Chapter Text
The cold air sank its teeth into Katsuki’s skin, sharp enough to remind him he’d forgotten his gloves again. Downtown Musutafu stretched wide and alive around him, its neon signs flickering like electric beacons against the growing dusk. The low hum of engines and the scuff of hurried footsteps wove into the distant laugh of a kid across the street. The cacophony grated on him, every noise feeding the itch in his palms for action.
Beside him, Best Jeanist moved like a phantom. His steps were deliberate, his long coat flowing like it had its own damn choreography. Katsuki kept his eyes forward, fists jammed into his pockets. The weight of his gauntlets dragged at his shoulders tonight, though he wasn’t sure if that was real or just his nerves.
“Bakugou,” Jeanist’s voice sliced through the ambient noise like the snap of fabric in the wind. Calm. Controlled. “Your pacing betrays you.”
Katsuki’s jaw twitched, the muscles tightening with a sharp, almost painful pull. His teeth ground together, the pressure sending a dull ache through his molars. Heat simmered under his skin, crawling up his neck and prickling at his scalp. His hands, jammed into his pockets, curled into tight fists, the fabric bunching under his fingers. A low, almost imperceptible growl rumbled in his throat, but he swallowed it back, his chest tightening with the effort. What the hell did that even mean? He wasn’t pacing—he was walking, like a normal person. His boots hit the pavement a little harder than they probably needed to, but so what? Jeanist’s soft, steady strides irritated him, the sound measured and unbothered in a way that felt mocking.
“Your progress in managing your instincts has been admirable,” Jeanist continued, his tone like a perfectly folded crease. “But impatience is still your Achilles’ heel.”
Katsuki sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. The faint scent of exhaust clung to the air, stinging his lungs as it mixed with his simmering frustration. “Tch. Whatever. I’m not some damn kid who needs a lecture.”
Jeanist didn’t flinch or sigh like Katsuki expected. Instead, his gaze remained fixed ahead, distant but unwavering. It only made Katsuki’s nerves buzz harder, the energy under his skin growing unbearable.
The shriek of an alarm shattered the uneasy quiet, sharp and jarring enough to slice through bone. Katsuki’s head snapped toward the sound, his heartbeat kicking into overdrive as he spotted smoke curling from the entrance of a boutique. Gold lettering gleamed faintly on shattered glass doors, and shards glittered like crushed stars across the pavement.
“Stay sharp,” Jeanist ordered, his voice taut with authority as he moved. His stride quickened, his coat snapping with each step, but his shoulders stayed low, steady, controlled.
Katsuki didn’t wait for an invitation. The second his boots hit the ground, he launched himself forward, heat surging to life in his palms. The boutique reeked of burnt plastic and something sharp—perfume, maybe. It stung his nose, the sweetness cloying and almost sickening as it choked the air like smoke.
Inside, mannequins lay scattered across the floor, their limbs bent at odd angles. Katsuki’s gaze darted past them, his muscles coiled tight. And then he froze.
A girl. Tiny, no older than five or six, with messy braids and tear-streaked cheeks. Her screams cut through the chaos, thin and desperate, as she thrashed against the arms of a masked villain. Her small fists pounded uselessly against his chest, her sobs breaking into hiccups that made her voice crack.
Katsuki’s chest tightened, heat pooling in his gut. His legs moved before his brain caught up, carrying him closer. The heat in his palms burned hotter, sharper, as the image of the girl—small and helpless—seared into his mind.
“Oi!” he barked, his voice cracking like thunder. “Put her down, asshole!”
The villain turned, his movements stiff, the girl still squirming in his arms. Katsuki saw the way his grip tightened on her, her face scrunching in pain. A low, guttural snarl ripped from his throat as he launched himself forward, explosions roaring to life in his hands.
The air blurred around him as he propelled himself forward, faster, harder. His target came into focus—a split second to aim, to calculate. His boot slammed into the villain’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The bastard’s head snapped back, and he crumpled, the girl tumbling from his grasp like a doll.
Katsuki caught her mid-fall. Her weight was feather-light in his arms, trembling as she clung to his chest. Her face pressed into his suit, the warmth of her tears soaking through the fabric.
“Hey,” he muttered, his voice rough but quieter than usual. “You’re okay, kid. Got it? It’s over.”
But she didn’t stop crying. Her small hands gripped his suit, her sobs growing louder, harder, like she couldn’t stop the flood. “I—” she hiccupped, gasping for air. “I didn’t mean to—!”
A sudden poof erupted from her chest, the sound soft but startling. Katsuki flinched as a cloud of glittery pink and blue dust enveloped them both. It clung to his skin, his hair, his suit, shimmering faintly in the dim light. The scent hit him next—sweet and overpowering, like candy left to melt in the sun.
He coughed, stumbling as the dust coated his throat. “What the—” His voice broke off as his vision swam, the glitter settling in a slow, lazy spiral around them.
When the air cleared, the girl was staring up at him, her eyes wide and wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I—I didn’t mean to—my quirk—!”
Katsuki didn’t have time for this. He adjusted his grip, holding her closer. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s get you back to your mom, alright?”
His boots felt weird as he walked—loose, like they didn’t fit right. The heel of one boot rubbed against his skin with every step, irritating enough to make him wince. His socks had slipped down just enough to bunch annoyingly at his ankles, and he could feel the rough leather threatening to wear blisters into his skin. The sensation gnawed at him, each misstep feeding the restless frustration bubbling under his skin. The sleeves of his suit bunched awkwardly at his wrists, and the fabric tugged at his shoulders like it wasn’t sitting where it should. He ground his teeth, ignoring the uncomfortable pull of everything, and pushed forward.
The boutique was still a mess when he arrived, but the girl’s mother was there. The moment she saw them, her face crumpled, and she let out a wail that made Katsuki flinch. She rushed forward, arms outstretched, as if she couldn’t believe her kid was real.
“Mommy!” the girl cried, squirming out of Katsuki’s arms with a frantic twist. She threw herself at her mother, who collapsed to her knees with a broken, guttural sob, her arms snapping around the child like a lifeline. “Oh my baby, my baby,” the mother wailed, her fingers trembling as they cradled her daughter’s face, smoothing back messy braids and searching for any sign of injury.
Jeanist stood a few paces behind her, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders, his composed expression betraying a flicker of exhaustion. “She thought her daughter had been taken for her quirk,” he murmured to Katsuki, his tone low enough to keep the panic from spiraling.
The mother pressed her forehead against the girl’s, her tears streaming unchecked down her face. “They were going to take you! Oh god, I thought… I thought…” Her words broke into gasps, her chest heaving as she clung to the child, as if loosening her grip might let her vanish. The girl hiccupped through her own tears, clutching her mother’s jacket tightly, her small voice barely audible through the sobs. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to use my quirk… I didn’t mean…”
Katsuki stood frozen, his throat tight and a strange weight pressing against his ribs. The mother’s cries rose and fell in jagged waves, the sound raw and unfiltered, clawing at the quiet like a storm.
“Bakugou,” Jeanist called, his voice sharp and steady. Katsuki turned toward him, ready to report back. “The villain was carrying—”
Jeanist froze.
Katsuki frowned, the words dying on his tongue. Jeanist’s usually impassive face shifted, his mouth tightening into a thin line, and his sharp brows creased ever so slightly. His posture, always poised and precise, stiffened—like the air had turned colder, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
“What?” Katsuki snapped, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”
Jeanist’s lips parted, but no words came out. His eyes flicked down, scanning Katsuki from head to toe with an intensity that made Katsuki’s skin crawl. There was a moment of silence, thick and suffocating, before Jeanist finally spoke, his voice low and careful.
“Bakugou,” he said slowly, like he was trying to piece the words together as he spoke them. “Look at yourself.”
The hospital air hit Katsuki like a slap—too sharp, too clean. The sterile scent clawed at his nose, each breath sticking in his throat like he’d swallowed cotton. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, their unrelenting brightness stinging his eyes and casting a cold pall over the too-white walls. He hated hospitals. Always had. They reeked of antiseptic and quiet desperation, the kind of place where pain lingered in the air long after it was gone.
He perched on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling awkwardly, the grippy socks they’d given him bunching uncomfortably at his ankles. His boots were in the corner, discarded like they’d betrayed him. The gown hung loose on his frame, the stiff fabric scratching against his skin with every slight movement. Katsuki’s hands twisted in the edge of the gown, his nails biting into the material as he tapped his foot against the linoleum floor, the sound faint but rhythmic—the only noise he could control.
The door creaked open, and Katsuki’s muscles tensed, his head snapping up like a coil unwinding too fast. Mitsuki entered first, her heels clicking sharp and fast against the floor. Her arms were crossed tightly, her shoulders set high like a bowstring ready to snap. Her mouth was a thin, tense line, and her eyes swept over him with a frantic energy that made Katsuki’s stomach churn.
Masaru followed quietly, his presence softer, almost hesitant. He lingered by the doorway for a moment before stepping forward, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His gaze flitted between Mitsuki and Katsuki, his expression careful, like he wasn’t sure where to look.
“What the hell is taking them so long?” Mitsuki demanded, her voice cracking like a whip. Her arms tightened against her chest as she glanced toward the hallway. “They should’ve been in here by now! This is important—”
“Mitsuki,” Masaru said gently, his voice low and even, the kind of calm that was meant to temper storms. “Give them time.”
She whirled on him, her frustration boiling over in an instant. “Time? Our son—” Her voice faltered, and Katsuki saw her throat tighten before she forced the words back out. “We don’t have time for this.”
Katsuki’s nails dug harder into the fabric of the gown, his knuckles aching from the pressure. The word son hung in the air, heavy and sharp, slicing through his thoughts and lodging itself somewhere in his chest. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together until his molars ached.
Masaru approached cautiously, his steps deliberate, slow, like he was walking on glass. He stopped a few feet away from the bed, his hands still buried in his jacket pockets. “How are you holding up, Katsuki?” he asked softly, his voice steady but laced with worry.
“I’m fine,” Katsuki muttered, the words falling out flat and bitter. His hands twisted the gown tighter, the rough fabric scraping against his palms. He couldn’t meet Masaru’s eyes, his gaze fixed instead on a scuff mark on the linoleum floor.
Mitsuki’s sharp gaze snapped to him, her anger latching onto the first crack she could find. “Fine?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You’re sitting here like this, and you think you’re fine?”
“I said I’m fine!” Katsuki barked, his voice cutting through the room like shattered glass. His chest heaved with the force of his words, his breath catching unevenly. The heat under his skin threatened to boil over, but it didn’t drown out the tremor in his hands. “Just… drop it, alright?”
Masaru stepped back slightly, his hands raising in a placating gesture. “We’re just worried about you,” he said softly, his tone careful, deliberate, like he was treading on thin ice.
“Well, don’t!” Katsuki snapped again, his fists tightening until his nails dug into his palms. His throat felt tight, his words scraping their way out. “I don’t need—” The sentence died in his mouth, unfinished, because he didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know what he needed. Didn’t know anything anymore.
Mitsuki muttered something under her breath, her frustration bubbling just under the surface. She turned sharply, her heels clicking like gunfire as she stormed toward the door. “I’m going to find someone who actually knows what the hell is going on,” she said, her voice low and sharp, her hands shaking as she yanked the door open. The door swung shut behind her with a hollow, final-sounding click.
The silence that followed was suffocating, wrapping itself around Katsuki’s chest and squeezing until his breath came shallow and sharp. Masaru didn’t leave, though. He stayed where he was, his presence a quiet weight in the room, neither comforting nor intrusive.
Katsuki leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his head dropping into his hands as if he could fold himself small enough to disappear. The scratchy hospital gown clung to his skin, every shift of fabric making him hyper-aware of the weight of his own body. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into his scalp, the faint sting of his nails grounding him in a way nothing else could. He felt their eyes on him—his dad’s quiet, worried gaze and the invisible scorch of his mom’s anger lingering even in her absence—and the shame that coiled in his stomach was almost unbearable.
Why did it feel like he was on display? Like some damn specimen for them to analyze and argue over? The weight in his chest tightened, an ache spreading through his ribs as his thoughts spun. He didn’t understand any of this—why his heart wasn’t screaming in revolt, why the soft, surreal calmness was there instead.
He didn’t hate it. That was the worst part. He couldn’t hate the way his body felt lighter now, the way his breaths came easier, or how the shame twisting in his stomach was fighting against a strange, tentative sense of rightness.
Masaru shifted in his chair, the faint creak pulling Katsuki from his spiraling thoughts. “Katsuki,” his dad tried again, his voice hesitant, almost pleading.
“Just stop,” Katsuki muttered, his words muffled by the press of his palms against his face. His voice cracked, low and brittle. “I don’t need you to… just don’t.”
Masaru leaned back slightly, his hands clasped tightly together as if he were holding himself in place. The quiet between them stretched out again, heavy and suffocating, but neither of them moved to fill it.
The sound of heels clicking against the linoleum broke the uneasy stillness. Mitsuki’s sharp, hurried steps filled the hallway before the door creaked open again. This time, a man in a white coat followed her in, his clipboard tucked neatly under one arm. His glasses caught the overhead light, reflecting it back like a mirror, obscuring his expression.
Mitsuki’s voice rose before the door even swung fully open. “Finally! What took so long? We’ve been waiting for answers, and my son—”
“Ma’am,” the doctor interjected, his voice calm and steady, the kind of measured tone that sucked all the air from the room. “Let’s address everything at once.”
Mitsuki’s lips thinned, her arms tightening around herself as if physically holding her words back. She stayed silent, but her foot tapped sharply against the linoleum, the rhythm erratic and charged with frustration, arms crossed tightly over her chest, but the way her hands gripped at her sleeves exposed the way her soul ripped through her nerves.
Katsuki’s gaze shifted to the doctor, his chest tightening as the man’s sharp eyes flicked over him, scanning quickly but thoroughly. The man’s presence filled the room with an unshakable sense of authority, like he’d done this a hundred times before.
“Bakugou Katsuki?” the doctor asked, his tone measured as he stopped at the foot of the bed. Katsuki nodded stiffly, his fingers curling tighter into the fabric of the gown, the texture rough and unyielding against his skin. The doctor adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching the harsh overhead light, masking his eyes. His expression remained calm, unreadable, as he began.
“From what we’ve gathered, the quirk you were exposed to triggered a profound biological transformation. At the molecular level, your anatomy has shifted entirely to that of a biological female. This includes chromosomal changes, hormonal shifts, and physical reconfiguration. Your body now presents as genetically female, but with certain unique markers that indicate quirk-induced alterations.”
Katsuki’s grip on the gown tightened further, his knuckles aching from the strain. He felt his heart thrum in his chest—steady, strong—a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his thoughts. The words felt surreal, each one heavier than the last, sinking into his mind like stones into water.
The doctor continued, his voice clinical but steady. “It’s also worth noting that this transformation seems to have addressed and repaired injuries you sustained during the war, particularly those from your confrontation with All For One. Scarring, internal damage—all of it appears to have been fully healed. Medically speaking, you’re in excellent health and your heart has completely healed.”
He paused, glancing briefly at Mitsuki and Masaru, before adding, “That said, attempts to reverse these changes carry significant risks. Given the depth of the transformation, any procedure aimed at reverting your physiology would have, at best under perfect conditions, a fifty percent chance of success. At worst, it could result in your death.”
“What does that mean?” Mitsuki’s voice was sharp, brittle with emotion. She stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides. “Are you saying there’s no way to fix him?”
“Fixing isn’t the right term,” the doctor replied carefully, his tone measured as though navigating a minefield. “But yes, the risks are considerable. This transformation isn’t simply superficial; it’s foundational. Your child’s body has adapted fully to this new state.”
Katsuki sat frozen, his head bowed, his thoughts spinning faster than he could catch them. The words blurred together—chromosomal changes, fully healed, foundational, but none of them seemed to stick. All he could focus on was the quiet weight settling in his chest, the way his reflection lingered in his peripheral vision, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Still him. Still her.
Mitsuki’s voice cracked through his fog like lightning. “This isn’t right! There has to be something you can do!” Her hands shook as she gestured toward Katsuki, her face tight with desperation. “You can’t just leave him like this!”
Masaru’s voice followed, quieter but firm. “And what if trying to change this kills him, Mitsuki? What then?” He stepped closer to Katsuki, his hand hovering near his shoulder but not quite touching. “We need to think about what’s best for him. For her.”
No one had asked Katsuki what he thought. The noise around him faded to a low hum, his parents’ argument blending into the sterile hum of the hospital room. He pressed his hands into his lap, the tremble in his fingers betraying the stillness of his body. Why didn’t he feel more panicked? Why did this strange calmness feel like something he’d been chasing his whole life?
The doctor’s voice cut through again, pulling Katsuki back to the present. “It’s important that you all take time to process this. For now, Bakugou is healthy and stable. That is what matters most.”
With a faint sigh, the doctor straightened, his hand tightening on the clipboard. “If there are no further questions, I’ll step out for now to give you all some time. Feel free to call for me if anything changes.” He cast a lingering look over Katsuki, his expression momentarily softening before he nodded to himself. Without waiting for a response, he turned and made his way to the door, the soft click of it closing behind him marking his departure.
The room fell into an oppressive silence, thick and stifling. For a moment, all Katsuki could hear was the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the erratic pounding of his own heart. Then, like the snap of a dam breaking, Mitsuki crumpled.
Her sobs tore through the quiet, raw and gut-wrenching. She dropped into the chair near the wall, her face buried in her hands, her entire body trembling with the force of her cries. “Why?” she choked out between ragged breaths. “Why does it have to be like this? My baby… my boy…”
Katsuki’s chest tightened painfully, guilt blooming heavy and suffocating in his ribcage. His fingers curled into the fabric of the gown, his knuckles white as he fought to keep himself still. He knew— he knew —this wasn’t his fault. Logically, rationally, it wasn’t. But the sight of his mother unraveling, the sound of her anguish, twisted the knife deeper into his stomach.
He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, but the words caught in his throat and turned to ash. What could he even say? That he was sorry for something he didn’t control? That he hated the way her sobs made his insides churn, even as he clung to the strange, unfamiliar peace settling in his own skin?
Masaru crossed the room in two strides, crouching down beside Mitsuki and pulling her into his arms. She resisted for a moment, her sobs hitching as she pushed against him weakly, but eventually, she melted into his hold, her tears soaking into his shirt. He murmured soft reassurances, his voice too low for Katsuki to hear clearly, but the tone was steady, a calm anchor against the storm.
Katsuki turned his gaze back to his lap, his breath hitching in his chest. His hands trembled slightly, but he didn’t unclench them. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, yet beneath it all, that strange sense of rightness still lingered—an undercurrent of something he wasn’t ready to name. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his parents again, couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the cracks their pain had left behind.
Instead, he focused on the faint hum of the lights, the cool press of the linoleum against his heels, and the quiet rhythm of his own breathing. It wasn’t enough to drown out the sobs, but it was something.
Katsuki swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. He didn’t look up, couldn’t bring himself to meet anyone’s eyes. His thoughts churned, a chaotic mix of fear and something close to relief. He didn’t know what he wanted, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted things to go back to the way they were.