten how to be in his skin without the sting of a split lip. 

He also needs to talk to Kira. and Katsuki would rather do that in person. 

Sensei nods. Katsuki’s shoulder relax, okay, it was a mistake. That’s fine. Sensei’s only human. He was probably just busy with Eri and forgot.

“Because it’s not approved.” Sensei says evenly. “You’re not going.”

Katsuki blinks. What the fuck? He always submits it a day early . His parents' house filled out as the address, the expected times to come and go. Everything is always perfect. Why on earth is Sensei denying it?

“What?” He snarks, his palms hot. “Why not?!”

Aizawa Sensei leans back in his chair. A way that means try me. Is this about the weekend? Katsuki thought they were over that. Sensei was wrong anyway. 

“Did you know,” Sensei begins. Opening a drawer and pulling out a file. Old school, on paper and everything. Little brown cover on it. “That most houses have monthly utility bills. Water, electricity, gas. Not often public knowledge. But if you have a name, the address? They'll talk.”

Sensei levels Katsuki with a stare that forms a pit in his stomach. Fuck. Something's up. Something that’s going to fuck Katsuki over. Aizawa Sensei flips the file out, pictures of his parents’ house spill across the other sheets. Pages with writing Katsuki doesn’t understand.

“And you, Bakugou, there hasn’t been so much as a water bill to your house in the last two months.”

They moved into the dorms two and a half months ago. Sensei doesn’t say. Katsuki knows that means his parents are out of the country again. Fuck. He didn’t know that. They haven’t talked since the dorms, since All Might and Sensei sat down to talk with them. Katsuki’s still been getting weekly payments, but he hardly touches the money.

“And yet,” He says, like he's not actively digging Katsuki’s grave. “You’ve gotten permission to leave campus every single weekend since.”

Katsuki blanks at the pictures. The pages. The proof of him lying. Sensei checked? No one ever checks. Not on him. He’s too loud. Too aggressive. Too proud for anyone to think something is wrong. Katsuki has never so much as gotten called into a guidance office.

Aizawa Sensei watches him, calm in a way that suggests he’s twenty seconds from leaping across the desk at Katsuki. “So, you get permission to leave—when you tell me where you’re going, where you’ve been going and explain exactly why you’re lying to me.”

Katsuki’s mind swirls. Heart pounding, he snarls at Sensei, voice tight with childish betrayal. “You checked?”

Because people, aside from one, don’t check on him. They just don’t. If Katsuki fades into the background or disappears, which he never really does, no one misses him. No one likes him. Not really. He’s loud and rude and it's not some façade, Katsuki is genuinely an asshole. Always has been. People are glad to see him head for the door.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Katsuki knows this. It’s too sharp. Too defensive in the wrong places. Sensei leans forward, eyes dark. A million thoughts flying behind his head that Katsuki can’t decipher.  

“Excuse me?” Sensei says. His tone has Katsuki taking a step back, towards the door. And logically, Katsuki knows Sensei wouldn’t hurt him. He couldn’t, not in UA. Not without risking his job.

That doesn’t stop his palms from sweating. Doesn’t stop him from taking another one a second after. Slipping into the hall and disappearing down towards the next class. 

He’s fucked. 

And he still has to call Kira.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t call Kira. Not right away. 

He should– he wants to. She hasn’t so much as texted him since Katsuki told her to give him space. She will. As much as he needs, she was never like Kyo.

She never knew when to push– so she didn’t. She let him sulk and hit things and come back when he was ready.

And that was fine because he had Kyo. It was balanced. Kyo knew when he needed a slap on the back of the head. Kira knew when he wanted someone to sit next to him.

Not anymore. 

Katsuki’s throat feels tight. His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton.

He goes to class, sits in his seat, stares straight ahead like if he blinks, he’ll fall apart. He doesn’t even take notes.

Doesn’t even twitch when Kaminari fries something two rows back. The bell rings and he doesn’t move straight away.

Fuck. 

Sensei knows something.

Not what, not yet—but something. Katsuki bolted yesterday. Didn’t play it off, didn’t make a joke, didn’t try to talk his way out of it. And Aizawa Sensei isn’t stupid.

He knows.

The smart thing would be to lie. Something clean. A relative he’s been staying with, maybe. Some family emergencies.

But that would mean talking. That would mean giving a story. Sensei would poke holes in it. And Katsuki doesn’t have the ability to lie that well. Not right now.

There’s no proof anyway. That’s his only saving grace. No train tickets. No cameras at the gym. No sign-in logs. Just a vague window of time when he disappeared five days a week from age twelve to sixteen.

There’s no evidence that Katsuki was left alone in a big house as a kid and decided the best thing to do was run around the country alone. 

All Sensei knows is where he wasn’t.

The walk back to the dorms is quick. Katsuki doesn’t wait for the others. Kaminari calls out to him, asking if he wants to hit the konbini before curfew. Katsuki ignores it. Keeps walking. He can feel the tightness in his back like Sensei’s watching.

If Katsuki tried to leave campus, he bets Sensei would get some kind of alert. Or worse— be waiting at the gate. To stop him. Crossed arms and waiting for an explanation. A confession.

Katsuki’s dorm room is too quiet when he slams the door shut behind him. He locks it. First thing. His hands are already sparking. Not enough to burn, but enough to sting.

He’s gotta move. He’s gotta hide it.

It’s fine. He’s fine. He knows how to do this. Overcompensate. By next week Sensei will be bored, or remember that he doesn’t care and Katsuki can go home again. Hide, destroy, and be loud. 

Make people look the other way. Katsuki can do this. He’s been doing it for four years. He can do it for another two and a half. 

The gloves go in the gym bag. The bag goes under the bed. Notebook goes under the mattress—for now. He’ll move it later. Burn it if he has to.

But he can’t —it’s all he has of Kyo. No photos. No voice messages. Just pages of bets and familiar, chicken-scratch handwriting that makes Katsuki’s chest hurt every time he sees it.

He breathes hard. Rubs a hand against his sternum. The way he used to when he got hit too hard in sparring and pretended it didn’t rattle him.

He should call Kira.

Fuck, he really needs to talk to Kira. Katsuki knows he’s being paranoid. He has to hear her.

Even if Sensei’s listening. Even if there are cameras in the fucking dorms somehow. Because Sensei is going to find out anyway and Katsuki needs Kira for backup. 

He heads up. Not in his room. He can’t do this there. Katsuki feels like the walls are listening. Like someone on the other side, ear pressed against it ready to catch him. The roof is safer. Cold wind, open sky, nothing but concrete and guilt between him and the world.

He paces while the dial rolls– what if she doesn’t pick up? What if he calls and she doesn’t help? What if– click.

“Katsuki?” Her voice reaches his ears. He nearly stumbles with relief.

“Kira, I— I—”

The words catch. Lodged in his throat like glass. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to breathe, can’t. Says nothing.

“You didn’t come home. I thought—” her voice cracks, “I thought you hated me.”

And fuck. That’s on him. That’s his fault. He said he was going home. Then Katsuki disappeared like a dickhead for nearly a week. Not even a fucking text.

“No!” He says, loud. Louder than he means. “No— I don’t hate you. Not that. Never that.”

There’s a pause. She sniffles.

“You should. I should’ve said something–”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps. Panicked. But it’s true. He doesn’t care anymore. Not about the bets. Not when it could all be taken away from him. “It doesn’t— matter. Sensei—he–”

He chokes on it. It doesn’t come out right. Doesn’t come out at all. His chest tightens, he scrubs at his face.

“What? Katsuki, what?” Kira says

“I think he knows.” His voice drops, barely a whisper now. Still urgent. Harsh. “Or he’s figuring it out. He knows I haven’t been going home, and he’s—he’s gonna find out. I don’t have anything on me, but what if he checks? What if he— what if—”

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart, breathe.”

“I can’t.” It rips out of his chest. He can’t. It’s all going to be taken away from him. No ring, no Kira. No more collapsing into his bed after a good night. No more of Jyun playfully sliding him a shot glass that only ever has water in it because she thinks she’s funny. No more– “If he finds out it's over!”

He lets the tears fall, just a little. Katsuki’s not sad. He’s scared. 

“Yes, you can. Just breathe for a second. Okay? He doesn’t know anything for sure.”

“You don’t know that. ”

“But I will. I’ll fix it. I’ll get some permits drawn up. Make it look like a club. I'll call Jyun, she can lock shit down on this end. Nothing gets out. Nothing touches you. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“...Okay.”

It comes out cracked. Shaky. But he means it. He wants to mean it.

“You’re okay, baby. Alright? You’re gonna be fine.”

She’s calming him. She always does. She always could. He hates that it makes his throat hurt worse. He sniffs. Forces the tears back. He nods.

“Okay.” It's stronger this time. More stable, he can hear her sigh of relief.

“I gotta go. Let me handle this. Get some water, maybe punch a wall or something. I love you, you idiot.”

Click. Katsuki grips his phone in one hand. The silence after the call is loud. Katsuki lowers his phone. Tries to breathe. The panic is fading, just a little. His shoulders unclench. 

It’s okay. He’s okay. Katsuki turns around. He’ll go downstairs, make food. Shower. Pick a fight. Nothing is wrong.

Present Mic is there.

Leaning against the wall by the door. Arms folded. A stretched smile over his face. Katsuki’s heart drops to his ass. Oh fuck. Sensei’s friend. Sensei’s spy. Katuski is so fucked. 

Katsuki tries to grin. It’s shaky. Wrong. Slides right off his face. “What do you want?”

Present Mic doesn’t blink. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away. “Hey, little listener.”

Katsuki stiffens. Present Mic doesn’t call him that. Doesn’t like him enough to call him that. He calls Katsuki by his family name like it's an insult. Katsuki’s fist clenches around his phone. Present Mic’s eyes land on it.

“Who’s Kira?”

Katsuki’s head blares. His phone has numbers. Has texts. The ones between him and Kira— the ones between him and Chiharu from weeks ago. It has proof, has evidence. His palms heat. 

Katsuki blows his phone to pieces.

Metal and glass fly everywhere. A shard clips his cheek. Another embeds in his palm, right below the thumb. The pain flares sharp and immediate, but Katsuki doesn’t feel it.

Not really. He’s too focused on the silence. Too focused on the fact that the phone is gone —and with it, the evidence.

He breathes hard. Arm still half-raised. Smoke trailing from his fingertips.

One problem solved.

Present Mic is still standing there. Still leaning against the wall—but he's not pretending to smile anymore. Not really. The corners of his mouth are up, sure, but his eyes are wide. Not comically. Not mockingly.

Just… stunned.

Like he didn’t expect that.

Like he didn’t expect this.

His eyes flick to Katsuki’s hand. The scorched skin. The trickle of blood weaving through black smudges and static sparks.

“…Shit,” Present Mic says, quietly. Too quiet for him. “You hurt yourself.”

Katsuki bristles. He doesn’t like how that was said. “I’m fine.”

He’s not. But he says it like it’s a fact. Like saying it hard enough will make it true. But it’s fine. Katsuki knows how to bandage himself up. His hands are the most important part of him. 

He’s not going to leave them to damage. 

Present Mic doesn’t argue. Just watches him. Like he’s trying to piece something together—trying to stitch together the version of Bakugou Katsuki that blows up a phone mid-panic and the one who holds himself together with snarls and shouting matches.

Present Mic shifts off the wall.

“Shota said you were off,” he says. “Didn’t tell me much. Just… asked me to check on you.”

Katsuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move a fucking muscle. 

Present Mic is staring. “What the fuck are you hiding?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer. He looks down at his hand instead, already crusting over with soot and blood. It stings like hell now. Present Mic takes a step closer. Katsuki takes one back. Just in case.

“Kid,” he says.

Katsuki tenses. 

Present Mic stops. Gives him space. Holds his hands up like Katsuki’s a skittish dog that might bite. Maybe he is. He just nods toward the stairwell.

“C’mon. Let’s get that hand looked at.”

Katsuki hesitates. “I’ll go to Recovery Girl.”

Present Mic’s shoulders drop, slightly. 

“But,” Katsuki says. “You aren’t following me.”

He blinks at Katsuki. Katsuki glares back. Resolute. He’s not getting questioned. He’ll go to Recovery Girl, sprint back to his room and hide. Present Mic doesn’t argue. Katsuki rolls his shoulders. Clicks his tongue. And storms into the stairwell.

Present Mic doesn’t follow. Katsuki is fine.

Sensei is everywhere.

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so fucking infuriating. Katsuki doesn’t get to do anything now without catching Aizawa Sensei on the edge of his goddamn vision.

He wants to cook? Sensei’s making coffee. Wants to knock Deku around? Sensei’s there, loitering like a stormcloud. Wants to relax with his friends? Sensei’s grading papers in the common room. Like a fucking ghost with tenure.

Katsuki’s twitchy. Half-feral. He hasn’t replaced his phone—can’t, not without permission. And Sensei won’t let him off campus. Not even with his friends.

If Katsuki wants to go to the konbini? He has to bring Sensei.

He’s being babysat.

It’s been two weeks since his last real fight. His knuckles are soft. His patience is thinner than paper. Someone is gonna cry before the week’s out—and it’s not gonna be him.

The notebook burns under his mattress. Katsuki’s read it more times than he’s willing to admit. Only at night. Only when the door is locked and the curtains drawn. 

He’s short in class. Snapping at Kaminari. Snarling at Mina. Sulking when he does hang out with Kirishima and the others.

Everyone’s noticed. Even if no one says anything.

Sensei hasn’t told them. Yet.

But it’s obvious now—Katsuki did something. And Sensei doesn’t trust him anymore.

It’s halfway through the second week. Wednesday.

Not even a real class day. It’s evening. One of those dumb unofficial sessions where everyone piles into a training ground to sneak in extra sparring. No grades. No rules. Just sweat and bruises and a vague sense of camaraderie.

Katsuki goes.

Not because he wants to train. But because if he doesn’t hit something soon, he’s gonna go nuclear.

Half the class is already paired up when he gets there. Sensei in his stupid fucking sleeping bag in the back. Kirishima is with Mina. Kaminari trading punches with Jirou. 

He’s approached by Tape Face. Nervous, hand rubbing the back of his head. “Hey Bakugou, do you want to—“

Katsuki cuts him off. “Yes.”

Tape face blinks. Before grinning. There’s a mat over in the corner, away from Sensei and unclaimed. Fucking perfect. Katsuki marches to it. Throwing off his hoodie and letting it hit the wall. He kicks off his shoes too. Habit. 

Tape Face gets into a shit stance. Whatever. This is more for Katsuki than him. Katsuki will drag it out. Let him get in one or two. 

They square off.

Katsuki bounces on his toes, loose in the shoulders, grinning. This is all just a joke, nothing like what he’s really used to.

Letting the itch settle into something sharp behind his eyes. Katsuki will play nice. Just some warm-up. Just letting off steam.

Tape Face throws the first punch. Misses. Katsuki steps to the side. Letting the guys own momentum carry him and they switch sides of the mat. 

Katsuki turns slow. Almost bored. More annoyed than anything. This isn’t helping. It’s making it worse.

Tape face clocks him across the jaw. Katsuki’s head jerks. A hit. A real one. 

Katsuki’s head is facing a wall. Snapped that way, he can feel the bruise that will be there. 

He smiles.

Oh. Oh now he’s getting it. Tape Faces takes a step back. Arms high. Cute. 

Katsuki moves fast. Punches him in the stomach, then brings up his knee fast—slams it into Tape Face’s nose. 

Katsuki doesn’t stop. Shoves him. Throws a quick elbow, shoulder check— dirty. Just shy of a real fight, just polished enough to pass as sparring. Tape Face stumbles, blinking. Tries to rally, throws out tape to keep distance.

Katsuki snaps it with a twist of his wrist. Comes in close. Forgoes his quirk. Katsuki wants to feel this. 

Tape face goes down.

Hard.

Katsuki’s still grinning. Feeling better than he has in weeks. It’s hot and familiar in his chest. That rush. That pull. The way fights used to feel. Where they didn’t end just because someone hit the floor.

He steps forward.

One more. Just one. That’s how it goes—you go until you want to stop—until it’s enough—

And then he’s yanked.

Hard.

His back jerks, shoulders twist. The world swings sideways.

Katsuki spins, confused, already halfway to snarling— What the fuck—

It’s Sensei.

And he looks livid.

Katsuki blinks. Still riding high. Still dazed and buzzing and—Then he sees his classmate. Still on the mat. Not moving much. Katsuki’s hand twitches.

Oh. Oops. 

Tape face is still on the mat, hand over his face,  Bleeding but trying to sit up. Mina is kneeling next to him with tissues, panicked and unsure.

The smile is gone, replaced with twitchy frustration. His fists are clenched at his sides, nails biting into skin.

Aizawa Sensei’s voice is low, steady, but furious. “You’re done. From now on, you don’t spar unless I’m there. You don’t train unless I’m watching.”

Katsuki stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Sensei isn’t going to let Katsuki piss alone by the end of the week.  

“What? I didn’t even break anything—!”

Then, from the mat, groggy but loyal. “I’m— I’m fine. Seriously.”

Katsuki turns on him, wide-eyed and wild, like that proves his point. “See? He’s fine. You’re fine, right, Tape Face? Say you’re fine.”

Tape Face blinks at him through the swelling. Tries for a thumbs-up. It shakes.

Sensei’s jaw ticks. “You think that’s fine?”

Katsuki barks a dry laugh. 

“Yeah. I’ve had worse from—“ Fuck. Don’t say that. “This isn’t even a real injury. It’s—” 

Katsuki stops, biting the inside of his cheek. Too late. The silence is thick. Sensei takes a slow breath. Looks down at Tape Face, still bleeding. Then back at Katsuki.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer.

“You don’t use your classmates like punching bags. This isn’t whatever the hell you think it is. You don’t get to hurt someone until you’re done.” Sensei’s voice is rising, tight with frustration. “It ends when they go down.”

Katsuki twitches like he’s about to interrupt—but Aizawa Sensei cuts him off.

“And you didn’t even use your quirk—what the hell were you doing?”

There it is.

Katsuki flinches. A sharp, ugly thing flaring in his chest. He knew it was coming. That tone. That look. Like he’s dangerous. The words that come out of Sensei's mouth aren’t what Katsuki hears. He knows what Sensei wants to say. 

He wants to ask Katsuki, what the fuck is wrong with you?

The buzzing in his blood dies all at once. Katsuki is half waiting for the chains to come out again. The sports festival all over again. 

His jaw tightens. His fists unclench. Katsuki doesn’t yell. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t argue.

He shoves his hands into his pockets. Walks over to where his hoodie landed, picks up his shoes. Pulls them on with stiff fingers. Doesn’t look at anyone.

And leaves. No one stops him. Not even Kirishima.

He’s sulking. He is. Katsuki is sitting in the common room and no one is talking. Not really. Tape Face’s nose is healed, thanks to Recovery Girl. Katsuki hasn’t said a word to him. Not to anyone.

He’s ignoring Sensei in the room. Completely. 

Someone has turned on a TV. Buzzing in the background. It's a hero channel really, talking about rankings. Percentages. Profits. Katsuki’s watching it so he doesn’t have to talk. It's boring. Then it's not.

“--And then there’s the concern of UA’s more volatile students.” The lady says. Katsuki knows it’s going to be about him. Why can’t he have one fucking day?

“To join us is a Journalist, Tokuda Taneo, from Juzo News. Now– Tokuda–”

Katsuki sinks further into the couch. He doesn't want to listen to this. He looks for the remote, and Katsuki wants to switch it off. Kirishima has it, half raised like he was going to flip the channel and stopped. Confused. 

Katsuki looks back to the screen. 

“--That’s one hell of an accusation, Tokuda. Are you saying that UA students think they’re above the law?”

What? Katsuki sits up. Like he’s been electrocuted. What did he miss? What are they saying? 

His mind is skipping. Flashing through everything they could’ve dug up. The Sports Festival again. Middle school. Kamino.

“No,” Tokuda says, “But I am saying one in particular is a cause for concern. We all know it.”

The lady nods. “Bakugou Katsuki, yes. He left quite…. the impression on all of us. But– I suppose what I’m asking for is proof.”

Tokuda nods, grim. Katsuki chest seizes. The room is too small. It’s spinning . What’s happening? What do they know? He can’t think– he can’t– Katsuki makes a sound, ugly and low. Half-gasp, half-wound.

A black square pops up on the screen. The ring. Not Katsuki’s. Kyo’s. One that hasn’t been standing for months. No. No. Please–

The video hits play.

Chapter Text

It starts bad. 

It could be any fight. Katsuki’s had dozens—maybe hundreds by now. He doesn’t know what’s about to play. Doesn’t want to. 

His first real win? His worst loss? The one where he dislocated Jyun’s shoulder? The one where they had to carry him out? The one where he went seven rounds in one night?

It doesn't even start with his fight.

The video is already shaky. Already wrong. Like the person filming knows they shouldn’t be. Like they’re afraid of being seen. But it’s there. It’s in the middle of the crowd. A dark fuzzy ring around the edge like it's being hidden in a hood. Or a sleeve. 

Two nameless guys are in the ring. Trading blows. Background noise. It’s not the worst fight Katsuki has seen. It’s not one he remembers seeing at all.

Then— slam.

Yelling. Muffled, but sharp. The kind of argument that doesn’t care about an audience. The camera whips. Jerks to a stairwell.

And Katsuki knows.

No. No no no—

Kyo bursts into the frame like a storm front, dragging someone behind him—small, struggling, furious.

It’s him.

Katsuki doesn’t even breathe.

Kyo’s got him by the scruff. One arm locked tight. Katsuki’s half-limp, half-fighting. His feet barely catching the floor. Snarl on his face, arms reaching to grab at Kyo’s grip on him.

This is after the Sports Festival.

This is that night.

When he hid upstairs in Kyo’s flat for the weekend. After UA chained him. Muzzled him. When he wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t move. Didn’t eat.

Kyo had told Kira to get out, to go downstairs. Then picked a fight. Tried to wake him up– get him angry. And it worked.

Katsuki needed the wake up call. The reminder that yeah— it was shit. But it’s behind him and he had to keep moving. That he could keep moving.

But it doesn’t look like that.

It doesn’t look like that. 

What it does look like is a man dragging him by the collar through the crowd. As they near the camera, it ducks. Like it’s being hidden. The screen going mostly dark, only showing blurred shoes and the stained floor. 

It catches Kyo's voice. It catches Katsuki’s. 

“—I swear to fucking god, kid. Get in the ring—“

“No!— I— fucking let go.”

Katsuki doesn’t remember that. Doesn’t remember his voice being that high. Doesn’t remember the voice crack. 

He remembers being embarrassed. Feeling like Kyo was parading him around. Katsuki was humiliating himself. He wasn’t— he was never scared. 

The camera shoots back up. Further back now. It can see the ring— but it can’t hear them. It can see Katsuki get shoved hard, stumble over himself and pull up snarling. Defensive. 

Kyo's in the ring before he can run. Grabbing the nape of his neck. Facing the crowd. He’s saying something. The camera doesn’t pick it up— but Katsuki remembers it. 

The same kid that’s beaten most of you. 

Katsuki watches in horror as a tall blonde climbs into the ring, lazy. Sneering like Katsuki is dirt. Watches as Kyo leaves it. Chiharu. 

What’s it like? Being tied up like–

Katsuki sees himself launch. Moving across the ring and punching Chiharu hard. Sending him down in one hit. The crowd roars. 

It starts bad. It gets worse. 

He watches himself advance again as Chiharu pulls himself up— only to get tackled. They grapple. An elbow connects to Katsuki’s chin, snapping his head back— but he’s winning, he’s got Chiharu pinned. 

A hit. 

“Get off me!” Rings out. Loud and clear.

Katsuki in the video doesn’t. He punches Chiharu once. Twice. Four times. Again. He doesn’t stop. The crowd is roaring. Pounding against the sides. 

Katsuki watches himself drive a knee into Chiharu's side. A snarl on his face. Sees as Chiharu curls in on himself. Tries to push him off. Shove him back.

But Katsuki isn’t letting go. He gripped Chiharu's shirt, pulling him up just enough to deliver another hard punch to his face. 

Finally, Chiharu goes limp in the video. Katsuki sees himself stand up, chest heaving. Wipes his nose on his arm. Kyo stands up and opens his mouth— the screen goes black. 

Katsuki, in the room, holds the TV plug in one shaky hand. Holds his heart in his throat. Fuck. 

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to. It’s over. It’s all over. He’s going to get arrested. Seven years for assault. Organized violence— that’s what it is. Three more for the betting. He’s fucked. 

No more UA. No training. No fighting. Nothing. It’s— he’s going to lose it all.

“What the fuck was that?” Says Mina, voice nearly pitched into hysteria. 

Katsuki shoulders hunch to his ears. He drops the cord like it’s burned him. Swinging around. The doors blocked, Tape Face and Tails standing there jaws open. Katsuki sparks. Smoke drifting like a signal flare.

Kirishima’s mouth is moving, but no words are coming out. His hand, holding the remote, is hardened. Crunched into it. Katsuki says nothing. Kaminari has a hand clapped over his mouth. Katsuki doesn’t look at the rest of them. He won’t.

“Bakugou,” Mina says, demanding. “What– you–”

“It’s nothing,” He snaps. It’s nothing. It’s a bad angle. It’s not him. It’s not for them, for anyone. It’s nothing. “Fuck off.”

“Bakugou.” Aizawa Sensei says. Voice low. Not calm. Low like thunder. Low like Katsuki is about to be expelled and he is. He is. “Is that–”

“Shut up!” Katsuki doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to say anything. He doesn’t want to listen. He’s not breathing right. Sensei’s eyes harden. Angry. Katsuki’s snarls. Trapped. “It– that wasn’t anything!”

Kaminari’s voice is shaky. “Dude, that guy dragged you. By the hair. That– shit– Bakugou was that this year?”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything. His teeth bared. Hands popping. His jaw aches from how hard he’s grinding his teeth. His palms burn into his forearms as he crosses his arms. Not a stance, but not not ready. 

“Kacchan? What was that?” Deku says. Soft. Like Katsuki’s some fucking child. He sees red.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t!” Mina explodes. “You looked terrified!”

“I wasn’t!” Katsuki snaps, turning on her. “You don’t get to fucking say what I was feeling!”

“Then what were you feeling?” Tape Face asks. “Because from here, it looked like you were being hauled into a ring like–”

Katsuki’s lips peel back from his teeth. An insult ready. Aimed, primed. Something to hit, somewhere to dig in. Get them to back off.

“Bakugou?” Kirishima says, finally. Voice like cracked glass. 

“No! No, shut up! I’m not—fuck, I’m not— talking about this with you!”

“You can’t just not talk about it!” Mina yells. “We all saw it!”

“You weren’t supposed to! It wasn’t for you!” Katsuki roars.

The silence after that is brutal. No one breathes. Katsuki’s chest is heaving. His voice is raw. He’s not sparking, Sensei’s hair is floating. His capture weapon in hand. Fuck. Fuck.  

“Bakugou.” He says. “Come with me.”

Danger. Sensei’s tone is dangerous. Katsuki isn’t scared. He just doesn’t want to go anywhere right now. Not with Sensei. Not alone. 

“Bakugou. Now.”

Sensei doesn’t say, don’t make me repeat myself. Do not make me drag you. Katsuki swallows roughly. Sensei takes a step towards him. Katsuki’s heart lurches, dangerdangerdanger–

“Fine!” He spits. “Fucking fine!”

Aizawa Sensei pauses. Waiting. Katsuki forces himself to take a step forward. Shoving his hands into his pockets. Another step. Sensei finally turns when he’s in arms reach, walking to the door. Face stony.

Aizawa Sensei marches him through the halls. And Katsuki feels like he’s going to be hanged. He’s getting expelled. Of course he is. He’s probably getting arrested too. Japan has very strict laws on fighting. Laws like - it’s never fucking allowed. 

He’s- he’s fucked. He’s so fucked. And Kira will never know what happened. And what about Chiharu? What about everyone else?

Any clubs- martial arts or boxing? They have millions of forms. Processes. Insurance. Katsuki has none of that. 

The door to the staff room swings open. The small TV in the corner has been turned off. No doubt having seen the video. Fuck. Everyone in Japan has probably seen it. Katsuki is fucked. Actually fucked, there isn’t a way out of this. 

All the staff are there. Present Mic, Midnight, Snipe. All Might. None of them say a fucking word. They all stare at him. Eyes wide. 

“Sit.” Sensei says. Harsh. Katsuki, who has never ever done anything without giving lip, slides into the chair. He’s sure if he didn’t Sensei would make him. 

Katsuki’s palms rest on the desk. His heart doubles in his chest. He’s fucked. He’s so fucked. Does he get a phone call?

He’s pretty sure his parents' numbers are out of date. Have been since middle school. Katsuki doesn’t even know where they are. He hasn’t talked to them since moving into the dorms. He doesn’t know the new numbers by heart. He doesn’t even have his phone.

“Bakugou,” Sensei starts. Slowly like he’s trying not to hit something. Probably Katsuki. “What the hell—“

“It was an accident!” Is what spills out of Katsuki's mouth. Clumsy. And, also, so very much the fucking wrong thing to say. 

What the fuck does he mean anyway? The fighting was an accident? That he slipped and tripped and accidentally knocked someone’s teeth out? 

That he accidentally spent the last four years with two people with zero obligations to him because he was twelve and alone?

Katsuki sits at a table. Several Pro-heros surround him. Aizawa Sensei sits in front of him.

"What do you mean, accidentally joined a fight club?”

Katsuki bites his tongue. He needs to shut the fuck up. He needs to figure out a fucking way of damage control. Katsuki owns the gym– the new one anyway. Katsuki was front and center in the video. Katsuki has had his face plastered across Japan enough times to know that he’s a lost cause. 

But not Chiharu. Chiharu who’s an asshole and mean and all too much like Katsuki. But he still works in a clinic in Best Jeanist's agency. And he— he doesn’t deserve to get dragged down. 

Neither does Kira, or Otoya. Or any of the other bastards that need it just as much as he does.

“Can—“ Katsuki starts. Nervous. His eyes flick over the teachers behind Sensei. All of them are carefully blank. “Can I make a phone call?”

“You’re not under arrest, Bakugou” says Present Mic. Slowly. Annoyed.

And lying. Not even a good one at that. He may not be cuffed but Katsuki is under zero delusions that he’s walking out of this. 

“Is that a no?” He says instead. Quiet. Keeping his hands still. On the desk. Unthreatening. 

Aizawa Sensei is tense. He looks about ten seconds from shaking someone. Wringing Katsuki's neck probably. 

But Sensei tosses his phone onto the desk. It clatters between them. Katsuki thanks every god he knows that he has memorized Kira‘s number. Because that would be fucking humiliating to admit.

Katsuki dials with shaky hands. The tone rings once. Twice. For a second he thinks she won’t pick up. There’s no way she has Sensei’s number. How would she even know it’s him calling?

Then it clicks and her voice rings out. Clear, snappy. And so familiar Katsuki feels like he can breathe again. 

“What the fuck do you want—“

“It’s me.” He says. And she stops. 

“Katsuki?” Almost hopeful. He swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah. I— I’m at UA. Could you—“

“I’m already on my way, baby.” She says. Immediately. “Listen. This is a shit show. I won’t lie to you. But it’s all going to be okay. Alright?”

Katsuki’s other hand pops, smoke fizzles out of his closed fist. It’s not. It’s really, really not. “Okay.”

“Give me five minutes, sweetheart. Five minutes. I’ll be there.” She soothes. 

And it works. It works so much. She might not be able to fix this. But, at least Katsuki will have someone to visit him in jail. 

“Five minutes.” He repeats. It doesn’t taste like a lie. 

He hangs up. Mostly because he’s sure she would stay on the line with him. But he— the more distance the better. She’s not going down with him. 

Aizawa Sensei is looking at him. Expecting something. A bone. A confession. 

Katsuki blinks back. Impassive. Over the twenty seconds he talked to Kira, he went from the edge of a panic attack to nearly catatonic. There's a part of him that’s accepted it. Like he was running on borrowed time, and everyone else is just catching up.

Like he’s been performing the entire time, a big red imposter stamped on his forehead and now they’ve noticed it. Like it was always coming.

“Young Bakugou” All Might starts. Wringing his hands. “Perhaps now is the time to explain?

Katsuki shakes his head. “No.”

Sensei’s chair hits the ground with how fast he stands up. He’s leaning over the desk. Dangerous. 

“No?” He hisses. Like he’s daring Katsuki to say it again. “No you don’t want to explain?”

Katsuki folds his arms to hide his trembling hands. Five minutes. Four really. The quiet rings out. A year in Juvie is what he’s looking at, probably seven more in a real prison. Six months for refusing to name anyone else. 

It’s nearly neat, how easily Katsuki can see it. He’ll get out at twenty four. Kira will help, maybe. The gym would be seized. So that’s gone. Going. Maybe Katsuki will be a chef. Katsuki drags his eyes back to Aizawa Sensei.

“You don’t want to explain–” Sensei repeats. “Why the fuck there’s a video of you getting dragged head first and thrown into a fucking dog fight?”

Katsuki frowns. That’s not fair. That’s not what happened. Kyo would never make him do anything he didn’t want to. Katsuki had been moping in Kyo's bed for two days straight at that point. 

Not talking. Not eating. Not anything. 

Kyo had woken him up. Kyo had helped. In a way Katsuki could understand. 

“That’s not what it was.” Katsuki says hotly. “He didn't— it wasn’t what it looked like."

Aizawa Sensei doesn’t give him the chance. All Katsuki has to do is shut up for four minutes. Say nothing. He’s defending a ghost but Katsuki isn’t going to let them paint Kyo out to be some monster. 

“Kid,” Midnight says. And her voice is soft. It shouldn't be. She doesn’t even like him. “That was exactly what it looked like.”

Katsuki sneers. Aggressive. “Oh, were you there? I must have missed you in the crowd.”

She purses her lips together. Good. Midnight can fuck off. 

“Bakugou.” Aizawa Sensei starts again. Evenly. Though Katsuki knows he’s anything but calm. “Who was that man?”

Katsuki folds his arms. Sinking into the chair like a child. Kyo was good and kind and nice. He gave Katsuki a couch and a place to feel alive. He bet on him too, but Katsuki’s so over it– it nearly feels like a compliment. 

“Answer me!” Sensei shouts. 

Katsuki straightens for a hot second. Like a flash of cold water fell on him. Sensei never shouts. Ever. Not when Kaminari is being an idiot. Not when someone has to take Deku to Recovery Girl for the third time that week. Not when they were in the middle of a raid. 

“And what the fuck was he doing dragging you into a fight — a fight you obviously didn’t want to be in. Huh? Who is he?” Sensei snarls. “A coach? A relative? A pimp?”

It’s not a question. It’s not phrased as a question. Katsuki scowls. Palms itching. Present Mic steps forward to put a hand on Sensei’s shoulder. Katsuki can’t tell what the fuck Snipe is thinking, but he hasn’t taken a hand off his gun yet. God, Katsuki hopes he’s not going to be shot, once was enough.

“Don’t call him that!” Katsuki snaps, “That’s not what happened—“

“You pulling back isn’t what happened?” Sensei intones. “You asking to be let go isn’t what happened?”

It was. But not like that. Katsuki was being a brat. He would have wasted away upstairs if Kyo had let him. He probably wouldn’t have gone back to UA at all. 

“He was helping!” Katsuki snarls. 

Sensei’s hand flies out. For a second, Katsuki thinks he’s going to be hit. But it’s just a gesture. Doesn’t stop Katsuki from tightening. 

“That was not—“ Sensei begins. Venomous. 

And Katsuki doesn’t let him finish. Because it was helping. It was making him buck up and stop acting like it was the end of the world because he was embarrassed. 

“Yes! Yes it was. All Kyo ever did was help me.”

It’s probably not a very good move. To get into a screaming match with Sensei in front of half the staff. But, Katsuki is already getting expelled. What are they going to do? Arrest him twice?

“Kyo.” Sensei says. “Kyo who?”

Katsuki doesn’t know when he stood up. His hands are smoking. “No one. Nothing–”

“Stop lying.” Sensei says. “Just– stop. Okay? We know. We know, we saw the video. So stop fucking lying.”

“I can’t!” Katsuki bursts, hand running through his hair. “No one was supposed to see it!”

A hush falls over the room. Katsuki's voice rings in his own ears.

Present Mic’s voice is low. Deadly. “What does that mean?”

“No–That’s” Katsuki swallows. Quieter. “That’s not what it sounded like.”

No one says anything. It’s clear not a single fucking person believes him. Katsuki runs a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have shut up and let them arrest him quietly.

“Not what it sounded like,” Sensei says flatly. 

Katsuki's eyes, humiliatingly, start to burn. He swallows a lump in his throat. Nods.

The door to the staff room flies open. Heels clack like gunshots. Katsuki sags into the chair. Relieved. Oh thank god.

Kira walks in like a tornado on heels. She got one phone to her ear and yelling down it. Her hair is still immaculate, not one out of place. She’s got a bag that costs more than most cars. She’s wearing heels that make her as tall as him. A freshly pressed suit. She looks unshakable. 

“—ask me if I give a fuck? You get that video down before it hits any major channels or so help me god — good.” Her voice is harsh. Like it could crack glass. “You find that reporter.”

Katsuki has never been so happy to see her in a rage. He kind of wants to hide behind her. She hangs up the phone, violently, like she might crack the screen. But she softens when she sees him. 

“Hey, Honey, you okay?” 

Katsuki goes to nod, automatically. Stops himself. Sensei is staring at her like he thinks he’s hallucinating. Still standing with his hands on the desk in front of him. The rest of the peanut gallery isn’t much better.

Another person follows Kira in. Someone Katsuki has never seen before. 

“Katsuki, sweetheart. This is Haru. Hand him a 1000 yen.”

Katsuki blinks. Haru doesn’t look like he needs a thousand yen. Haru is dressed in a crisp suit, black on black on black. His hair is perfectly kept. Much like Kira's. Katsuki hands Haru the money.

He doesn’t even pocket the note as Katsuki offers it to him. Just folds it between the papers he’s holding in one hand. Like evidence.

“Good. He’s your lawyer now. Say hi Haru.”

“It’s a pleasure, Bakugou-San. Takahashi-san has told me a lot about you.”

Katsuki nods. Kira whirls on the staff. A smile on her face. 

“Before we continue this incredibly questionable interrogation of a minor without legal representation, let me ask—”

All Might opens his mouth. Closes it. The lights hurt Katsuki’s eyes a little less. His throat is still tight. Palms sweaty.

“This is a disciplinary matter,” Aizawa Sensei says, standing tall. “We’ve been trying to get to the bottom of—”

“By interrogating a sixteen-year-old in a closed room, without a guardian present ? Without a lawyer? What is this, a public school or a holding cell?” She says sweet as sugar.

“You’re overreacting,” Midnight says tightly.

Kira laughs—humorless and razor-edged. “Am I? Because from the outside, this looks an awful lot like coercion. And trust me, I’ve got enough precedent in my inbox to make sure it sticks.”

Haru steps forward, and places a document folder gently on the table. A recording device. Clicks it. The staff watch it like a bomb. She gestures and Haru steps forward, placing his card on the table like a chess piece next to it.

“Legal representation for Bakugou-san.”

Katsuki stares at her. Tightness disappearing with every word. 

Present Mic clears his throat. “We were under the impression this was… unsanctioned.”

“That’s the funny thing about impressions,” Kira says. “They’re not facts.”

Then Kira does something magical. She pulls documents out. Labeled clearly, nearly comically. Business Permit, Employment, Ownership, Insurance. Holy shit, Kira is ready. She’s prepared. There’s one with Disciplinary Actions stamped across in bold letters. 

Kira grins. Leaning forward. “Footage was taken and distributed without consent. Katsuki is sixteen. What you all witnessed was not a fight club. It was a supervised spar gone sideways and filmed to humiliate him.”

The silence is heavy.

“And instead of checking permits, contacting his guardian, or asking him a single legal question, you shoved him in a room and demanded a confession.”

Midnight bristles. “He refused to speak. We were trying to understand—”

“No. You were trying to trap him,” Kira says, gently. Like she’s just stating facts. “You saw what you thought was a scandal and you got spooked. So you started swinging without checking the walls.”

She finally looks at Katsuki. Her eyes soften—just a little. A flicker. A hand rests on his shoulder. He doesn’t even pretend not to sag into it. His heart beating out his chest.

Sensei picks up the first file. Flips. Page after page. 

“These only go back three months.” He points out. Tapping the dates. 

Kira nods. Grief, real, floats over her face. “Yes, the original location collapsed. Killed the owner. Friend of the family. Terrible loss. We tried to preserve the records, but it was too late.”

“Tragic.” Haru chimes in, pausing for one second from whatever he’s doing. 

All Might’s voice is hesitant. “But the footage—”

“It was taken without consent. It’s illegal. You’ll find it’s already being pulled down,” Kira says, slicing the conversation in half like a knife. “Selective edits make anything look brutal. This was an internal match, part of a therapeutic boxing club.”

“A therapeutic boxing club.” Sensei says in a tone that screams bullshit.

Katsuki finds himself nodding. Yeah. Yeah, she’s right. Kira is right. He’s fine. It was a boxing club. Selective editing.

“We, of course, were aware of Katsuki’s… temper. But we hold our members accountable. Even my favorite troublemaker.” She beams. Squeezing his shoulder.

Midnight blinks. All Might's jaw is on the ground. Sensei’s eyes remain narrowed. Kira hasn’t stopped smiling once, she snaps her fingers. Haru slides another file forward. Disciplinary Actions. 

“That video? Was taken without consent,” Kira speaks, voice warm. “Against multiple privacy laws. It shows an internal match taken out of context, framed for drama. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was sold for profit. He’s a public figure. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Aizawa Sensei scowls. “You expect us to believe that?”

Kira smiles, soft and terrible. She turns to Katsuki, voice low, coaxing. “Baby—what happened that day? What did I tell you about going too hard in sparring?”

Katsuki straightens. His hands stop shaking under the desk, his voice is steady. He can do this.

“You told me not to. Said if I didn’t keep control, I’d get benched.”

“Exactly.” She nods, like he just won a prize. “And what happened after you lost control?”

“I got suspended from the club,” Katsuki says. “Two weeks. Had to clean. Drill the basics. Had to write a statement.”

None of that happened. Not a single thing. Katsuki actually had been bought frozen yogurt as a treat for it. Kira turns to Katsuki again. Softly.

“Was that a match, sweetheart?”

Katsuki nods. “It was. I was being a dick. I wasn’t training. I got pushed into it to shake it off.”

“You’re saying you wanted to fight?”

Sensei stares at him. “You were pulling back. That’s what I saw. You didn’t want to be there.”

Kira steps forward, slightly, like a shield. “Maybe he got scared. Maybe he doubted himself. He’s sixteen. He’s allowed to hesitate.”

Midnight looks up, furious. “That’s such bullshit!”

Kira doesn’t even blink. She tilts her head, just slightly, the picture of concerned confusion.

“Oh sweetheart,” she says to Katsuki, smooth as butter, “is that what it looked like to you?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer right away. Then he glances at her. And she gives him the tiniest nod. Like a safety net no one else can see. He feels calmer. Like someone just handed him a script. He relaxes his hands.

Katsuki clears his throat. “That’s not what happened.”

Midnight’s mouth drops open. “Bakugou—”

He keeps going, certain. “I was already pissed off. He was trying to psych me up. Get me in the ring. I wasn’t really saying no.”

Aizawa Sensei’s jaw clenches.

“He threw you.”

“It’s how we do things at the gym,” Katsuki says, smooth and clean. The best part is it's not even a lie. Not really. “Rough encouragement. I could’ve walked out anytime.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

Kira cuts back in, voice sharp with steel beneath the silk. She taps the folder again—disciplinary records, signed off. “He made a mistake. Lost control for one match. He’s already served his suspension. And unless UA intends to contradict our paperwork, I suggest we stop trying to crucify a teenager for taking up a legal, licensed sport as a coping mechanism. Isn’t that right, baby?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it was.”

No one says a word. Not because they believe him. But because they can’t prove otherwise. He’s going to be fine. Kira has it covered. She’s not just ten steps ahead of them, she’s spinning circles around literal Pro-Hero's and they can’t touch her. 

“It was just a club.” Kira says. 

Katsuki looks at Sensei. All Might. “It was just a club.”

All Might steps forward. Nervous. “Bakugou. The man– Kyo– dragged you in. You didn’t want to fight—”

“Didn’t I?” Katsuki cuts him off. His eyes flick to Kira—her hand squeezes his shoulder once again. Gentle. Grounding. He continues. “We talk like that sometimes. Gym talk.”

Kira hums. “You can be a bit dramatic when you’re riled up. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki agrees instantly “I get mouthy when I’m nervous. It’s part of warming up.”

Aizawa Sensei stares at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “That’s not—”

“But no one forced you into that ring, did they?” Kira interrupts, silk and honey.

Katsuki shakes his head. “No.”

“You wanted to spar. You were just—what? Acting out?”

“Exactly,” Katsuki says. “I had a rough day. I took it too far. That’s on me.”

“And it was a legitimate, certified boxing club, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Licensed under my name. The original gym collapsed, remember?” She looks up at the teachers, expression mournful. “Such a loss. Very sad.”

“Very,” Haru echoes without looking up, flipping a page with gloved fingers.

She’s giving him the story. Repeating the details so he understands. So Katsuki knows what he has to say. She’s incredible like this. Untouchable. Defending him.

“But the permits? The ones we do have?” She taps her binder again. “They’re real. Dated. Verified. Isn’t that right, baby?”

Katsuki doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. That’s exactly right.”

“And that day? That match? You were disciplined. I handled it myself.”

“You did,” he agrees. Easily, the words slipping into place like a jigsaw. 

“All logged properly?”

“Yup.”

“And since then, no repeats?”

“None.”

Present Mic’s fists clench at his sides. Looking from Kira to Katsuki to Aizawa Sensei. “You’re lying. You’re lying to our faces.”

Kira tilts her head, faux-sympathetic. “Or maybe you’re just not listening.”

“She’s feeding you every word!” Aizawa Sensei snaps at Katsuki, like he’s trying to drag him out of it. “You’re just agreeing.”

“I’m giving him a choice.” She turns back to Katsuki, sweet as spun sugar. All smiles, all teeth. “You remember what really happened, don’t you?”

And Katsuki— He nods, slow and steady. “Yeah. I do. That’s how it went.”

No one says anything for a minute. Katsuki lets himself relax. It’s nearly funny. Looking back, the panic is so far away. Even if he gets expelled, he’s not going to jail. 

"Who the hell are you?" Midnight snaps. She's had enough. Voice like a whip. “You’re not on record. You’re not in the database. You are not his guardian.”

Kira doesn’t flinch. She just sets her designer bag on the table and smooths her hands over the sleek leather. “I’m Takahashi Kira. I’m a friend, a coach. That’s all. Right, Katsuki?”

Katsuki nods, agreeably. “Yeah. She’s a coach.”

"Coach," Aizawa repeats, voice flat and deadly. “Since when? ”

“Oh, well.” Kira tilts her head, mock-regretful. “Technically three months on paper, of course, since the collapse. Before that—in the old gym, years. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Katsuki nods. “She and Kyo ran the old gym. I went there after school. Wasn’t official until now.”

“And Kyo is—?”

“Deceased,” Kira supplies lightly. Reminding. No holes to poke through. It twinges something in his chest, that truth. 

“You just lost years of documentation?” Present Mic says, tone just shy of unhinged. “All the permits? Insurance? Logs?”

Kira gasps like it’s painful. “Terrible, right? Poor Kyo. Whole filing cabinet gone. Not a single thing recoverable. So sad. But you understand—we started fresh, and now everything’s in order.”

“It’s convenient,” Snipe mutters from the corner. 

“It’s legal.” Haru murmurs without looking up from the forms he’s still organizing. “And that’s all that matters.”

“And this is nonsense, ” All Might says. Uncharacteristically cold. “You—Young Bakugou— we all saw it —you didn’t want to fight. You were pulled into that ring.”

Kira clicks her tongue. “Is that what happened, Katsuki? Or were you just— mm— overstimulated? Frustrated? Maybe a little bit anxious after a rough day?”

Katsuki grins back. It's so easy to do the right thing. “Yeah. That’s what happened. I snapped. I told him to let go ‘cause I was worked up. Not ‘cause I didn’t want to be there.”

Aizawa Sensei physically reels. “Are you— you’re changing your story now?”

Kira frowns for the first time since walking in. “He’s not changing anything. He’s clarifying. Right, sweetheart?”

“Right,” Katsuki says. “That’s what happened.”

“Unbelievable,” Midnight mutters, turning away. “This is a performance.”

“It’s a statement,” Haru corrects coolly. “And unless you have evidence to the–”

“We saw the evidence!” Present Mic snarls. “We saw a kid being dragged into a fight ring—”

“It was filmed without parental consent.” Kira cuts in. Sweetly. Sharpened-glass sweet. “That’s a whole other lawsuit. It was a private training session.”

There was a crowd in the video, not a big one that night and nothing compared to the most recent ones. But, yeah. Private property. Private training. Aizawa Sensei stares at them. At Katsuki, who’s still sitting there—still agreeing—still lying. Yeah, he is. But they can’t prove it. He’s safe. Out of the red zone. 

They can ask a million questions. The same ones, over and over, if they’d like. He’s sticking with it. It was a club. He acted out, took the punishment. Nothing illegal. Nothing bad. That video is edited. Showing a bad angle. Katsuki is fine. 

Kira’s voice is a lifeline . All he has to do is repeat after her. Nod when she looks at him. Say the right version of events and maybe —just maybe —he won’t end up expelled. Or arrested. Or dragged through the media as a delinquent turned criminal.

He just has to be good. He’s not a villain. Katsuki isn’t dangerous. 

She taps the folder again— that cursed folder that rewrote the last few weeks of his life with neat signatures and timestamps and receipts that didn’t exist before. None of it is real. Katsuki doesn't know what's in there. But, put him up on a stand and he would swear on it.

Sensei is seething. Obviously.

Katsuki doesn’t understand. Do they want to arrest him? He’s not a good person. But he's a great student. That has to count for something. He kept the entire thing separate.

Katsuki looks from his teachers to Kira again. She’s still smiling. No one else is.

He clears his throat. A dozen eyes flick to him.

“Can...” He shouldn’t push. He shouldn’t push. “Can I start going home on the weekends again?”

“No,” Sensei says. “Not until I have your parents here to confirm her story.”

He says her like it tastes bad. Like Kira’s name is something rotten he won’t touch. Katsuki doesn’t like that.

And how the hell is he supposed to get his parents here? He doesn’t know their numbers. Doesn’t know where they are.

He can’t get them here. And he doesn’t want them here.

Kira sighs next to him, annoyed. Katsuki turns to her, eyes wide. Her lips are pursed. She can’t win that one. She’s got the same look in her eye she gets when she’s losing a match.

Katsuki exhales. All at once.

She’s got bigger things to worry about than him wanting to go home. She’s already doing too much. A hand lands in his hair, gentle. An apology on her face. He’s not a child. Katsuki doesn’t have to give her even more of his bullshit to juggle. 

He tries for a grin. It doesn’t land.

“Right,” he says.

Haru perks up from the pile he’s been hiding in, a sharp grin flashing as he hands a tablet to Kira.

She takes one look and raises her eyebrows in delight. Katsuki peers over.

An email. A very, very apologetic email.

The reporter is getting fired. Not suspended— blacklisted. It’s from Juzo News. They’re reaching out to the other network. They’ll run a retraction.

It’s.. solved. Completely. Just like that. He's fine.

Katsuki looks back to his teachers.

Mostly fine.

Chapter Text

“So,” Kira says, eyes bright, still fixed on the screen. “I think we’re done here, if I hear that any of you tried anything like this again? I’ll have your license before you can apologise.”

The room falls into an almost unnatural silence. The weight of the threat hangs like a sword. She means it. Half the staff are frozen. Some are glaring at Kira, some at Katsuki. Like they can’t decide who to hate more. 

Kira lets the silence stretch for a beat too long. Lets it sink in. Her eyes flick over the group, satisfied. 

“Actually, no,” She hands the tablet back to Haru with one quick, practiced movement. “Katsuki, you call me straight away if it happens, okay?” 

Katsuki winces a little, avoiding her eyes, Kira turns slowly to him. A what the fuck have you done sharp in her eyes. He tries not to sink into the chair, twisting his hands in his lap.

“I broke it.” He grumbles, eyes low.

Kira’s brow arches, voice disbelieving. “You broke it?”

“I did.” Katsuki admits, deflating a little. “That’s why I called you off Sensei’s phone.” 

“He destroyed it two weeks ago,” Present Mic says, voice thin. “After calling you.”

There’s an accusation there. That Katsuki was hiding things, which he was. They know that. Present Mic knows that. Kira is good at twisting things, at defending them, yet Katsuki worries it still won’t be enough.

Why are the teachers pushing it anyway? If they’re right– or can prove they are– then Katsuki loses. His dream, his place in UA, the gym. He knows they don’t like him, but he didn’t think it was this deep.

Kira lets out a slow breath, pinches the bridge of her nose. Katsuki tries not to sweat, she showed up as soon as he called, defended him, got the video taken down, and here he is making more problems for her to deal with. 

A bitter taste creeps up his throat. Disappointment. Shame, maybe. It makes him want to bolt for the door. Or worse– apologise. 

She holds her hand out to Haru, who doesn't even hesitate, handing over his own phone into her open palm. It’s dropped into Katsuki’s lap. Sleek and shiny, and unlocked.

“Don’t break that one.”

Katsuki holds it with more care than he’s shown anything in his life. He won’t.

Kira spins back to the staff, who are still stiff, still angry. She gives one last look, like she’s sizing them up. Haru starts gathering up the files. Katsuki’s heart flies to his throat. She’s leaving?

Katsuki feels his hands start to heat, a small snap-snap-snap filling the room. She can’t go. He’s not– He doesn’t know what to say. How to act. The teachers might be dealt with but there's still his class. The school. The principal. Kira isn’t expecting him to do it alone, is she?

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sensei's voice, low and clipped with barely restrained fury. 

Kira doesn’t bother looking at Sensei. “Katsuki, I’ve got to run. If anything– anything at all–happens?”

Katsuki finds himself nodding. “I’ll call you.”

Anything like being dragged to a holding cell anyway, like his friends trying to boycott a villain out of their class. Anything like reporters showing up and asking questions. Anything Katsuki can’t handle.

“I’ll show you the way out,” Katsuki stands up, his legs wobbling. He looks at Sensei again. “I’ll show her the way out. UA’s easy to get lost in.”

“I’ll come with you.” Sensei says, voice like steel.

Katsuki doesn’t want that. He wants to be able to talk to her without worrying about who’s listening. To talk without feeling like he’s seconds from bringing it all down.Kira purses her lips, unamused.

It’s the same look she gets in the ring. Though she hasn’t fought in ages, Katsuki recognises it. When it’s already a called fight, and she knows she’s not going to win– but still calculating the maximum damage she can do on the way down.

But she doesn’t fight it, striding out the door in slow even steps, Haru following at her heels. Katsuki goes after them, Sensei a short step behind him.

The hallway is empty. Smelling like cleaning products and teenagers. It helps, a little. Everything makes more sense under the fluorescent lights. There’s going to be a retraction. It’ll suck, but by the end of the year no one will care. Or remember.   

Katsuki rushes to catch up to her, leaving Haru between them and Sensei. Less than six feet away, but it’ll have to do. Kira walks like she knows the halls like the back of her hand. She moves like she’s confident in every step.

“Kira?” He murmurs. Like no one will hear, like they can have privacy in the middle of an open hallway. “What do I do?”

She doesn't say anything for a minute, and then in the same low tone. “You say nothing to anyone important. Okay? Katsuki, this is messy. I’m not worried about UA –I’m worried about Japan seeing it.”

“But… It was a small channel, right?” 

“Yeah, it was. But that’s still a problem.” Kira seems to chew on her words for a moment. “Honey?”

Katsuki hums, looking out a window they walk by. Some second years are on a training ground, a flash of pink working on a robot. Hatsume, probably. 

“I need to speak with your parents.”

Katsuki crashes into a wall, nearly faceplants and saves himself at the last moment. His voice cracks in a harsh whisper. “What?!”

“I need legal signatures.” She says, bitterly. “Someone who’s responsible for you.”

Katsuki blinks, a strange warmth curling in his chest. Is she jealous? “I don’t know where they are. Or how to reach them.”

Kira nods, like she was expecting it. “I know. Haru’s on it. He’ll figure it out. I just– wanted to let you know.”

“But.. I’m fine, right? This will work?” It’s not that Katsuki doesn’t believe in her. It’s that he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck it all up. 

“This will work.” A breath. It makes Katsuki tense all over again. “But– It’s going to come up again. And again. It's out there now. Might be a week. Might be years from now. But, Katsuki, these things always come back up. Just –stick to it. It was a club.”

Katsuki nods, frowning. He’d sort of hoped that it would just disappear. That this would be a terrible week, but then it’d be done with and he could relax. Go back to normal.

He glances at Sensei, expecting him to be glaring at Katsuki. He’s not. He’s looking at Kira. Hard and sharp and tired. Katsuki’s eyes narrow. He’s brain firing off synapses, as he tries to make a connection. That's personal. It is. 

…Is it? Katsuki looks at Kira. Her jaw ticks. She’s deliberately got her eyes fixed ahead. Tense. Katsuki frowns. There's something she’s not telling him. 

They make their way to the front gate. 

“Takahashi-San, please allow me to get the car.” Haru mumbles out, still working away on his tablet. Katsuki doesn’t even look as he disappears around the block.

He’s missing something. He is. Katsuki is a lot of things. Stupid isn’t one of them. Kira is still watching the road, where Haru disappeared. Heel tapping impatiently. Katsuki looks at her. At Aizawa Sensei.

“You… know each other?” Katsuki asks, slowly. The way Kira stills confirms it. Katsuki grins, a little smug. “You do.”

Kira doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her hands clench for a second, at her side. Katsuki frowns, she’s mad. At something. At him for figuring it out? Maybe. She exhales slowly. Smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her shirt.

“We do.”

“Years ago,” Sensei says, voice like a whip. “She helped a villain get off on a technicality.” 

Katsuki feels his jaw drop. Sensei doesn’t ever sound mean. Aizawa Sensei is the picture of rational, calm, logical. Instead, he’s looking like he wishes he could set her on fire. 

Kira snaps back, voice calm in the way that a gun is calmly loaded.“I was on the defense, Aizawa. That’s my job.”

“To cover for murderers?” Sensei snarls, loudly.

“Alleged murderer!” Kira shouts back.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

“What was I supposed to do? Not do my fucking job?”

“If it helped put away a killer? Yes.” Sensei takes a step forward, teeth showing. “That is what you were supposed to do.”

“Well– I couldn’t. I didn’t. It’s not my fault you heroes can’t do something as simple as label a fucking gun correctly.” 

Katsuki takes a step back. The two of them are face to face, close enough to hit. Angry enough Katsuki thinks they might. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have stayed quiet.

“It's not about the gun. It’s about the fact that you knew he was guilty,” Sensei snarls. “I knew he was guilty, and he still got away with it. People died because of you.”

“No.” Kira shakes her head. “People died because there wasn’t enough evidence to hold.” 

But she doesn’t sound like she believes it. Katsuki knows her, knows when she’s lying. Whatever happened– she does think it was her fault. 

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Sensei says, voice low and cruel. 

Kira’s shoulders hunch. Miniscule. Hardly even noticeable. But it’s there. Sensei is poking at old sores. That’s not fair. Not when she’s done so much for Katsuki already. Katsuki feels his hands crackle.

“Hey,” His voice is sharp enough that they both turn to him. “I don’t know what the fuck this is, but cut it out.” 

“Bakugou,” Sensei starts through gritted teeth. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough.” Katsuki interrupts, hand gesturing to Kira. “She’s a lawyer, Sensei. That’s how the system works. That’s what she does.”

Katsuki knows this. The words taste bitter, but they’re true. Even the worst villains are entitled to a trial. Even the worst villains deserve someone. 

Even if Katsuki hates it. The system is there for a reason. That means someone has to defend them, even if they should be locked away. Someone has to do it.

Sensei blinks at him, frowning. “People died, Bakugou.”

People die every day, for a million reasons. Kira was doing her job, it’s not like she killed those people. Katsuki isn’t going to hold it against her. He’s not happy about it, obviously, but sometimes good people do shitty things. It doesn’t suddenly make her a bad person. 

Kira is blinking at him, but she’s looser. Less upset. A sleek black car pulls around to the curb. Haru in the driver's seat. Kira opens the door, but pauses, like she wants to say something and can’t find the words.

“I’ll call you.” He says, for her instead. Trying for a smile– awkward, small. She grins back wide and real. 

The car pulls away slowly. Disappearing down the street into the setting sun, Katsuki doesn’t turn back towards UA until it’s out of sight. It’s a nice evening. The sun is going down slowly, painting the sky in oranges and reds. It’s cold but not chilly. 

Sensei walks him back. Shoulders tight. Like he’s stopping himself from punching Katsuki, which, fair enough actually. But there’s something else. Something personal.

Katsuki, having learned nothing in the last two weeks, opens his mouth. “Was it your case? The one Kira won?”

It’s not really a question. Katsuki already knows it was, why else would Sensei be so pissed? Aizawa Sensei exhales. But nods. 

“It was.”

Katsuki takes another three steps before he speaks again, gravel under his shoes crunching, carefully not looking at Sensei. “Your fault they got off? What was it– inadmissible evidence?”

Sensei’s silence confirms it. Katsuki feels a little bad, but he’s curious. And Aizawa Sensei hasn’t told him to shut up yet. 

“Years ago, right?” He asks.  “Can’t… You let it go?”

That gets him a look. Sensei looks like he tasted something sour. “He was a repeat offender, Bakugou. If he had gone away when I got him— people would still be alive.”

Katsuki nods. Because yeah, maybe, and it does suck. He’s not denying that. But he still doesn’t think that’s Kira’s fault. 

“Bakugou,” Sensei says, tired. “You’re hanging around someone like that. Someone with a foot in all the wrong circles— who I had no idea you even knew– for years.”

Katsuki frowns. Even if Sensei hates her, Kira still showed several times that she’s good for him. Showing up for one phone call, defending him, keeping him out of jail. Sensei needs to stop being so biased. 

“She’s not dangerous, Sensei.” Katsuki shakes his head. The idea is absurd. “Not to me.”

A short pause, Sensei eying Katsuki carefully. “You’re being a lot more honest now.”

“Yeah, well.” Katsuki says. “I’ll deny this conversation ever happened if you try and arrest me.”

Sensei blinks, head turning to Katsuki. “We were never going to arrest you.”

“You would’ve.” Katsuki argues. “Because if, hypothetically, if that video had been what it looked like? I'd be expelled and on my way to juvie right now.”

Sensei doesn’t say anything for a moment, jaw gone slack. “Bakugou that–”

“It’s true though. I’m not saying you would have thrown a party, I’m saying you wouldn’t have had a choice.” Katsuki swallows, fighting to keep his voice even. “It's fine. It’s just— I wish you hadn't gone looking into things.”

“I’m not meeting your parents anytime soon am I?”

“Probably not, no.” 

Not before Kira gets to them first. That, Katsuki is sure of. He doesn’t know how she’s going to manage it– but she will.

“You knew her number off by heart.”

Katsuki nods. He does. Could recite it in his sleep. Aizawa Sensei doesn’t look happy. Confused maybe, but he doesn’t look as angry. Not anymore.

“I know you're lying. I don’t know why, but I know you are. You know I know.” Sensei says. Voice exhausted. “But, swear to me that it’s not bad. That you’re safe.”

That’s an easy thing to promise because it’s the truth. “I am.” 

The dorms come into sight with each step. Katsuki is already going over the lies in his head. It’s a bad video– edited. Private sparring but from a legit club. 

“How did he die?”

Katsuki stops in the middle of the path, he feels like he got slapped. He turns to Sensei, slowly. “What?”

“Kyo– That guy? Takahashi said he died three months ago. How?” 

Katsuki swallows. “Kamino.”

Sensei furrows his brows, confused. Katsuki has to force the words out. 

“The original gym was in the same district, barely a ten minute walk away.” Katsuki spent nearly all of his childhood walking around the same rundown building he was held in. “There was a lot of collateral. People got hurt, buildings went down in the fight. Kyo didn’t make it out.”

“He was crushed.” Sensei says, quietly. Katsuki flinches anyway. 

“Yeah. Can’t imagine a worse way to go.”

Sensei seems, somber almost. Like it’s personal for him too. “No, me neither.”

Katsuki is expecting the dorms to jump him when he gets back. 

Yelling. Demands. Accusations. The works. Hell, he’d prefer it that way. At least it would mean the worst part is over. 

That he’s prepared for. He’s practiced the story in his head since Kira handed it to him. It’s a club. Perfectly legal. He can handle that.

Instead, the dorms are quiet. 

Not a soft kind of quiet, it’s like a gun went off. Heavy like the air’s been sucked out of the building and replaced with lead.

He slows, a frown tugging at his face before he’s even fully in the common room. No one moves. No one looks at him.

The TV has been replugged in, humming low, throwing a blue light across the room. No one turns as he walks in. There’s a weird static hanging in the air, like the room is holding its breath. 

His friends are standing around, like nothing makes sense anymore. Mina is staring at the TV like she’s trying to see through it. Everyone is locked onto it.

Sensei has gone back to the staffroom. Or his sleeping bag. Katsuki didn’t ask, he was just glad for the break. He’s barely been anywhere without Sensei breathing down his neck for the last two weeks. Katsuki was getting hives.

Katsuki catches the headline.

A newscaster is talking fast, words tumbling over each other. Breaking news. Pro-Hero Endeavour attacked. Reports of–

He narrows his eyes. There's an image darted across the scene, the new number one hero standing, barely– half his costume is melted off, blood running down his face. One air is raised in the air, victorious. Or maybe just reflex.

“What the fuck is going on?” Katsuki demands. 

The camera cuts to Hawks– Wings nearly all gone, ragged and torn. Bracing himself on some rubble.

Deku’s head jerks toward him. His whole body stiffens, like someone plugged a live wire into his spine. He stares for half a second—shocked, startled—and then he’s moving , stumbling over the edge of the couch like he forgot how to walk.

“K–Kacchan!” Deku blurts. “Where did you–what– what was that video?!”

He’s breathless, flushed, demanding. Actually demanding. Like Katsuki is going to roll over and confess. Katsuki sneers.

“Oh, so now you care?” 

But Deku doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t back down. Typical. Always has to play the hero. Always looking down on Katsuki. Tape face has got a hand on Icy-Hot’s arm rubbing small circles into it. But his eyes are locked on Katsuki.

“Dude, That video–” 

“It was a club,” Katsuki cuts in. “A boxing club, I’ve been a member for years.”

“That’s not what it looked like.” Kaminari says, brows pinched.

“You quit martial arts at eight!” Deku shrieks, voice rising. 

Katsuki’s stomach twists. That’s not public knowledge. Not on the internet, not in any files. Just one more thing Deku decided to steal.

How the fuck does he know that? The fucking stalker. 

“I joined a new place.” Katsuki snaps. “It’s none of your business what I do.”

The room goes stiff, some of them glance at Icy-hot, who’s pale and rigid. Like if he moves he’ll fall apart. Deku stamps his foot, like a toddler throwing a tantrum, fists balled at his side like he might swing on Katsuki.

“You had an audience,” Deku says, voice cracking with frustration. “They were cheering.”

“Boxing’s a sport. People like to watch it.” Katsuki grits his teeth. “It’s legal.”

“Then why did you react like that when the video aired?” Uraraka asks. “You looked–”

“Because I was already in trouble, alright?” Katsuki snaps. “The owner warned me not to go overboard. I did. And it got recorded. I was pissed. End of story.”

Silence, again. But this one’s different.

This one’s considering.

Good. Means they’re thinking. He can see it happening— Birdbrain tilting his head, Tails biting his lip. They want to believe him. That’s good. That’s smart. Let them.

“It was a private club,” Katsuki adds, voice cooling. “That kind of shit clings to your name– You think I want people saying I’ve got a temper issue? That I’m unfit for a license?”

The logic hits home. More nods, even Four Eyes seems to be considering this, frowning thoughtfully like he’s already half way through a defensive. Still, Deku takes a step closer. 

“You’re lying, Kacchan.” His voice crackling. “You don’t– you’ve never cared what anyone thinks–”

Katsuki rounds on him. Fuck, he misses when Deku didn’t have a spine. “Oh, yeah? You’re one to talk about lying, Deku.”

Deku freezes. Caught. Katsuki can see it. Just long enough for Katsuki to know he’s got the upper hand.

You wouldn’t.

Katsuki raises his chin. Try him. 

The air sharpens, charged. There it is. The line he isn’t supposed to cross. Katsuki can feel it pulsing at his fingertips. The threat humming in the air.

If Deku keeps pushing, maybe everyone would like to know about One for All. Katsuki’s got his hand on Deku’s secret now, wrapped around it like a grenade pin. One tug. One word. And boom. 

If Katsuki’s going down, he’ll take the whole goddamn building with him.

And maybe he’s bluffing.

Maybe not.

He turns back towards the TV, like none of that happened. Like half the class aren’t watching them like a tennis match trying to figure out what the hell Katsuki meant. More images flash– destroyed streets and office buildings, smoke, fire. 

“Anyone going to tell me what that’s about?” He asks, flat.

Todoroki finally moves.

It’s slow. Painfully so. Like his joints are rusted shut. His eyes are glassy, wide and vacant, and his voice is so quiet they all have to lean in to catch it.

“My father and Hawks just fought several Nomus and Dabi,” he says. “And they nearly lost.”

Katsuki blinks, that's…

That’s perfect.

Horrible, sure, but perfect.

Exactly what he needed. Something bigger. Something to drag all the headlines, all the attention, somewhere else.

Let the press tear into the Todoroki family trauma for a few weeks. Let them pick apart Endeavor’s heroism, Hawks’ injuries, and the League’s boldness.

No one will care about Katsuki’s little outburst. Not when the Number One hero almost died on live television.

This will bury everything. Between this and Kira pulling favours behind the scenes? He’s golden. No fallout. No public trial. No suspension. He almost sighs in relief. Almost.

Because Icy-Hot  almost watched his father die on TV. Even though Katsuki is ninety percent sure Endeavour's family hates him, that can’t be amazing– for Icy-Hot. 

Instead, he steps backward toward the stairs. One slow movement at a time, like he’s backing away from a sleeping beast. He nods to Icy-Hot as he goes. Clumsy– Katsuki has no idea what he’s trying to say.

Icy-Hot nods back like there’s some mutual understanding between them.

Katsuki has to stop himself from cringing back. Whatever Icy-Hot thinks he meant– it’s not Katsuki’s problem. His room, blessed silence, and maybe ten hours of sleep sound like a good plan.

If he’s lucky, the world will keep burning long enough to forget about him.

He should have expected it. He did expect it, really.

Katsuki barely has time to kick his boots off before there’s a knock at the door. Sharp. Then another. And another. He freezes. He could ignore it. Pretend he’s asleep, no one's home. Another knock, fast, harder. Either Katsuki opens the door, or they break it down.

Katsuki yanks the door open, ready for the yelling.

They don’t shout. Which is nearly worse. Mina is the first to shuffle in, looking everywhere but him. Kaminari follows, hands fluttering like he can’t still them. Kirishima hangs back a little. No Deku in sight, Katsuki must have scared him off. 

“You coming in or what? Shitty Hair.” Katsuki doesn’t mean to, but the insult slips out.

Mina sits on his bed, pulling his pillow into her lap. Kaminari flops onto the floor at her feet, knees pulled up. Kirishima robs his beanbag. Katsuki leans back on his desk. Facing them. It feels like an interrogation. 

“Sensei was here a minute ago. Just after you came up here.” Mina says.

“Good for him.” Katsuki responds flatly.

Mina keeps going. “He said the same thing you did.”

Katsuki shrugs. Because that’s what he’s sticking with.

“That’s what you meant. A while ago.” She says, voice weak. “When you said it was things you couldn’t talk about?” 

Katsuki blinks. “When did I say that?”

“After the break– when we all came back. You said you were busy with things.”

Oh, yeah. That. Katsuki tries for casual. A Shrug. 

Kirishima rubs his face, “And that’s why you kept showing up with bruises? Until Sensei banned you from leaving on the weekends.”

Katsuki crosses his arms. But nods. 

Kaminari lets out a sound, it could be a laugh if it wasn’t wracked with nerves. “And that guy— Kyo, was a coach? Dragged you in by the hair for coaching reasons?”

Katsuki frowns. “He had me by the collar, it was just a bad angle. He was harmless.”

“Harmless.” Kaminari echos.

Katsuki sighs. Hopping up on the desk. Pretends the words don’t still sting. “Doesn’t matter now. He’s dead. Been dead a while.”

Mina pauses, twisting his pillow into a pretzel. “But that video was– it looked like it was taken last year?”

Katsuki could lie. Say it was last year. That he was fifteen in it and it was all before UA. But– he doesn’t really want to lie to them. Not anymore than he has too. 

“… Remember the sports festival?” Katsuki says, low. Looking at his hands. “That was the same Sunday night. I– I wasn’t doing well. After the whole…”

He waves his hands in a way that he hopes conveys chained and muzzled in front of everyone in the world and their mothers. Kirishima looks sick. 

“Bakugou—”

“Shut up.” Katsuki snaps, jaw tight. He doesn’t want their pity, he never did. “It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t the end of the world. I was sulking. Didn’t eat. Laid in bed for like. Two days. —Kyo. That guy? Pulled me out. Woke me up. Told me to stop being a little bitch about it. And it helped. It actually helped .”

Mina lets out a choked sound. “He couldn’t have done literally anything else?”

“I’m not saying it was nice or gentle. I’m saying it worked. It was what I needed.”

He’d do anything to have it back.

Kaminari sparks slightly, and Katsuki worries about his sheets for a moment. “Should– during the festival– should we have done, like, something?”

Katsuki pauses, what the fuck has that got to do with anything? “What on earth are you talking about?”

“When you– when they….tied you up?” Kaminari says, voice shaky. 

“No.” Katsuki says, amazed by his sheer stupidity. “No, what could you have done?– We weren’t even friends then.”

A beat. Silence. Then Kirishima speaks. Wobbly.

“But… but we’re friends now? Right?”

“Yeah?” Katsuki says, his voice sounding disgustingly soft even to his own ears. “You’re the closest friends I’ve ever had.”

Mina hugs the pillow tight enough that her knuckles turn white. “Oh.”

No one says anything after that, Kaminari picks at the carpet. Kirishima shifts like he wants to say something. Katsuki drums his fingers on the desk. He’s not good at this. He doesn’t know how to make them understand. 

Kirishima breaks the silence, voice like it hurts to talk. “We are?"

Katsuki swallows, he feels like he admitted to something he shouldn’t have. “Yeah.”

“Because–” Kirishima pauses. “Man, it feels like we barely know you. Some days you’re our classmate– and the next it's like you’re leagues away.”

Away. Not leagues ahead. Not better than them. Distant. Faded. Katsuki folds his arms. He thought they knew him pretty well. They do. Other than Kira, and Deku– though that was involuntary, they knew him best. 

“Bakugou?” Mina asks, small in a way Katsuki doesn’t like. “I– We want you to tell us things. Even if they’re bad. We aren’t going to rat you out for it.”

But then they wouldn’t have deniability. Katsuki would be throwing his problems at them and making them carry it too. That's not fair. They’ve got enough on their plates already.

But, then again. She’s asking. Katsuki huffs. He picks at some of the skin around his thumbnail. Debating. 

“When–”

He stops, grinds his teeth. 

“When I was twelve my parents started traveling. A lot. Designers– they had meetings or needed inspiration or something. I had school. And it’s not like they could take me with them.”

No one moves. Like if they do, he might shut down. They might not be wrong.

“So I was–” Left behind. Alone. “Bored a lot, saw them about four times a year. I started going places, a trip to Sendai. Or Wakayama. Made it all the way to Yamaguchi once. I found the gym in Kamino, Yokohama. I kept going back.”

Kaminari looks destroyed, shoulders slumped. Mina isn’t looking at him but her shoulders are shaking. Kirishima launches out of the bean bag so fast Katsuki jumps. Kirishima has Katsuki yanked into a hug, before he can react.

Katsuki lets it happen anyway.

“It’s fine–”

“It’s not.” Kirishima says. “It’s really, really not."

It is. They just have no way of understanding that. Mina slinks out eventually. She leaves his pillow twisted into a lump on his bed, Kaminari follows her out. He hesitates at the door, but doesn’t say anything. 

Katsuki doesn’t stop Kirishima from pulling out the futon and flipping off the lights.

Chapter Text

Katsuki doesn’t talk about it again. Not with the class. Not with his friends. Certainly not with Sensei. He doesn’t have to. They know now. 

And they can’t do anything about it. 

Which means Katsuki doesn’t have to triple-check everything he says or does. Doesn’t have to measure every move like someone’s going to document it. They already saw it– already heard the story. Made the assumptions. 

No one brings it up. But there's a shift. Logically, he knows, other people in UA must have seen it too. Sometimes he catches second or third years staring at him, just for a second too long like they’re trying to remember where they’ve seen him before. 

No one has approached him though. In a world where there’s a new villain attack daily– a five minute video is nothing. 

No one in his class talks about it. But they do change the way they act. He feels it in the way Four Eyes and Tape face look at him. Katsuki isn’t stupid. He can see them doing it. The double take when he walks into a room, tensing like maybe today is the day he snaps.

Then they pretend they weren’t looking. 

Kirishima has started sleeping over every night of the last three days. The futon and spare bedding has become just part of his room now. Katsuki hasn’t told him to fuck off, yet. 

Mina sits next to him now, always, even over Jirou. Their elbows bump constantly. He doesn’t tell her to move, even when she talks too loud. Even when she chews her pen cap.

Kaminari, strangely enough, has changed the most. Kaminari still talks like it's going out of fashion, still sparks like a broken outlet. But not at Katsuki. Not about him. Even jokingly. Kaminari isn’t quieter, no, but he’s taking the time to choose his words now. 

That kind of pisses Katsuki off, not because it’s mean. But because it’s different. Off. Katsuki nearly misses the ribbing. 

Deku is worse though. Deku is always worse.

They don’t fight like they used to. Not like middle school, not like the beginning of UA, not since All Might’s retirement. It had been more of a back-and-forth. Push, pull, bite, dodge. A race.

It was fun. In a shitty, competitive way. New and exciting, not quite like the ring, but not a waste of time either. If Deku landed a move, Katsuki figured out how to break it. If Deku did well on a test, Katsuki studied until his vision blurred.

It had a rhythm. Where Deku would pull out some bullshit and Katsuki would work twice as hard to not fall behind. 

The last three days feels like back to square one again.

Katsuki ignores Deku’s wide eyed stares in their sparring, still nervous that Katsuki will follow through on his threat. Won’t look him in the eye. Won’t push. 

Katsuki won’t. Not now, Not when the fires out and the video is gone and Kira has made sure it stays gone. Not when she handled it, cleaned up the mess before Katsuki could make it worse. He wouldn’t fuck everything up like that.

He wouldn’t burn it all down now.

Katsuki knows that. So, why doesn’t Deku? How is Katsuki supposed to know if Deku is getting better if Deku is refusing to talk to him? 

The one time the nerd can't read him like a book. 

Saturday morning comes slowly. Sunlight drips into his room like honey, Kirishima’s hair somehow defying physics to reflect it into Katsuki’s eyes at eight in the morning. Katsuki lies there for a bit, blinking somewhere between awake and not.

He groans, and considers just going to sleep and letting the day go on without him. But there’s weights to be lifted and people to be lied to. 

Eventually, Katsuki manages to grab his phone from his bedside table, tapping the screen to see two unread messages. Katsuki squints against the glare. From Takahashi . Because Katsuki never changed the contact names. He should do that.

Talked to them. Have a good day, honey.

Katsuki stares. Blinks. Talked to them? To who? 

Another message, from Unknown. A number Katsuki doesn’t remember.

Will be there at 3pm. 

Katsuki bolts upright. His parents. She talked to his parents. Found them– somehow. And had a conversation with them. Katsuki feels sick.

Three o’clock. Three o’clock until his parents show up. Kira wouldn’t have let them unless they agreed to her story. Unless they played nice.

Which means– which means he can go home. He can fight again. 

Katsuki steps on Kirishima’s flung out hand trying to get to his desk. 

“Hrhng? Bakugou–? S’time?” 

“It’s only eight, go the fuck back to sleep.”

Kirishima mumbles something else, Katsuki doesn’t bother pretending to respond. Kirishima rolls over and shoves his face into his pillow. 

He’s already got the leave form out. He’s not supposed to be able to submit this now– the deadline’s long passed– but if they show up in person, with Kira’s story already in their mouths. He might make it. He could be gone by six.

He scribbles down his name, times of arrival in neat writing. Katsuki hesitates, then writes Kira’s number down under emergency contacts. 

Next line: Address. 

He can’t write down his parents' house. Sensei knows he’s been lying about it. That won’t get him anywhere. But–But maybe Katsuki can buy himself some time. His gym is in a big district. Half the buildings just have numbers. 

How is Sensei to know if Katsuki writes a four as a nine? And if he tries to show up– then Katsuki has given himself an early warning system. More if Sensei never bothers to check. Katsuki created so much hassle in the last few days, Sensei might just be glad to ignore it.

Aizawa Sensei doesn’t even know the name Yuki. He wouldn’t think a single thing walking past Katsuki’s gym and to the other side of the district. It’s logical, really. 

Mitsuki Bakugou walks like she’s trying to crack the floor open. Heels sharp, stride sharper– the kind of gait that dares people to get in her way just so she can mow them down. Always been like that, always will be.

His dad is the polar opposite. Always trailing in her wake, calm and quiet. He trails behind like a ghost in a suit. Almost like he’s trying to disappear inside his clothes. His dad’s always been that way too– either steady or falling apart. Like a whippet with an anxiety disorder.

Katsuki used to hate it. Maybe because he couldn’t figure either of them out. Like trying to tune a radio that only played static. The few times they spent more than a couple hours together it was apparent Katsuki was always doing it wrong. Too loud for his dad, too much for his mom. 

They’ve changed too. A little bit. His mother has gone darker, in style, not mood. It’s nearly European. She looks like she should be in France, outside a cafe right now. Not here.

Her sunglasses shine in the lights. Turtleneck, trench coat, pleats. She looks like someone important. Someone who should be walking along the canals in Italy or somewhere. She doesn’t look a day over twenty three.

Masaru is darker, tanner. His glasses have changed, Katsuki thinks they have anyway. He can’t be sure. There’s a streak of grey in his hair. New wrinkles, crows feet on his eyes that weren’t there last time Katsuki looked. Or maybe they were and Katsuki just never noticed. He never really paid attention to his dad.

It’s unsettling.

It’s weird. It’s so weird and it’s awkward and Katsuki can’t stop himself from looking past them, hoping Kira will show too. She doesn’t.

He hasn’t spoken to his parents directly since the kidnapping.

Last time they were in a room together was when Sensei and All Might were there. Explaining the dorms and Katsuki has come in covered in dust. Katsuki thinks that's when he started lying compulsively. He had just been kidnapped and stayed at Kira’s for three days. Didn’t tell them– and they never asked.

Sensei’s office feels too cramped for the amount of things that aren’t being said. Katsuki hasn’t even seen them in three months.

Three months. Since he lost it on them in the interrogation room. Since he said fuck off and they did– they actually did. No fight. No pushback. They turned and left like they were waiting for the excuse. 

He should be mad about that. Katsuki wants to be mad. But he had Kira and a gym to build and he had friends to lie to– and being mad got put on hold. Now? Now it just feels off. Like he’s misread the vibes at a party. Like he bumped into someone and forgot to say sorry. 

They aren’t much better. Not really. His mother doesn’t greet him with the same hey brat that she used to. His dad stays at arm's length. Impassively holding a briefcase. Maybe they just came from work. Or the airport. Or something else– he doesn’t know anymore. Katsuki finds he doesn’t really care.  

They sit in front of Sensei's desk, on the couch. Katsuki leans against the wall facing the door. His fingers twitch against his bicep. 

The door creaks open. In slinks Aizawa Sensei, rubbing the back off his neck like he’s trying to shake off some fatigue. 

He sits down opposite them, Katsuki stops tapping his foot when a sharp glare is sent his way.

“Bakugou Mitsuki-san. Bakugou Masaru-san.” Sensei begins, voice like gravel.  “Do you know why we needed to meet?”

Mitsuki leans back into the couch. Scoffs like she’s already bored, inspecting her manicure. “Something about a little video of Katsuki’s boxing.”

Katsuki swallows a grin, biting his cheek . Sensei sighs, like he was expecting that. The request slip burns in Katsuki’s pocket. He won’t pull it out, not yet.

“He had your permission to do that?” Sensei isn’t even looking at them, he’s rubbing his eyes so hard Katsuki worries for his quirk.

“We didn’t see the video, we were out of town at the time you see.” Masaru says slow and practiced. Careful. “But we were aware of the situation.”

“Of your son being forced into a fight?”

Mistsuki cuts in, voice clipped. “Katsuki has always been an independent boy. He’s always been so mature. We trust the club to enforce their own rules, and Katsuki is old enough to deal with the consequences of his own actions.”

Something is wrong.

Katsuki pauses. The way she’s sitting. The way she says it– too rehearsed, too measured. Her posture is all wrong, like someone who’s bracing for impact. Mitsuki does not brace. Katsuki shifts, arms folded tight across his chest, finger tapping fast against his arms.

Kira did something. Something big.  

Sensei looks like he’s two seconds away from keeling over. Or committing a crime. Or throwing everyone out of his office and sleeping for a year. Maybe all three.

“Right.”

Now. Now is his chance. Katsuki steps towards the desk, pulling the paper from his pocket. His pulse thuds loud in his ears. He needs this.

Sensei’s eyes lock on it immediately. One hand closes into a fist, but Katsuki slides it onto the desk in front of him.

Sensei can say no. But his parents are here and there's a really good chance they’ll say yes. Because they’re covering for him. Sensei knows this too. He rubs his temple. But gingerly picks up a pen.

Sensei stares at the address, jots it down on a sticky note next to him. The times Katsuki has down for arrivals and departures under it. Katsuki feels sweat slip down his neck. Okay. Sensei has no reason to think he’s lying again. None. 

The pen hovers and Sensei signs it.

Ink on paper.

Katsuki grabs it like it’s a ticket out of hell. His hands are shaking when he folds it up. He’s going to go home. He’s going to make up for every second he missed in the ring.The adrenaline spikes so hard he barely notices that his parents haven’t moved.

Masaru adjusts his case. Mitsuki nods.

“...Was there something else?” Sensei asks, tone wary. 

Katsuki tenses.

“Yes. There is.” His father says, flipping the case open and sliding a few pages stapled together to Sensei. “Our jobs have become more demanding– recently, requiring more traveling. We– Takahashi-san and we have come to an arrangement that benefits everyone.”

The room goes quiet. Katsuki feels a thin thread of dread wrap around his spine.

Katsuki watches his dad tap the paper twice. Sensei picks up the paper before Katsuki can lunge for it. Flipping to the second page, back to the first, and again. Slowly. Too slowly.

“Guardianship will be granted to her,” His mother says, voice tight. “This is for UA’s records.”

Katsuki stops. Sensei looks up.

 “…Temporary guardianship?”

“No. Regular adoption,” Masaru says softly. “With consent. Legal. Binding.” 

Adoption.

The word detonates. Katsuki’s palms spark violently– pop-pop-pop-pop-pop– smoke curling up his sleeves before he clenches his fists and cuts them off.

Adoption? Kira didn’t text him anything about it that morning. Didn’t say anything ever –not about that. Not about wanting – wanting that. Wanting him. Something official. Something legal. 

He can’t look away from the spot on the desk where the papers sat. He doesn’t even hear what Sensei says– something about reception– because everything’s spinning. His skin feels too tight. His mouth too dry.

And then it’s just them. Him and his parents– not his parents anymore? Secondary parents? Katsuki doesn’t know how it works. 

His parents gather their things. Mitsuki adjusts her sunglasses. 

“I guess this–” 

Katsuki moves before he thinks.

Katsuki is hugging her. Arms around her waist, head ducked. Hands hesitantly land on his shoulders. Unsure. Like he’s made of glass. Katsuki hasn’t hugged her willingly since he was seven years old. 

“Katsuki?” She asks, uncertain.

“Thank you.” He says. And he means it. 

His mothers head turns to look at her husband for support. Doesn’t matter, Katsuki is grateful. 

They’re distant and never there when it counts but they love him. They love him, they’re leaving, but they’re not abandoning him. 

They’re here and they’re covering for him. Giving Katsuki what he wants. The space he needs. A choice. His choice.

His mother pushes slightly and Katsuki lets go, taking a step back. He’s smiling. His explosions are rolling up his arms, singeing his sleeves. His shirt will smell like smoke for hours.

“Son,” His dad says. “This Takahashi… she’s been around for a while?”

Katsuki nods, the first time they met her was after All Might’s retirement. In the police station. “Yeah. She has.”

“And this club is .. good for you?” His mother asks. Smoothing out wrinkles that don’t exist on her coat. “It’s what you want?”

“It is. It really really is.”

“Okay.” Masaru allows, nodding. “Our work–”

“I think you should leave Japan.”

The words drop like lead. His dad whips his head around so fast Katsuki is surprised he doesn’t hear it crack. His mother’s sunglasses slip down her nose. Katsuki swallows but plows on. 

“I think you should leave Japan. For real. Not because– Your company does better in places like Germany right? Moving would make it easier.”

This is what they care about. Their careers. Their lives. He can give them this. He wants to give them this.

“Katsuki–” Mitsuki starts, voice high.

“And the attacks.” Katsuki steamrolls her, firmly. “Villain activity has been rising in Japan. With– with All Might gone it’s only going to get worse. I think you should sell the house. And move somewhere safer.”

A beat. Glancing wide-eyed at each other. Before his dad turns back to him. Quiet. Shaky. “And you’d stay? With Takahashi-san?”

“No.” Katsuki shakes his head. “I have my own place.”

His mother blinks at him. Like he’s said something completely unrecognizable. 

“…When did you get so grown up, huh?”

Katsuki shrugs.

Katsuki makes it out of UA in ten minutes and eleven seconds. 

His duffel half-zipped, half- forgotten, clutched to his chest like a shield. It’s been under his bed for days, maybe longer. He barely remembers grabbing it. It feels lighter than it should, like he forgot something. 

Katsuki tells himself it’s nothing important. He’s not turning around now. He didn’t even say goodbye to his friends. Just rushing out the door faster than Kirishima could catch. 

At the gate, Aizawa Sensei is waiting. Katsuki slows the second he sees Sensei. Arms folded, jaw tight, eyes dark and sharp as broken glass.

“Bakugou.”

Katsuki winces. He tries not to, edging around Sensei slowly, like a dog might around a bear trap. 

“I’ll be back on Monday.” He mutters.

Sensei doesn’t move. “You have my phone number?”

Katsuki nods once, he does. Fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. He put all his own contacts into Haru’s phone after his parents left. He knows Aizawa Sensei’s number. Everyone in the class does.

“If anything happens.” He says, tone carved from rock. “You call me.”

Not a fucking chance. Katsuki doesn’t look at him directly. His eyes are fixed firmly on the gate. Katsuki has been suffering from cabin fever for nearly three weeks. He can’t wait to get home.

“Yeah, alright Sensei.” 

Aizawa Sensei opens his mouth– maybe to lecture, maybe to scream– but then shuts it again. He nods once, sharp. Katsuki bolts out the gates before anything else can land.

Kira’s not at her apartment. 

Katsuki knows she wouldn’t be. It’s Saturday, which means she’s at her firm pretending it’s still Friday. Her weekend hours are the same as her weekday ones but with more coffee and fewer heels. 

Katsuki checks anyway because he’s never actually been to her office. But he knows the address.

No one stops him. The building is all glass and polished wood and whispering calls behind expensive doors. It’s easy to find her office. Her name is on a plaque– top row, gold lettering. There’s a degree framed under it.

Some people mill in and out of rooms, interns with coffee. Important people followed by four or five others. Katsuki sees a handful of people he knows from the ring, people he’s seen Kira talk to between matches, on his way up.

He kicks her office door open. 

Kira jerks in her seat, startled. Pen still in hand, eyes narrowing even before she sees who it is. The door slams against the wall. 

“Katsuki? What are you–”

“What the hell did you say to them?” 

He’s pacing before she can even stand up. His fists clench and unclench at his sides like they’re trying to punch air into submission. Her office smells like fresh toner and burnt nerves. There's a plant in the corner. He can’t stand still. 

Breathe. He need to actually fucking breathe. And maybe hit something. Maybe both.

“What the hell did you do?”

She doesn’t answer, not right away. Kira’s jaw twitches like she’s chewing on something she doesn’t want to say.

“Don’t you dare.” Katsuki stops, his voice shakes. “Don’t you fucking dare lie to me again.”

Something flickers in her face– not surprise, but pain, maybe. She leans back slowly, lacing her fingers together. Exhaling deeply. 

“I told them I’d make their lives very inconvenient if they didn’t give me what I wanted.”

Katsuki stares. He feels raw. Delicate. “What does that mean?”

“It means I had a folder. Documents, statements, reports.” She gestures vaguely to a drawer she probably keeps locked. “It means I reminded them what a public scandal does to people who trade on reputation. And how people react to neglect.”

A pause. Curling into the room like fog. She did what?

“You– you blackmailed my parents?”

Kira’s eyes sharpen. She sits up straighter. “I protected you.”

“For what?” His voice cracks, not loud– just sharp. “Why would you– you don’t have to do anything! Why would you–”

His chest is tight. His hands ache. 

“You didn’t have to do any of this. Why would you even want–” me?

He doesn’t say that, but she hears it. In his voice, in the way he has to look away.

Why would she want the trouble and the hassle and the heartbreak he drags around. She didn’t have too. She could have left it at a distance. Kept herself a way out. She didn’t.

“Because I did.” She says. Certain. Like Katsuki could throw a tantrum right here and she still wouldn’t take it back. “Because I want to."

Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like she doesn’t care how ugly he gets.

He looks away, jaw locked, heat crawling up his neck. There's too many emotions swirling around him, in him. He can’t name any of them.

His breath comes in short little bursts. His heart is slamming around in his chest. He feels like he does in the ring, right after taking a hit to the ribs– all adrenaline and disorientation. Like he’s just won, but at the same time, he’s going to throw up.

Is he angry? Katsuki doesn’t know. He shouldn’t be. He doesn’t know what he should be feeling. His stomach twists. Katsuki is desperate. Trying to let go and hold on tighter at the same time. It doesn’t make sense.

There's still something wrong with all of this. Something fundamentally broken in her logic.

“One little problem.” Katsuki bites the words out like they taste bad. “I wasn’t abused.”

That stops her, dropping the pen. She stands up, walking around her desk. Like she’s approaching something cornered. Something that might bite.

“Katsuki.” Her voice is steady, but gentle. Like she’s telling him the tooth fairy isn’t real. “Baby.”

Katsuki doesn’t know why he flinches. Doesn’t mean to– it's a reflex, like pulling back from something hot.

Okay, they weren’t amazing parents. He spent too many days sitting alone staring at a wall and waiting to think they were. But they never did anything actually bad. Nothing cruel for the sake of it. No hitting or screaming or kettles thrown at his face. It wasn’t abuse. 

They never hurt him. Maybe a stray slap over the back of the head when he was particularly mean. But he had it worse in the gym. He had worse in UA. 

“They weren’t like that.” he says quickly. “They didn’t starve me– or lock me in a closet. I could take care of myself. They were busy. That’s all. That’s not abuse.”

“Of course it was.” Kira says. Unshakable. “Of course you were.”

Katsuki scoffs. It sounds shaky. He sneers. That’s not true. Katsuki knows what abuse is. He goes to class with the poster child for it. They’re nothing alike. Kira doesn’t say anything else. Letting him stew. 

Katsuki slams the door on the way out too.

Chapter Text

Kyo’s funeral was two days after Katsuki was saved. The rubble had been cleared from most of Kamino by then. Bent steel and crumbled buildings hauled out day and night by city workers. Katsuki feels like he’s hiding something, rebuilding the gym. The builders have just started work, clearing and mixing cement.They fit in seamlessly with the rest of the relief workers. 

More than one person got hurt because of the rescue mission. More than Kyo died. It feels like a trade no one agreed to. It feels a little bit like he cheated. Katsuki walking out while others never will.

It sits somewhere in Katsuki’s chest, tight and uncomfortable. People got hurt because of him. Not just heroes– people who shouldn’t have been involved. People like Kyo.

There wasn’t a wake. There couldn’t have been. Not after that kind of collapse. Katsuki didn’t see Kyo’s body. Kira shot that down the second he brought it up. Said he didn’t need to, that it wouldn’t help. 

Katsuki didn’t push it, didn’t have it in him to argue with her. Not when she looked like she hadn’t slept since the police station. Not when her hands shook just trying to button her coat. There wasn’t a wake because there wasn’t enough left of Kyo to even try and make it presentable. 

Instead, the temple had made a shrine. A nice one, clean and elegant. Full of white Anemones and Calla Lilies. Common, easy to find. Easy to replace. Katsuki hates them. They smell too sweet, like rotting fruit. And all that white– it’s too clinical. Too aggressively peaceful. 

Katsuki is sitting in the front row next to Kira. She had pulled an old suit out of somewhere for him. The pants are too long and bunch around his ankles, the sleeves tight in the shoulders. It smells like mothballs and dust. Maybe it’s hers. Maybe it’s Kyo’s. Maybe it’s no one’s. 

Katsuki's torso still hurts. deep aches and sharp stings layered over each other. The cuts have started to scab, one or two burns are still blistering beneath the gauze.. It’s not bad enough to matter. He can ignore it. He’s good at ignoring things when they don’t help.

Kyo wasn’t even religious. Kira told him that before the funeral, sitting at her kitchen counter with an untouched cup of coffee. Said Kyo didn’t believe in much. Not gods. Not fate. Katsuki hadn’t known that. Doesn’t know anything about Kyo, not really. Four years is time, yeah, but it’s not history. Not the kind you can build a shrine on.

One of the lilies on the altar is broken halfway up the stem. It flops sideways over the photo of Kyo. It’s all Katsuki can think about. It cuts through the picture– splitting Kyo’s face in two halves. The left is hidden– erased.

Kyo looks young in the photo. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. No piercings, no smirk. His hair is as ugly as it’s always been– sun bleached copper on black. Like a traffic cone thrown in an oil spill.

He’s got only the beginning of the tattoos here, lines curling up from his collar. Katsuki would have sworn Kyo was born with them. 

There's no coffin. No polished wood. No satin interior. The body is being cremated as the monk drones on. Something about love. Something about loss. It blends together. Katsuki fiddles with his hands. Kira is so still she might as well be stone. Katsuki thinks she might actually shatter if someone bumps into her.

The temple isn’t packed. But it’s more people than Katsuki expected. Most of them are fighters. People who used to drift through the gym at odd hours. People he has seen talk with Kyo with a smile and throw water bottles as easily as insults. Katsuki shakes hands with too many people, nods along to too many sorry’s with a tight smile, Kira next to him doing the same. 

Katsuki doesn’t know why he’s here. Why he’s in the front. He only knew Kyo for four years, and that's nothing compared to some of these people. They probably grew up with him. Loved him.  Katsuki doesn’t have a right to any of this. Not really, he’s just sort of tricked everyone here into thinking he does.

Apart from Kira. But she’s probably too swallowed up by her own grief to call him out on it. Her best friend is dead.  Katsuki is just the kid he dragged into his life like a stray.

There's no point. To the funeral, not really. Kyo isn’t here. He’s not anywhere now. Just gone. Just empty space and flattened meat. 

No more nagging at Katsuki to clean up the stockroom, as Katsuki is actively doing it, just to be annoying. No more late nights talking about the fights and Katsuki insisting he’s ready for more. No more frozen yogurt and Kyo calling him insane for wanting vanilla and not super kiwi cherry bubblegum, or whatever monstrosity Kyo’s decided to try. 

The ceremony is over within the hour. Just like that. No crescendo. No final blow. Just Kira telling him to wait at the gates while she gets the car.

He stands off to the side, half in shadow. Watching people mill out in stiff suits and cheap perfume, voices hushed. He’s trying not to listen, but it’s not like they’re whispering. A woman passes– her voice nearly shrill. 

“--shame he left a kid behind. Poor Takahashi, stuck raising some other woman’s mess. I’ll tell you what–”

Katsuki very purposely doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Just lets the words settle on his skin like embers. It stings. The grain of truth in it.

The car pulls up. He gets in without a word.

Kira and Katsuki go to the crematorium alone. No one else. No reason to pretend it’s easier than it is.

The silence is heavy. Not awkward– just final. The only sound is the soft click of the indicator when she changes lanes. Like a clock counting down.

Kira doesn’t try to talk, doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Katsuki doesn’t offer anything. There’s nothing worth saying that wouldn’t just scrape raw on the way out.

The building itself is cold in a way Katsuki doesn’t like. Grey tiles, grey walls, the faint smell of incense trying to cover something worse. It’s quiet. It’s just them. Even the receptionist doesn’t speak above a murmur. Katsuki doesn’t know who she’s trying to not offend. The dead don’t care.

The undertaker greets them in the lobby, middle aged. Dressed in all black, voice soft and well-practiced. Explains quietly how this is supposed to go. He doesn’t introduce himself. Katsuki doesn’t care to ask.

The ashes have already been processed. The bones cleaned and sorted as carefully as they could manage. There are two urns on the table, ceramic and plain, one with a black cord and the other with white. One for each of them.

They are meant to take turns. Using long, polished chopsticks, they’ll transfer the remaining pieces together– feet first traditionally. Though, the man admits, they did the best they could. The damage made it difficult to be sure which parts were what.

Katsuki is glad he skipped breakfast, otherwise he would have thrown up on the guy's shoes. 

The room they are brought to is small, private. The only furniture in the room is a steel table. The bones are laid out on it.  Katsuki doesn’t look directly at him. Instead he stares at the urns, the chopsticks, the floor.

Kira steps to the table first. She’s shaking. Katsuki can hear her taking slow breaths. The occasional hitch in them, but her hands are steady as she picks up the first piece– a wide fragment of a rib, maybe– and places it gently in the urn with the black cord. 

Passes the sticks to Katsuki. He nearly drops them twice. 

“We met when we were fourteen.” Kira says suddenly. Voice low, affectionate. “Summer camp. One of those– learning ones for quirks. Kyo tried to set the mess hall on fire the first night. Said he was testing how fast the sprinklers would kick in– for safety.”

Katsuki doesn’t answer. He picks up another piece, places it into the white roped urn. It clicks softly. 

“He got a week's worth of clean up. Thought it was the funniest shit ever” She’s smiling. “I hated him immediately– but that didn’t last.”

Her turn. The pieces are light– too light for someone like Kyo. Kyo took up space. Katsuki isn’t able to make the connection that this is him. She lifts something long and curved into her urn.

“The first time he bleached his hair– he got kicked out of school for it. His one was super strict. Used to wait for me outside of mine and walk me home. Even though I went halfway across the city from where he lived. He didn’t care. I think he liked being difficult.” 

Katsuki huffs a laugh, she looks at him. Kira’s eyes are glossy. That sounds exactly like Kyo.

“He said I needed a hobby.” Her voice wobbles, once. Kira swallows before handing the sticks again. “That I worked too much, told me to get into kickboxing again or soap-making. I told him to shut up and help me clean my office. And he did, every time I needed it.”

“When did you– you know– get together?” Katsuki asks. He can’t help it. He wants something good. Some warm memories to hold onto.

“We– We weren’t.” She says. Katsuki blinks. No, they were. Of course they were. “Maybe we could have– doesn’t matter now. Does it?”

Katsuki nods, grinding his teeth together so he doesn’t say something stupid. They loved each other, of course they did. They just didn’t have time. More swapping– pieces slowly disappearing. Tibia, spine, something cracked and broken. The urns fill slowly.

It’s almost done. Only a few pieces left– the undertaker explained that the last bone to be picked up has to be the throat bone. So the spirit could still speak in the next life. Katsuki thinks it's a load of bullshit. Kira puts it in her urn. 

They seal them with slow care. He picks his up. Holds it tight against his chest. Kira says something about putting the urn in her office. Katsuki’s going to go to the construction site. Straight away. 

Concrete, Kasuki remembers, takes a while to cure. Weeks sometimes. But it’ll start to harden within hours. Set solid in a day or two. The foundation was laid that morning. It should still be wet.

He knows what he’s going to do. Has known since the monk started talking about legacy and love and all that shit. 

This will mean something. Even if no one ever knows it but him.

Katsuki throws the door open hard enough that the wood splinters. Doesn’t say shit to Jyun, doesn’t even look at her. He’s already shedding layers. Throwing his hoodie and his bag behind the front desk.

It thuds with a satisfying, angry weight. Jyun leans back– arms crossed.

“Guess jail time’s over.”

Katsuki snarls wordlessly. Tugging on his gloves– the good ones he keeps at the gym. A pair of padded training gloves. Thick enough he doesn’t have to worry about stray sparks. Jyun leans back into her chair but doesn’t say anything else.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of enforced calm. Of Sensei's shitty supervision and endless staring and not enough space to breathe. Two weeks of trying not to scream at walls. Of trying not to break anything he cares about.

Of Kira, today, pulling that and blindsiding him. Talking soft and reasonable while his head spun and spun and spun.

He’s– Katsuki isn’t angry at her. Not really. He knows that. But he nearly threw something expensive through her office windows anyway.

So he’s here instead.

The floor smells like sweat and bleach and old tape. Familiar, comforting. The place is bustling. People are already going at it in the rings. There's a puddle of blood in one of the bigger ones. Katsuki doesn’t care.

He shoves into a smaller one–  a no quirk one. He doesn’t want to think. He wants to hurt. Someone climbs in eager after him. Katsuki doesn’t need a warm-up. Doesn’t want the playful taunts. He moves like he’s made for this.

The first guy is too slow. Katsuki's footwork is better, meaner. It doesn’t matter if the guy has at least thirty pounds on him. Katsuki breaks through in two quick moves, drives a fist straight into the guy's ribs and hears the air leave him in one strangled gasp. 

Second guy’s better. Close combat– Katsuki has fought him before. It takes longer, this one knows how Katsuki moves. They trade blows until Katsuki can feel his teeth rattling. Feet sliding across the ring like friction’s a rumour. Blood sticks to his lip, but Katsuki lands a clean uppercut that snaps the guy's head back like a magic trick. 

It’s not enough.

His fists ache, his back twinges. Katsuki doesn't care. This is what he knows– move, react, punch, breathe. 

By the fourth fight, his vision’s narrowed to a tunnel. Every breath is a growl. His knuckles are screaming– bruised no doubt. But it feels good. Honest.

He’s not thinking about his parents leaving. He’s not thinking about Kira soft, of course it was. Katsuki isn’t thinking about Sensei or Deku or Kirishima. About how much of this anger is his– and how much he stole just to have something to carry.

Right now, there’s nothing but fists and footwork. Only motion and sweat and the sound of someone else hitting the floor when he hits them hard enough to knock something loose. 

He’s not okay. But in the ring, for a few clean minutes, he doesn’t have to be. He just has to be better. To be faster. To be meaner. 

Katsuki leans into the ropes, chest heaving. Sweet smelling sweat dripping down his forehead. His arms are heavy, forearms aching and bruised. His shoulders scream with every breath.

For the first time in weeks he feels good. Better. Settled.

He spits blood into a corner. Wipes his face on the back of his glove. There's a moment where he thinks he’s fine. The fire has gone down to embers. He can step out of the ring without needing to punch through a wall.

Someone on the edge starts climbing in– Katsuki nods and ducks between the ropes to get out. Eyes fixed on the bar, he wants some water. 

A body hits the floor behind him. Fast. Too fast. Katsuki straightens up– turning to face the ropes.

“What–”

The girl, the one who was climbing in, is flying towards the crowd. Towards Katsuki. Who stumbles out of the way– she tumbles into the crowd. Knocking a couple people around. Arms flailing. She lands in a heap off the side of the ring, groaning. The whole gym turns at once.

The whole point is the fights stay in the rings. Who the fuck would–

Chiharu. 

Standing centre-ring, fists clench, chest rising and falling like a piston. His hair is a mess, he’s locked onto Katsuki– not just furious, incandescent. Katsuki can taste the rage from here. Hot enough to burn. 

Katsuki groans under his breath. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He turns away– Katsuki is done for the night. Done fighting. Done bleeding. He’s getting a drink, taking a shower and going to sleep. Chiharu can swing on someone else.

Chiharu hops down from the ring before Katsuki can make it ten steps. 

“Don’t you walk away from me.”

Katsuki doesn’t stop. He’s not doing this. He hears footsteps– doesn’t bother to turn.

Until Chiharu grabs his shoulder. Katsuki spins on instinct– and Chiharu’s already lunging, swinging hard. The first punch misses. 

The second doesn’t.

Fist collides with jaw. Katsuki stumbles back– the crowd backing away uneasily. The whole point of the fights– is everyone is willingly doing it. You don’t chase people down. You just don’t. Katsuki is more stunned by the fact that it happened than the actual blow.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He snarls.

“You.” Chiharu says, eyes wild. “You ruined my life.”

Katsuki doesn’t get a second to breathe. The next hit grazes his cheek. The one after that lands solid in his ribs. Katsuki snarls, slamming his shoulder forward and shoving Chiharu back.

“What the fuck is wrong with you–” Katsuki growls.

Chiharu doesn’t answer. Just comes at him again, hands up. Swinging wildly. It’s not a fight– not really. It’s too ugly for that. Not the usual ugly either. This is teeth and fury, from something Katsuki doesn’t know, spilling out like acid.

Katsuki takes him to the ground. Chiharu rolls them. A knee lands in his gut. Katsuki grunts– hooks a leg and flips them again.

Someone shouts– protesting– but no one steps in. No one would dare interrupt any of Katsukis fights. Because this is his gym. His half-built legacy. 

Chiharu pins him, hand hard against his collarbone. “You think you’re untouchable, huh?” 

Katsuki swallows blood. “You want to maybe tell me what the hell’s going on before I break you?”

“You already did.”

..Fucking what?

Katsuki freezes. Confused. Chiharu sits back, voice low and venomous. Up closer Katsuki can see the bags under his eyes.

“You don’t even know.” Chiharu sounds almost amazed. “You have no fucking clue, do you?”

Katsuki pushes himself up onto his elbows. Breathing hard. The crowd is slowly losing interest. A few hesitant glances linger before turning away. 

“Enlighten me.”

Chiharu laughs. Cracked and short. “There was a video? You moron. You and me– that night. That stupid fucking fight. The one you just had to win. Caught on camera and slapped onto TV?”

Katsuki’s face goes still. Oh.

“Yeah. That one. The one that made the news. Blew a little hole into this place– and you? Nothing happened to you. I looked it up. Nothing.” Chiharu seethes. “And me? I got fired.”

Katsuki blinks. “What?”

“Best Jeanist doesn’t keep scandal. Doesn’t keep liabilities. You think he’d keep me on after that aired– after he saw me get my ass kicked by a kid?”

Katsuki opens his mouth. Closes it. Chiharu doesn’t stop. 

“No job. No paycheck. I’ve got rent and school and no time to replace either. I’ve already missed two labs. One more and I’m out of the program. Done. Med school– gone.”

He’s shaking. Eyes glassy with fury. “And you– you get to pretend it didn’t happen. You still go to UA– this place didn’t even get shut down. You get a fucking cover story,”

Katsuki doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Chiharu breathes in a ragged breath– he’s not just angry. He’s upset. He’s panicked. He’s losing his future. And he’s not wrong. It’s Katsuki’s fault. He stares, silent. Bleeding a little.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally. Quiet, useless.

Chiharu snorts, bitter. “Yeah. No shit.”

“I’m–” Katsuki tries. The word gets stuck in his throat.

Chiharu cuts him off. “Don’t you fucking dare say sorry.”

Katsuki snaps his jaw shut. Swallows it down. Sits there, cross-legged on the floor. Bruises blooming across his jaw, arms loose on his knees.

“Sorry doesn’t fix shit,” Chiharu snaps, voice tight. “Do I look like I’m going to forgive you? You think I care if you feel bad? You ruined everything, you bitch.”

Katsuki closes his eyes. Doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t even want to. Because Katsuki did get off easy. Got slotted into a clean little white lie with Kira at his back and a reputation that’s slowly getting pieced back together.

Meanwhile Chiharu is walking a tightrope– bleeding out on one side and burning on the other. And Katsuki didn’t even think about it. Not once. Katsuki feels tired, bone exhausted. 

“..Fuck.” He mutters.

Chiharu exhales so hard it rattles. Then he sinks down– like a puppet with its strings cut. They stay there for a minute. The rest of the gym carries on. Paying them no more attention. A long minute.

Katsuki shifts. “What if– if you had somewhere to crash? Just for a bit–”

“I can’t quit my job.” Chiharu doesn’t look at him. Voice low and flat. “And rent is too high for the hours I can work. If I drop shifts, I lose the apartment. If I don’t, I fail out. Pick one.”

Katsuki’s jaw tenses. He glances up at the rafters. Don't say it. Just don’t say it.

“I’ve got a couch.”

Stupid stupid stupid. Katsuki takes a breath. He’s such a moron. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Upstairs. It’s– It’s basically a studio. I’m mostly only here on weekends.”

Chiharu turns his head. Slowly. Like he’s expecting Katsuki to be a dick and take it back. And he should. For fucks sake– he doesn’t even like Chiharu. Instead, Katsuki shrugs.

“I’m not saying live here forever– but for a while. No rent takes care of one problem. Means you could work less. Only have to pay for school– what?”

Chiharu is staring. His shoulders are loose, dropped. Just a fraction. “You’re offering me your couch?”

“Yeah.”

A beat– 

“You better not snore, asshole.”

Katsuki is surprised by the laughter that forces itself out of his chest.

Katsuki drags himself up the stairs. Every part of him throbs. Bruises already blooming under his skin, ribs sore, knuckles screaming. But it’s a good hurt– familiar. The kind that reminds him who he is. What belongs to him.

Chiharu peeled off toward the bar. Muttered something about needing a drink. Offered to grab Katsuki one too– which is never happening.

The flat is dark. Stale air and silence. He shucks his shirt off and throws a blanket onto the couch. His blood is still buzzing. The comedown always feels like this– raw and stripped down.

That could’ve been him.

The thought is sharp, lands somewhere on his shoulders. 

Chiharu, still simmering, still shaking with too much pressure and nowhere for it to go– he’s what Katsuki would’ve been. If Kira hadn’t interfered. If UA had tossed him– if Sensei had cut him loose.

Katsuki would’ve been aimless. Homeless. Pissed off and panicked. Probably worse. He swallows it. Tries not to taste the guilt coating his throat. 

He doesn’t like saying sorry. It always feels like dragging broken glass across his lips. He’d rather spar until he drops. Rather hurt this way– honest and clean. Rather shower and sleep and deal with nothing.

But-

Chiharu shoves the door open with his shoulder. Cup half empty of something that is definitely not water. Doesn’t say a word, just downs remaining liquid and falls onto the couch.

Lights off. Room quiet. Things start to settle, like they always do after a fight. Like dirt in water– sinking until it’s clear enough to see the shape of things.

It wasn’t just Chiharu that Katsuki has fucked over. 

Katsuki sinks into the bed, muscles already starting to stiffen. Head spinning slow. He tries to shove the thought away– he’s helping, isn’t he? Gave the guy a couch. Gave him space, time to breathe. 

Something else starts to scrape at him. 

This isn’t the first person he’s wrecked. 

Katsuki doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to name it– but it lands cold and sudden. 

Katsuki rolls over, uncomfortable. He’s not thinking about that nerd. He’s not. But– Chiharu lost everything in the fallout of something Katsuki did without thinking. Because Katsuki needed someone to hurt. 

Sounds familiar.

Deku never got a couch. Never got a sorry, Never got anything but blood and fear and a dozen years of Katsuki's worst days. All Katsuki has given him is a training plan and a guilt complex.

Sorry was never on the table. It felt too small. Too late. Katsuki didn’t think that it was the kind of thing that could change. Figured he’d never be able to be anything else– stuck as the kid who swung too fast and had no space left for softness.

Katsuki exhales. Frustrated. He’s going to have to apologise. Isn’t he?

Chapter Text

Despite sleeping on Kyo’s couch for four years, he never really learned to share space. 

Kyo and him kept different hours– Kyo stayed up while Katsuki slept after the fights and slept after Katsuki went to school. Only to be back up when Katsuki walked in later. Like trading shifts.

Kyo never seemed to sleep actually. Never seemed tired, well. He always seemed tired, but he never seemed exhausted. 

Basically. Katsuki has never had to adjust to another body in his space. Another rhythm. Another mess.

Chiharu makes it fucking impossible. 

Katsuki wants to be generous. He does. He’s the reason Chiharu’s barely holding his life together. If the guy wants to hog the shower on Sunday morning, fine. If he leaves a trail of socks and wrappers and tangled chargers across every flat surface, sure. He’s owed a little pettiness. Satisfying, small-scale revenge. 

Doesn’t mean Katsuki wants to kill him any less.

The small kitchenette that Katsuki has is a mess. The sink is overflowing, the oven looks like a biohazard. Katsuki woke up to the fridge empty. There's spilled milk on every surface available. He spends the better part of his morning cleaning.

By three in the afternoon. Katsuki has been staring at his phone long enough that he picks it up. He texts Kira. Not because he wants to see her. Not because he still doesn’t understand why he freaked out in her office.

Just– food. Katsuki is hungry. Chiharu has successfully turned the kitchen uninhabitable. People smooth over fights with food and money, right? That's what families do, isn’t it? Even though the word sits uncomfortably in his chest. Too close to vulnerability. 

By fourteen minutes past three, Katsuki is out of patience. Chiharu  is lying full-body on the couch, watching the same dumb video for the ninth fucking time– volume up, phone balanced above his face. Some cartoon strawberries bouncing to the most obnoxious music that was ever invented.

Katsuki hopes he drops it on his face.

Katsuki lasts another two minutes before slamming his glass onto the counter. Mouth tight in a smile that's more teeth than anything. His voice is sharp.

“I could talk to Best Jeanist.”

Chiharu barely looks at him. “What?”

“I can talk to him. I did my internship with him. He doesn’t hate me,” Katsuki lies through his teeth. Best Jeanist thinks Katsuki is a walking PR nightmare. “I could get Kira to talk to him. Explain the video, you could–”

“No.”

Katsuki clenches his jaw. “No?”

“So eager to get rid of me?” Chiharu glances over. Half-lidded, unimpressed. 

Katsuki bristles. “No–”

“I’m not crawling back to that asshole.”

There's a beat. Chiharu peels a wrapper off his chest and flicks it onto the table.  

“Most people get fired behind closed doors.” He says, voice clipped. “Me? I got the full parade. That video aired and Jeanist marched into the clinic like I’d kicked his baby. Fired me in front of the whole floor”

Katsuki hates how that makes sense. Chirharu doesn’t say he was humiliated. Doesn’t have to. The fruit keeps dancing.

Katsuki goes leaves Chiharu to his cursed videos and fucks off downstairs. Better to keep his hands busy than sit there and stew.

There’s not much to clean, not really. The regulars gym members keep the floor tidy, the people Kira hired maintain the ring like clockwork. The bar is stocked but shuttered– closed until the main fights kick off. 

He does a half-assed sweep anyway. Wipes down already-clean counters. Tightens bolts that don’t need it. It’s busy work, but it gives him something to do besides think. 

People start trickling in around seven. Early. Earlier than most nights have ever kicked off. A few familiar faces light up when they see him. Otoya claps him on the back in passing, Katsuki gives a vague grunt in return. Doesn’t know most of them by name. Doesn’t care to.

Kira shows up a little before things kick off. Katsuki hesitates when he sees her, take-out bag in hand.

He doesn’t even like burritos. Yet he takes the bag when it's handed to him. 

“Thanks.”

“It’s fine.” She says, giving him a look. Long and searching. “I’m going to swing in the smaller rings tonight.”

“No quirks?”

Kira never fights in the big ones. Katsuki hasn't actually seen her fight at all. Not since Kyo died. Katsuki hasn’t ever seen her use her quirk.

“No quirks. It still feels like cheating.”

Katsuki turns to the bar, he’ll eat his god-awful burrito and then he’ll beat his feelings out of his chest.

But, his idea to make a line-up has come back to bite him on the ass. Jyun, perched behind the bar with her usual stoic look, shrugs. 

“You were right. Making people wait turns builds hype,” She says, polishing a glass she doesn’t need to while ignoring people trying to order. “Means more bets. Bigger pot. You jumping in first ruins the rhythm.”

Katsuki scowls. Swallowing a mouthful of rice and beans. She’s not wrong. The fights are already going– random matchups, a little sloppy. Rowdy enough to keep the energy up.

It makes him preen though, just a little, how the real show is saved from him. 

“Word has gotten round. That you’re back for the night.” She nods towards the crowd. “Already got your little fan club lining up to try their luck.”

Katsuki grunts. Unamused.

A guy next to him with buzzed blue hair snorts into his beer bottle. “Must be because of that video. Everyone wants a piece of Yuki now.”

Katsuki blinks. But before he can ask anything, another man slides up to the counter–the worst scar Katsuki has seen on the guy's face. Like cracked glass glued back together, deep and chin to temple.

“What video?”

Bluey sets his beer down. “This bitchass reporter snuck in one night. I don’t know how he got a camera in here but he did. Stuck it up on this little channel for everyone to see. Couple people almost lost jobs over it.”

“No way.” Scarface says, aghast.

“ Yes. Yuki and Chiharu were the ones in it. Made this place look bad– well it showed that it exists.”

“The fight club didn’t seem like a good thing?” Scarface remarks, grinning as he gets his own beer. 

“Don’t be smart. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Yeah, Alright,” The guy shrugs. “So, how come we’re still open?”

“Remember Takahashi?” Bluey grins spinning on his stool to point to Kira mid fight. Katsuki turns with them just in time to see her knock someone out. “You know how terrifying she is?”

 “Oh. Completely.” 

“She handled it.”

Scarface nods, certain. Like that's all the explanation needed. Kira wanted to fix it– so it got fixed.  

A heteromorph leans over Scarface's shoulder, her eyes pitch black. Two fuzzy round ears on top of her head, and a long thin muzzle. Like an anteater, or a shrew. Tiny fangs poke out the side of her mouth. 

“So, what happened to the reporter?” Scarface asks.

Bluey huffs into his drink. Shaking his head.

“He got fired.” Shewry, the heteromorph, speaks with a lisp. “Nowhere will hire him for being a fuck ass snitch.”

Scarface looks at her, presses a kiss to her temple and wraps an arm around her waist. “Really?”

“Really, everyone here was pissed.” She says, snatching Scarface’s beer bottle. “Paid him a little visit."

Then Bluey leans forward. Clinks their bottles together. The easy motion makes Katsuki stare. They are all friends, good friends. In his gym. He doesn’t have the words for what he’s feeling.

“Hey. Boss!” Jyun calls from the other side of the bar. “You’re up.”

The bell rings, the crowd tightens around his ring. Eyes sharp and voices low this anticipation. Katsuki hasn’t lost since that first night back. His fights are revered. 

Katsuki steps in, rolling his shoulders, gloves off. Across from him the fighter looms– huge, Like a walking boulder. Thick skin, broad shoulders, a prominent brow bone. The guy looks like a caveman. Built to endure.

They start slow, circling like wolves. Testing each other. Katsuki has seen him fight. Seen in the crowd a couple times too. Caveman is the type of guy you can break chairs on, and only splinter your own hands.

The next few minutes are an ugly dance. Katsuki is faster, sharper. But the guy absorbs everything. The ring rattle with each clash. Katsuki’s hands sting from the punches. He’s sweating now, hands sparking. He doesn’t stop it, not in this ring.

He ducks a wide swing, knees bent and explodes upwards with a shot to the jaw that snaps the guy’s head back– but not down. 

Caveman grins, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, and grabs Katsuki by the arm.

Crunch.

Katsuki’s shoulder pops loud, white-hot pain exploding across his chest. He yells louder, stumbling back cradling his now useless left arm.

The crowd gasps. The fight should be over for him, Caveman certainly seems to think so. Advancing carelessly.

Too bad. If he wanted to win he should have dislocated the other arm too. 

Katsuki spits onto the floor, fingers twitching on his right arm.

His quirk ignites.

The blast is pure rage, close-range and aimed low. It slams into the man’s gut and knocks him back three steps. Katsuki follows him, half-limping, and drives his fist into the guy's jaw. 

Dust and heat explode around them. The crowd howls.

Caveman goes sags, dazed. But not down. Not yet. Another blast takes him in the chest, sending him to the floor. Stone skin scorched and cracked. Hands scrabble, Caveman trying to get back up. Katsuki steps on one wrist, grabs Caveman by the bangs and slams his head into the ground.

Twice.

The crowd erupts as Katsuki stands up. Caveman remains unresponsive. His shoulder aches, he has to slouch to avoid jostling it. Clenching his jaw as he climbs out the ropes. Caveman is already being dragged off as others take to the ring.

Katsuki finds somewhere to sit. He barely has time to think about what he should do when a familiar voice reaches his ears.

“Here, let me.” Chiharu steps into Katsuki space.

He snarls, instinctively. Lip curling at Chiharu's mere presence. He doesn’t flinch though, never does. He had put up with worse during Katsuki’s internship. Katsuki has scared off half the clinic once just by existing– Chiharu stuck around. Probably out of spite.

“Don’t be a baby,” Chiharu mutters, already gripping his arm.

Katsuki grits his teeth, sucks in a breath as Chiharu rotates the joint. Firm and clinical, pracisted in a way that reassures Katsuki. A sharp twist, a wet pop.

White bursts across his eyes. 

“There you go, Gorgeous.” Chiharu purrs. “See? No need to be a whiny bitch about it.”

Katsuki breathes through his nose. “Wasn’t.”

Chiharu grins, shit-eating and proud. The kind that says he knows exactly where to push– and how hard.

Then something flickers.

A ripple– like sunlight glancing off a body of water– flits over Chiharu’s cheek and down his neck. There and gone. Katsuki blinks.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what?”

“That–” Katsuki waves his good hand vaguely. “The skin thing. You just– shimmered.”

Chiharu raises a brow. Katsuki can taste the judgement, and bites his cheek to keep from snapping. Something dawns in Chiharu’s eyes.

“ Oh, right. That’s my quirk.”

Katsuki squints at him. “Your what now?”

“Camouflage.”

And then Chiharu raises an arm, the skin ripples again. From elbow to wrist, the color bleeds aways, matching the scuffed gym floor. Light bends unnaturally. By the time it reaches his hand – the damn things gone. Invisible. Like it vanished right at the elbow.

Katsuki leans in, fascinated despite himself. “Holy shit.”

Chiharu moves his arm– Katsuki can’t even catch the shadows from where he knows the rest of Chiharu’s arm must be.

“You could’ve led with that,” Katsuki mutters, “Why the fuck are you in med school when youve got a quirk like this?”

Chiharu blinks at him. “What?”

“You could be underground. Recon. Special ops. Spying from goddamn ceilings.” Katsuki’s mind is already racing– schematics, tactics, movement. “You could lead raids. Be a fucking ghost.”

Chiharu tilts his head, unimpressed. “I could also rob a bank.”

“...Okay, yeah. But–”

“I mean it.” Chiharu says, eyes glinting. “I could rob three banks and vanish before even the Pros showed up. Hide in vaults. Walk past cameras. Poison CEOs. I could do a lot of things, Bakugou.”

Katsuki stares. “What–”

“I like medicine,” Chiharu continues. In that matter-of-fact way that somehow makes it worse. “I like blood. I like fixing people. I like cutting things open. Surgery’s precise. Messy. Beautiful.”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just say five things, that should have Katsuki ringing Sensei,  back-to-back.

“I don’t give a shit about being a hero,” Chiharu adds. “I’d rather sew them back together after they screw up.”

Katsuki watches him. Really watches. That flicker of something too sharp, too bright in his eyes. Steady hands, a smile to charm.

“You’re unhinged.”

“I’m passionate.”

“Same thing.”

Chiharu grins wider. “You’re welcome for the shoulder, by the way.”

Then he turns on his heel, already sauntering off towards the bar like he didn’t just yank Katsuki’s arm back into place like a Lego piece. Katsuki flexes his fingers once, then twice. Functional, still sore.

He’s still catching his breath when Kira appears beside him. 

“You good, baby?” She asks, scanning him. Her eyes linger on the shoulder he’s rolling gingerly.

“Fine.” Katsuki jerks his chin toward Chiharu’s retreating back. “He’s surprisingly useful.”

“Chiharu?”

“Mm”

She tilts her head. “What’s he even doing here? I thought he would avoid this place.”

Katsuki hesitates. “He lost his job.”

“Sucks.”

“So.. I offered him the couch.”

Kira turns to him slowly. “The couch?”

Katsuki shrugs with his one good shoulder. She says nothing at first. Just keeps looking at him like she’s waiting for the punchline.

“You’re living with him?”

“Roommates.” He mutters.

Kira’s expression shifts through several emotions within seconds– surprise, confusion and finally something close to horror.

“This is going to end horribly.”

Katsuki watches Chiharu kick his feet onto the bar, like he owns the place. Katsuki thinks about throwing him through a window.

“What do you mean? We’re bonding.”

“I give it a week.”

“Two weeks.” Katsuki says with a grin.

Kira laughs. Lightly brushing a hand over his hair. “Ice that shoulder, sweetheart.”

Monday comes fast. Too fast. 

Katsuki drags himself through the gates of UA, with all the grace of a seventy year old with osteoporosis. His arm still aches, and he’s sure he has at least one cracked rib. But he’s walking. That qualifies as fine.

Sensei is there. Capture weapon floating, and eyes scanning the crowd of incoming students like a hawk. He clocks Katsuki almost immediately. Katsuki tries to duck– get exactly two steps before Sensei grabs his shirt collar.

“You’re limping.”

Katsuki snarls, twisting in Sensei’s grip. “I’m walking.”

“You’re going to Recovery Girl.”

A few students look up. Most scatter out of the way. No one wants to get caught in Sensei’s path– not when he’s in this mood. Or any mood really.

Katsuki fights it, obviously. Swearing the whole way down the hall. Jerking his shoulder when Sensei guides him too roughly. It’s a lost cause. By the time they get there, Recovery Girl’s already prepped and unimpressed.

“Good God, Aizawa,” She says, squinting at Katsuki like he personally offended her. “What did he do, roll down a mountain?”

“I’m right here.” Katsuki bristles as Sensei tries to shove him onto the exam table. 

She levels him with a look that rivals Kira's. The look that stops grown men in their tracks. Katsuki shrinks back gnashing teeth. Sensei stands back, unamused. 

“All right Bakugou, take off your shirt.” Recovery Girl says.

Katsuki sighs. He has half a mind to fight that too, but he’s still riding the high of Sunday. Instead he huffs, and unbuttons the uniform shirt. He eases out of it. Recovery Girl finds every tender and sore spot he has with her boney fingers. He thinks she’s doing it on purpose.

“Did you– was this dislocated? Are your ribs cracked?” She says, aghast.

Katsuki grins. He can’t help it. “Are you going to complain, or are you going to do your job?”

“Bakugou.” Sensei warns.

“I have half a mind not to.” She huffs, pressing around his shoulder. “See if it helps you learn your lesson.”

“You don’t have to.” Katsuki says lightly. “I’m still going to train anyway.”

Recovery Girl eyes him, and with the most annoyance he’s seen from her yet– smacks a wet kiss to his cheek. The aches disappear almost instantly. The bruises clear up. Katsuki stretches his arm– and then yawns. He’s almost surprised how good it feels to not feel like death. 

“You should skip a class, take a nap.” Aizawa Sensei says, frowning at him. Arms crossed.

Katsuki shrugs. He rolls his shoulder again– just to feel the lack of pain. She really could make one hell of a profit. “Not a chance.”

“You’re hurt.” Sensei’s voice sharpens, just slightly. Not enough for Recovery Girl to notice, or care from across the room. But Katsuki catches it. “You went back to that place and–”

“It’s a club. A boxing club.” Katsuki says, too fast.

Sensei raises a brow. Just one. The same way he does when Kaminari is trying to bluff his way out of a question. A trademark I-call-bullshit motion. 

Katsuki swallows. But he doesn’t blink, doesn’t back down. Instead, Katsuki meets his teacher’s stare head on and dares him to say what they’re both thinking out loud.

It’s not just a club. It’s a fight ring. An underground circuit with no safety rails, no referees, no rules. But Katsuki has thirty seven documents saying the exact opposite.

Sensei sighs through his nose. “That club gave you a dislocated shoulder and cracked ribs. Not to mention the countless injuries you’ve shown up with before.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Katsuki shrugs again. “The Hag kissed it all better, didn’t she?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then make one.”

Sensei doesn’t answer immediately. He rubs his nose bridge. Closing his eyes and letting out another bone deep sigh. 

“You’re not reckless. You train harder than anyone else in my class. You don’t cut corners, you plan your hits. You stretch.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes, a warmth blooming in his chest at the compliments. Where is Sensei going with this?

“So why on earth would you do this?” Sensei continues. “Letting people hit you in a place where no one will stop them. For what? Glory? Cash? Reputation?”

Katsuki's jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer. Sensei’s face is unreadable, but Katsuki can feel the disappointment falling off him. 

“It makes me better.” Katsuki says. Sensei opens his mouth but Katsuki keeps going. “It makes me feel better. Calmer. Clubs are good for that.”

Sensei rubs a hand down his face. “You’ve got two and a half years left here. Two years before the world opens up and tries to eat you alive– and you’re sprinting into it like you’ve got something to prove.”

Katsuki straightens. It lands like an accusation and Katsuki doesn’t like that. This is his life, his ring, his friends. Sensei needs to back off. 

Sensei studies him for a moment. Then slouches. “You’re not going to stop are you?”

“No.”

The honesty in his voice surprises them both. He’s not lying. Because the truth is– he needs it. The weight of fists. The blood. The noise. It’s the only place that shuts his brain off long enough to let him breathe.

Katsuki hops off the exam table. 

That’s the easy part. Putting his shirt back on and going to his first class. The easy part is shrugging a hello to Mina and Kaminari, grunting at Kirishima like nothing has changed. Avoiding all the staff's concerned gazes like it's a competitive sport.

The harder part is Deku.

They’ve started doing this– thing. Circling each other like boxers before a match. Nobody throws the first punch. Nobody says what matters.

Katsuki has no fucking idea how to say sorry. Not for what counts, not for threatening to expose the secrets Deku is literally building his hero career on. Not for everything he did before they had words like one for all between. 

So he pretends it didn’t happen.

But Deku doesn’t let him get away with that either. 

Of all the times he chooses not to be a pushover– he picks now. Deku doesn’t get cold. Doesn’t push. He just gives Katsuki these looks all through the day, quiet and unreadable. Like he’s waiting.

Then after training with Cementoss, everyone else heads to the showers, while Katsuki is flicking the last of his sweat off instead of dragging it with him. 

That’s when Deku approaches him. Slides a hand into his stupid little waist pouches and pulls out a book.

Small, bent. Spine cracked and misformed. Katsuki goes cold. In his rush to get out of UA, he didn’t bring the fucking book. Years of bets recorded in Katsuki’s name. Money, odds. All of it. Names and numbers that say fight club louder than any headline could.

Katsuki stiffens. “You went into my fucking room?”

Deku shifts. Guilty. “Yeah.”

“You went through my things, you– give it.” Katsuki snaps, lunging. 

Deku isn’t waving it around. He’s holding it like it’s fragile when Katsuki pulls it out of his hands. Another long silence. Deku looks at him. 

“That wasn’t a club, was it Kacchan?” He asks. Deku isn’t looking for an answer though. “That man– the fights. It’s been going on a while hasn’t it?”

Katsuki snarls. “Why the fuck do you– going to run to Sensei on me, Deku?”

Katsuki doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Another fight. Another argument. Another round of exhausting lies while Katsuki clings to everything he cares about by his fingernails. It’s daunting. Just for a second.

He’s still going to do it though.

“No, Kacchan, I’m not.” Deku says instead. 

“No?” Katsuki repeats, stunned.

Deku shakes his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Not unless you tell me. But I won’t tell anyone. Not if you don’t.”

Katsuki frowns. Something ugly in his gut. He hates talking when he can’t back it up. Hates that Deku has no idea Katsuki was bluffing in the first place. Instead Katsuki closes his fists. He takes a deep breath. 

“I wasn’t going to. Tell people, not about that. And I don’t want to tell people about my shit either. Not even you.”

That makes Deku frown. “I don’t trust them, Kacchan. Not that man, not anyone in that video–”

“I’m not asking you to trust them.” Katsuki snaps. “I’m telling you to mind your business.”

Katsuki is asking Deku to trust him, instead. A beat, Deku looks at him. Long and measured, like he’s looking right through Katsuki.

“Okay, Kacchan.”

It’s quiet. Sincere. Katsuki’s jaw locks. He looks at Deku for a second longer than he means to. He wants to say something. He should say something.

Something like thank you or I’m sorry – for the threat, for everything else that went on since they were four years old and jumping in creeks together. But the words don’t come. He clutches the notebook like a lifeline.

“This doesn’t change anything.”

“Okay, Kacchan.”

“I’m still– fuck, I’m still mad. You’re still annoying.” Katsuki says. “You went into my room, you little creep.”

“Okay, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki turns. Starts walking toward the locker rooms. Deku a step behind him. But the air is clearer. Deku clears his throat.

“Are we training tonight?”

“Fucking obviously, you slacker.” Katsuki snaps, chest light.

The thing about drills is that they are used to practice. The whole point of them is so when the real thing happens– you’re ready. Even if every single person plays along. Even when the stakes are supposed to feel real, it still feels fucking ridiculous. 

Katsuki tries to shake the feels as he pulls on his hero costume. Sensei had announced that they were kicking class up a notch and to be ready, seconds before an alarm sounded. Too perfect. Like someone queued it on a playlist. Theatrics.

He makes it to the training grounds with the rest of the class. The Octopus and Jirou skid forward, branching out with their quirks before relaying information. A collapsed building, currently on fire. A person in the river and two unknown villains in the area. 

A perfect little setup.

Four Eyes is already pulling a cart with Icy-Hot and more towards the building. Katsuki doesn’t follow. Instead, he snags the back of Kirishima and Kaminari’s costumes. 

“Hey!– Bakugou?” Kaminari whines, stumbling as he gets dragged sideways..

“Relax dipshits,” Katsuki grunts. “We’re going villain hunting.”

“Shouldn’t we atleast offer to help the others first?” Kirishima asks, shooting a look at the burning building. But he’s already following too.

“No point. They have their little teams. You don’t send two fire trucks for one fire.” Katsuki says, moving forward. 

“I’m pretty sure you do, actually.” Kaminari snarks, grinning.

He shouldn't be anywhere near a burning building. Unless you wanted to double the amount of fire you have. And he can’t do shit for someone in water. His hero costume is too heavy to swim in– and they have people who are better suited towards water. Katsuki thinks they do. 

He has got to learn his classmates' names. 

“Start a grid sweep,” Katsuki barks. “North to south. Tight corners.”

Kaminari groans but moves. Kirishima sighs, but follows. For a while, there’s nothing. It’s almost boring. Smoke curls into the air, followed by shouts. There. Kirishima rounds the corner running towards him.

“Come on– over there, Bakugou!” Kirishima shouts.

Katsuki’s head snaps up. Kaminari’s close behind, smiling like an idiot. Katsuki stops him from running towards the smoke.

“Hey. You can hotwire that, right?” Katsuki jerks his chin.

Kaminari slows next to Katsuki, eyes following where Katsuki is pointing. A bright shiny red sports car. Probably a prop– but it should work. They can make it work. Kaminari grins, hands already twitching. 

“Oh definitely. And we– we should save our energy. For the fight.”

Katsuki grins back. Kirishima looks nervously between them. 

“I hate this already”

“Get in the car, Kirishima.”

Kaminari has already got a panel open, yanking two wires into his mouth as the engine roars to life. He puts it in first and peels into the empty streets. 

“Buckle up, kiddos.” Kaminari says, mumbles around the wires, and then he floors it. 

They round the corner ten seconds later– fast enough to make Katsuki’s teeth rattle– and he can see the others. Too far away to join, but close enough that Katsuki can see the zigzag of Deku mid-fight. At least he’s using some of the moves Katsuki showed him. 

Katsuki climbs onto the hood of the car.

“Bakugou! What are you–?” 

“Shut up and keep it steady.” Katsuki says. “Kirishima. Up.”

“Why?!” Kirishima cries, but he’s already climbing over the windscreen.

Katsuki grabs his arms, turning Kirishima to face away from Katsuki. Pulling him closer so Katsuki can get the angle right. Back to chest.

He’s going to turn them into a human cannon and it’s going to be awesome. Feet locked to the hood, Katsuki leans forward over Kirishima's shoulder. Hand on his back.

“Ready, Red?”

Kirishima lets out a strangled sound, but his back hardens. Katsuki detonates it. The car bucks with the force of his explosion, tires screeching. Katsuki has to grab the top of the windscreen to avoid getting flung off.

Kirishima rockets through the air like a missile. Katsuki’s aim is perfect. 

He slams into the back of the faux villain. Taking them to the ground. Katsuki grins. The villain gets back up– Katsuki recognises them. LimpDick– from the raid.