Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I stand next to Aizawa-sensei, feeling the weight of my new classmates’ eyes on me. I don’t look at them. I’ve never been good at making friends, and I’m not about to start now. My hands are clasped together in front of me, posture straight. I don’t owe them anything. They can think whatever they want.

Aizawa-sensei introduces me in his usual low, tired voice. “This is Tsuyara Hibari. She’s transferring into Class 1-A. Don’t expect her to act like anyone else. She has her own way of doing things. Make her feel welcome, but don’t cross any boundaries. Understood?”

I stand there, silent. I’m not here for them, I’m here because I have no choice.

I glance at the class briefly, but I don’t really care to look at them. I notice them only as far as I have to. Their stares are a part of the classroom’s atmosphere, and I’ve long since learned to tune them out.

I feel it, though. A gaze. One that lingers longer than the others. It’s sharp, focused. I don’t have to look up to know where it’s coming from. The boy in the second row. He’s staring at me.

His gaze feels… dangerous. Like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure me out. His eyes burn with intensity, and it’s the kind of stare that makes something in the back of my mind react. It’s unsettling. Not that I’ll let it show.

I don’t react. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it bothers me. I stand still, arms at my side, expression neutral.

Aizawa-sensei speaks again, and I focus back on him, shaking off the strange feeling of being watched.

⸻

Flashback: The Day My Name Changed

I used to be someone else. A girl with warm hands and boring brown eyes. With messy brown hair that always got in my face. I liked rice crackers. I liked drawing on the walls even when my mom scolded me for it. I liked sneaking into my brother’s room and stealing his candy.

Then one day, I woke up a monster.

It happened when I was four. My bones cracked in my sleep. My screams woke the whole house. I don’t remember all of it, just flashes. My mother’s terrified face. Blood. A sound—like an animal, guttural and broken—echoing off the walls. It took me too long to realize it was coming from me.

After that, I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I was a threat.

They came for me quickly. Men in suits. Quiet voices. Cold hands. My parents cried, but they didn’t stop them. No one did.

They called it a facility. Said it was for kids like me. But it wasn’t a school. It wasn’t a place for people. It was a cage.

There were no windows. No warmth. Just tests, restraints, numbers on clipboards, and questions I never had answers to. They stripped me of everything soft. Of everything human.

They didn’t call me Hibari. Not anymore.

They called me Subject 09.

They made me shift. Again and again. They pushed me until I couldn’t breathe, until I forgot how to speak, until the instincts were louder than my own thoughts. If I refused, they hurt me. If I fought back, they drugged me.

Eventually, I stopped fighting. Stopped asking when I’d go home.

The only light in that place came in the form of a tired man with sharp eyes and a scarf always wrapped around his neck. He came once. Twice. Then more. He didn’t speak to me at first. Just watched.

Then, one day, he did speak.

“You’re not broken,” he said.

I didn’t believe him. Not then. But he kept coming. Until he brought someone else—a small animal that walked like a man and looked at me like I was more than a quirk.

They said I was going to UA.

I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t.

But the cell door opened.

And this time, no one forced me to walk through it.

⸻

The class goes silent again, and I feel their stares like weight on my skin. I can feel them trying to figure me out, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. I don’t need them. I don’t care what they think.

I try to turn my attention back to Aizawa-sensei, but then I feel it again.

That stare.

I don’t need to look to know it’s coming from him. The boy in the second row. His eyes are still on me, sharp and intense. It makes my skin prickle. I try not to let it show.

Aizawa-sensei moves to speak again, and I snap my attention back to him, shaking the feeling off like dust.

Chapter Text

The classroom had mostly emptied.

Chairs scraped, footsteps thudded, and the excited chatter of my classmates faded into the hallway beyond, echoing in a dozen mismatched tones. They were off to change into their hero costumes. Apparently, this was their first proper Hero Training session—with the Symbol of Peace himself, no less.

I hadn’t moved from my spot.

Still standing beside the desk I’d been assigned—though I hadn’t even sat in it once—I kept my arms crossed, my weight leaned against the edge. I hadn’t been dismissed.

That was probably why he was still here too.

“All Might” stood near the front of the room, larger than life in his ridiculous golden form. His grin was still stretched wide across his face, as ever-present as the shadows under his eyes. But even with his cape fluttering slightly in the air-conditioned breeze, I could tell he was watching me closely.

“Hibari-shoujo,” he said—warm, but quieter now. Gentler. “You won’t be participating today.”

I didn’t react. Not right away. Let the silence breathe.

“I’m aware.”

He nodded, like that was enough. “That’s good. Eraserhead told me you haven’t submitted your hero costume design yet. So today, you’ll just observe. Get a feel for how things are run here.”

Hero costume. Right.

I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Fine.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t offer me a spare or try to talk me into anything.

Good. Talking about it was pointless.

“You can go change into your gym uniform,” he said, still with that steady confidence all heroes seemed to carry. “Then meet us outside. Observation deck’s above the main training zone.”

But there was something in his voice beneath all that certainty. A carefulness. Like he knew how delicate the balance was around me. Like someone had told him not to push too hard.

I didn’t answer. Just pushed off the desk and walked away, my boots barely making a sound on the floor.

I didn’t look back.
__________________

The girls’ changing room was bright. Too bright. Stark white tiles, fluorescent lights overhead, and way too much noise. Laughter bounced off the walls like rubber balls, shrill and chaotic. The space was crowded with movement—half-dressed bodies pulling on boots, adjusting gloves, zipping up suits, talking over each other about costume details and color schemes.

I moved through it like a ghost.

No eye contact. No lingering. I didn’t care what anyone was saying.

I found the locker with my name on it—Tsuyara Hibari, printed in clean, precise font—and opened it. Inside was my gym uniform, folded with textbook neatness. I grabbed it, shut the door, and turned my back to the room.

Quick. Efficient.

Shirt off. Adjusted my sports bra. Pulled down the standard-issue skirt, stepped into the gym pants. No hesitation, but I still felt every flicker of attention. Eyes. Curious or cautious or both. Even when they pretended not to look.

I ignored it.

The conversations around me kept going. Someone asked how long it took to get her costume fitted. Another was giggling about ruffles, of all things. One voice stood out—acid-pink and too loud. It grated a little, scratched something in the back of my brain. Familiar, maybe.

I didn’t turn around.

I tied my shoes, smoothed down the hem of my shirt, and walked out just as silently as I’d entered.
_______________

The moment I stepped outside, the wind hit me—cool and sharp, laced with concrete and ozone. The air was clearer up here. Harsher. My gym uniform clung to my skin in the breeze, still faintly warm from the locker room, and I moved without hesitation onto the raised walkway above the training grounds.

I didn’t make a sound.

Below, the arena stretched wide—smooth concrete and painted boundary lines, tall grey structures standing like monoliths at the edges. A hero battleground, designed for urban conflict. Blind spots. Cover. Trap zones. Cameras winked from above like glass eyes.

I stepped up to the railing and rested a hand on the cold steel, my fingers curling tight around the bar.

They were already down there.

Twenty of them—clumped together near the center of the field. Loud, buzzing, twitching with anticipation. Some stretched. Some talked. Some fidgeted with gloves or visors or gear. Every single one of them wore their hero costume. Custom, polished, designed to match whatever quirk they were so proud of.

No two were alike. Some were sleek and streamlined. Others were gaudy, flashy, loud. One boy literally sparkled. Another looked like his suit might catch fire if he moved too fast.

I didn’t know their names. Didn’t care. They weren’t looking up yet. Just a crowd of strangers—bright and eager and burning for a chance to prove themselves.

They moved like they belonged here.

I stood above them, apart.

All Might stood front and center, as theatrical as ever—one fist on his hip, the other raised high like he was about to punch the sun. His cape snapped behind him in the wind, golden hair almost blinding in the light. Even from here, I could feel the way his energy warped the space around him.

He bellowed: “YOUNG HEROES!”

The field went still. Heads turned. Bodies tensed. A synchronized shift in focus, like someone had hit pause and pressed play again under new rules.

“You’re about to begin your very first Hero 101 practical lesson!”

The announcement landed like a firecracker. Excitement rippled through the group—someone whooped, another laughed nervously. One girl actually jumped in place.

All Might gestured toward a blocky metal structure on the far side of the field.

“This is your battleground! A simulated villain hideout! In teams of two, you’ll take turns playing heroes and villains. Heroes will infiltrate. Villains will defend the objective.”

They all started looking around then—glancing at one another, probably already picking favorites in their heads. Planning partnerships.

But he wasn’t done.

“You’ll be given specific matchups. One hero team versus one villain team per round. When you’re not on the field, you’ll observe from the sidelines. Understood?”

A chorus of voices answered him. “Yes, sir!”

And then came the pause.

A voice from the crowd rose—uncertain. “Wait—there’s twenty-one of us.”

Another voice followed. “Yeah, who’s the extra?”

There it was. Confusion. Eyebrows raised. Glances exchanged. Twenty students doing fast mental math and realizing someone didn’t fit.

I stayed where I was. Unmoving. Silent.

All Might didn’t miss a beat. “Excellent attention to detail, young ones!”

And then he threw his arm out, his massive hand sweeping upward.

Every head turned.

Every eye rose to me.

I met their stares without blinking.

Some looked curious. A few looked cautious. A couple just looked confused. I didn’t offer them anything in return—no smile, no wave, no explanation. Just stood there, one hand still wrapped around the railing like it was the only thing anchoring me to the ground.

“Tsuyara Hibari-shoujo!” All Might announced like I was some kind of guest speaker. “She won’t be participating today, but she’ll be observing! I expect you all to welcome her as one of your own!”

Muttered reactions followed—quiet, scattered, unimportant. A nod here. A shrug there.

But one reaction made my jaw tighten.

It wasn’t a word. It wasn’t a greeting.

It was a stare.

Crimson eyes, burning hot from the front of the group. Blond hair. Broad stance. His costume was jagged, combat-grade, with orange and black detailing and gauntlets that looked like they were built to destroy.

He wasn’t curious. He wasn’t confused.

He was watching me like I was a puzzle that pissed him off.

He didn’t blink.

Neither did I.

I let the moment stretch between us—heavy, tense, pulsing faintly with something I couldn’t name. Then I looked away. Calm. Unbothered.

But my grip on the railing hadn’t loosened.

All Might had started speaking again, listing off names, pairing students up. I barely heard him. My thoughts were somewhere else now.

Because for the first time since I’d walked into this school—maybe even longer—someone had looked at me like a challenge.

And I didn’t know what I felt more:

The instinct to bare my teeth—

Or the strange, sharp spark in my chest that made me feel awake.

Alive.
__________

The railing only gave a partial view.

Too many angles. Too many walls. From here, I could see the front of the training building, the space where All Might had addressed everyone, but once they moved inside—it was just shapes through windows. Blurred silhouettes. No real clarity.

That wasn’t good enough.

So I turned, leaving the sun and steel behind, slipping through the doorway that led to the upper-level observation room. The stairwell was quieter—sharp echoes dulled by distance and steel. I followed the faint pulse of voices down the hallway until it led me to the observation room.

Bright monitors lined the front wall, each one flickering with different camera angles from inside the mock battlefield. The others had already gathered, scattered across the seats, clustered near the screens. Talking. Pointing. Reacting.

I stayed near the back. Didn’t sit. Crossed my arms. Shifted my weight against the wall and kept my eyes on the feed.

“First match!” boomed through the speakers—All Might’s voice, impossibly loud even through the walls. “Hero team: Midoriya Izuku and Uraraka Ochaco! Villain team: Bakugou Katsuki and Iida Tenya!”

A few classmates let out whistles. Someone laughed behind their hand.

I just watched.

The match opened like a punch to the ribs—no buildup, no patience. Bakugou exploded forward the second the buzzer went off. No hesitation. Just raw, wild heat.

He didn’t stalk his prey—he hunted. Every movement was aggressive, deliberate, too fast for the grainy camera to keep up. He was already tearing through the upper floor by the time Midoriya appeared on the monitors.

Midoriya wasn’t fighting back.

He was baiting him. Luring him deeper into the building. Ducking into side halls, keeping just out of reach.

It looked like running. But I could see the plan starting to form behind his eyes.

Bakugou took the bait, like it was personal. Because it was. Every attack was overkill—he didn’t want to stop him, he wanted to crush him.

But then Midoriya changed course.

One flick of his arm—One For All sparking to life—and the entire ceiling above the second floor cracked like a fault line splitting open. Dust clouded the camera. Metal screamed. Concrete dropped like thunder.

And then I saw her.

Uraraka, already in position beneath it, reached up with glowing fingers and made half the rubble float.

Iida, still guarding the “missile,” turned too late.

The debris rained down on him like meteors—controlled, aimed, weaponized.

I watched it all unfold in silence. The timing. The coordination. It was reckless and crude, but it worked.

“Hero team wins!”

The speakers rang with All Might’s announcement, but I barely heard it. I kept watching the screen.

Bakugou didn’t stop after the match. He ripped his mask off, flung it against the wall like it had betrayed him. His chest heaved with something too loud for the silent screen to capture.

He fought like a force of nature—but Midoriya had outplayed him.

He hadn’t taken the loss well.

My gaze lingered on the screen longer than I meant it to.
I blinked once. Leaned back against the wall.

And kept watching.

Chapter Text

The screen crackled to black, static fizzing once before silence took over.

I didn’t move. The others were already filtering out, their voices echoing down the corridor—loud, animated, too full of life. The kind of energy that made my muscles coil tight beneath my skin.

They were excited. Chattering about the fight. Debating who should’ve won, whose strategy worked, who got lucky. I stayed seated in the observation room, staring at the dead monitor like it might flicker back on and show me something I missed. It didn’t.

All Might’s voice boomed somewhere in the distance, muffled through the walls. “Lunch time, young heroes!”

I didn’t need him to find me. I stood and left on my own, slipping through the side door and down the corridor where the noise hadn’t caught up yet. The path to the locker room was mostly empty now, thank whatever gods still had a shred of mercy left for me.

Inside, the air was humid with sweat and deodorant. I changed quickly—gym uniform peeled off, standard UA jacket pulled on. The fabric still felt foreign on my skin, but it was better than the cling of polyester. I avoided the mirror. I already knew what looked back.

My movements were automatic. Shirt tucked in, collar adjusted, sleeves rolled. I tied my hair back again, high and tight, letting my face stay sharp. Less approachable that way.

The gym uniform went into the laundry chute. I didn’t linger. Didn’t wait for anyone else to walk in. By the time I stepped back into the hallway, the others had all moved ahead.

Their voices carried from the cafeteria—a clash of laughter, raised tones, and trays sliding over metal counters. My pulse quickened.

Too loud.

Too many.

Too much.

I hovered just outside the cafeteria doors, nose twitching, jaw tight. The scent hit first—fried food, sweat, fruit juice, something that might’ve been curry. It twisted with everything else: cheap cologne, fresh shampoo, the ozone-burnt scent of leftover quirks.

I could turn back. Slip upstairs. Eat in the shadows where I didn’t have to feel eyes on me. I’d done it before.

But my feet didn’t move.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was that stupid gnawing instinct that told me to observe even when I didn’t want to. Or maybe I just didn’t want them to think I was scared.

I exhaled once, then pushed the door open.
__________

The cafeteria was a storm.

Heat and noise pressed down the moment I stepped inside—voices layered over each other, the sharp scent of food and bodies crammed into too small a space. My tray balanced on one hand, steady despite the twitch crawling up my spine.

I kept my head low. Scanned the edges of the room.

Far corner. Empty table. Quiet. Out of reach.

I moved toward it, weaving through the clusters of students without brushing against anyone.

Almost there.

“Hey!”

The voice was too loud, too bright, too direct.

I stopped without meaning to. Instinct.

When I looked up, a blur of pink hair and flashing teeth stood in my path—smiling like we were already friends.

“You’re not seriously gonna eat alone, are you?”

I didn’t answer. Just shifted my weight, adjusting the tray slightly, ready to move past her.

She didn’t let me.

The pink-haired girl beamed, stepped closer, and before I could react, she hooked her arm through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on! Our table’s way more fun.”

I stiffened. Tried to pull back without making it obvious. “I’m fine.”

“Nope.” She tugged me forward anyway, steering me toward a table near the center of the room—exactly the place I didn’t want to be.

I could feel the looks already.

I hated it.

The table she dragged me to was crowded—five students, loud and relaxed, like they belonged to each other. There was a boy with bright red hair and a wide grin, another with messy blond hair with a black streak shaped like lightning and a cocky slouch, one with dark hair and casual tape hanging from his elbows, and—

The blond with the crimson stare.

The one who hadn’t stopped glaring at me since the training grounds.

He looked up as we approached, and the hostility sharpened instantly.

“What the hell is she doing here?” he barked, voice low and rough.

I didn’t react. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

The pink-haired girl plopped her tray down and pulled me with her. “She’s eating with us, duh. Be nice.”

I sat down mechanically. Dropped my tray onto the table and picked up my chopsticks.

Focused on the food. Not the people.

Not the burning glare across from me.

The others exchanged glances. I could feel it without looking. I didn’t care. As long as they left me alone.

They didn’t.

“So…” the messy blond started, grinning like this was all some joke. “Transfer student, right?”

I didn’t answer.

“Late start?” the red-haired one chimed in. His voice was warm, almost too easy to listen to.

Still nothing from me.

“You got a quirk?” the dark-haired boy with tape elbows leaned forward, smiling casually.

“What’s your deal?” the blond added, half-laughing. “You some government project or what?”

I kept eating.

Or pretending to.

They kept talking.

“Alright, alright,” the pink-haired girl said, clapping her hands together. “If you won’t talk first, we will.”

She pointed to herself first. “Ashido Mina! Quirk’s Acid! I’m awesome!”

She didn’t wait for my reaction. She moved on, pointing around the table.

The redhead thumped a fist to his chest. “Kirishima Eijirou. Quirk’s Hardening. Nice to meet ya!”

The boy with tape elbows gave a two-finger salute. “Sero Hanta. Tape. From my elbows. You’ll see.”

The slouched blond winked. “Kaminari Denki. Resident shock machine.”

The last one—the one still glaring—didn’t introduce himself.

Didn’t need to.

I already knew his name.

Bakugou Katsuki.

I’d heard it announced during the match. I’d seen it flare across the monitors with explosions trailing behind it.

I kept my gaze down. Chewed slowly. Listened.

“So what about you?” Kaminari asked, nudging his tray forward. “New kid’s gotta have something cool.”

“What’s your quirk?” Ashido pressed, chin in her hand, grinning like this was some kind of game.

I swallowed once.

“Dangerous,” I said.

They blinked.

Kirishima laughed like I’d told a joke. “Aren’t they all?”

Sero raised a brow. “Seriously, though. Like—what is it? Strength? Speed?”

“It hunts.”

The table went quiet for a beat.

I didn’t explain further. Didn’t owe them anything.

“Where are you from?” Ashido tried again, voice a little softer.

I didn’t answer.

“Why’d you start late?” Kirishima asked.

“Special recommendation?” Sero added.

“What agency backed you?” Kaminari said, laughing, but there was something more serious under it now.

I focused on my tray. My chopsticks.

“None.”

They exchanged looks again.

More questions piled on.

“Were you homeschooled?”

“Were you overseas?”

“Were you in another hero school?”

“How’d you get in?”

“Who even scouted you?”

Their voices layered over each other—poking, prodding, curious in a way that felt less friendly and more suffocating.

My stomach twisted.

The chopsticks creaked faintly under my tightening grip.

“You think being mysterious makes you strong?” Bakugou finally said, cutting through the chatter.

I lifted my eyes and locked onto him.

“No,” I said. “Just safer.”

He leaned forward across the table, gaze sharp enough to flay skin.

“Safe from what?”

The words slammed into me harder than they should have.

My throat tightened. My blood ran hotter.

I could feel it rising—the part of me I kept buried. The part that didn’t respond with words when cornered.

“Enough,” I said.

But it didn’t sound like me.

It came from deep in my chest—a low, guttural rumble, more beast than girl.

A growl.

Sharp silence snapped over the table.

Ashido’s mouth hung slightly open. Sero’s hand froze halfway to his drink. Kirishima tensed instinctively, muscles flexing under his uniform.

Only Bakugou didn’t move.

He just stared.

Harder.

Like he knew.

My heart thudded painfully. The world felt too sharp, too loud, too exposed.

I stood.

The legs of my chair scraped violently across the tile.

My tray toppled sideways, rice scattering.

“Don’t follow me,” I said, voice rough, broken at the edges.

I turned and left without waiting for a reaction.

My boots struck hard against the floor, echoing down the hallway. Away from the noise. Away from their stares.

I didn’t stop until I slammed through the rooftop door, into open air and cold wind.

Only then did I breathe.

And even then—
It felt like growling was still caught somewhere in my throat.
__________

The rooftop was colder than I expected.

Wind tore at the loose edges of my uniform, pulling strands of hair free from my tie. I crossed the empty concrete space in long strides, fists clenched tight, heart still hammering against my ribs like it wanted to tear free.

I didn’t stop until I hit the far side, until my palms slammed flat against the icy steel railing.

The impact rattled up my arms. Grounded me. A little.

I closed my eyes and dragged in a breath so deep it scraped my lungs raw.

The growl was gone now. Swallowed down where it belonged.

But it didn’t matter.

They heard it.

I pressed my forehead to the cold metal, feeling the sting, feeling the shame.

Stupid.

I’d spent years controlling it. Years training my body to lock it down, to stay small, silent, invisible. Years convincing myself that instincts were just another weakness to be smothered.

And it slipped.

Over a stupid lunch table.

Over a few stupid questions and a boy who didn’t know when to shut up.

I curled my fingers tighter around the railing, nails biting into my palms.

They were going to talk. They were already talking. I could hear it in my head—the theories, the rumors, the curiosity growing like a cancer.

I hated it.

I hated them.

No—that wasn’t right.

I hated me.

For reacting. For caring. For letting the beast show even for a second.

The wind howled higher, whipping against the building, pulling at the anger in my chest like it wanted to tear it loose.

I didn’t let it.

I stayed still.

Breathed.

Counted my heartbeats until they slowed.

One, two, three… slow, steady, controlled.

No one saw anything important, I told myself.
They heard a sound. That’s all.

They didn’t see the monster under my skin. They didn’t see the claws. They didn’t see the hunger.

Yet.

I opened my eyes.

The city stretched out far below me—silver and steel and movement. Small, fragile, oblivious.

I tightened my jaw.

Next time, I’d be better.

Next time, I wouldn’t give them anything.

Not a sound.
Not a spark.
Not a single goddamn crack.
__________

I didn’t know how long I stayed up there.

Long enough for the sun to shift, casting longer shadows across the rooftop. Long enough for my heartbeat to settle, for the anger to cool into something hollow.

I didn’t go back to the cafeteria.

I didn’t seek anyone out.

No one came looking for me either.

The rest of the day passed in a blur—less noise, fewer questions, teachers running through basic instructions I already knew. I sat through it all, silent, invisible, letting the hours bleed together until the final bell rang and the building shook with life again.

Students flooded the halls, voices rising and bouncing off the high ceilings.

I stayed behind, waiting for the stampede to pass.

Only when the noise faded did I leave the classroom—quiet steps down a quiet hallway, cutting away from the exits.

I didn’t head toward the main gates.

I headed for the teacher’s offices.

The door gave under my hand without resistance, swinging open to a room cluttered with papers, open laptops, tired faces. Teachers gathering up their things for the day.

He was there.

Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead—leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded but alert. His scarf hung loosely from his neck, and a black jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his seat.

When he saw me, he didn’t look surprised.

He just gave a slight nod, slow and deliberate. “Come on.”

No greeting. No questions.

That was fine.

I adjusted the strap of my bag and followed him without a word.

We walked through the halls side by side, our footsteps the only sound. He didn’t ask about the cafeteria. Didn’t ask about the students. Didn’t ask how I was adjusting.

He already knew the answers.

Outside, the air was cooler. The afternoon light had started to sink toward gold.

He led me across the grounds, not toward the station or the main road like the other students. Instead, toward the staff parking lot.

Aizawa drove a battered black sedan that looked like it had survived a war. I stood beside it awkwardly while he unlocked it and tossed his own bag into the back seat.

He didn’t open the door for me.

Good.

I climbed in, shutting it behind me, feeling the weight of the day press heavier across my shoulders.

We didn’t speak on the drive.

The city slid past the windows—gray streets, neon signs flickering to life, crowds of people I didn’t know and didn’t want to.

I kept my hands in my lap and my gaze on the blurred lines of the road.

It wasn’t until the car slowed that the knot in my chest pulled tighter.

He turned down a side street lined with squat apartment buildings. Concrete. Metal railings. Clotheslines sagging with laundry.

Normal.

Unremarkable.

He parked without ceremony.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he cut the engine, grabbed his bag, and said, “Let’s go.”

I followed him up two flights of stairs to a plain door marked 2B.

He didn’t hesitate.

Just unlocked it and stepped inside like it meant nothing.

I stood in the doorway.

Aizawa’s home was small. Clean, but not neat. Sparse. A couch, a coffee table, a low shelf half-filled with files and teaching materials. A tired-looking cat blinked at me from its spot curled up on the couch, tail flicking lazily.

He dropped his bag by the door, toed off his shoes, and glanced over his shoulder at me.

“You’re home.”

Simple words. No weight behind them.

But I stood frozen on the threshold, my shoes still on, my hands clenching tight around the strap of my bag.

Home.

A place I hadn’t been welcome in for a long, long time.

The cat meowed once—sharp, impatient.

I swallowed hard.

Stepped inside.

Closed the door behind me.

Chapter Text

The memory surfaced before I could stop it.

Soft chair. Too much light. Nezu’s smile. Aizawa’s quiet warning.

“I’m one of the only two people at this school who can stop you.”

I sat stiffly across from Nezu’s oversized desk, the plush chair swallowing my frame. I didn’t let it. My spine stayed straight, my hands folded neatly in my lap. Every inch of me locked tight, controlled.

Across from me, Principal Nezu smiled wide, paws wrapped delicately around a teacup, voice light and easy.
“Thank you for coming, Tsuyara-shoujo,” he said, like I had any choice.

I said nothing.

Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead—leaned lazily against the wall beside him, arms crossed, half-lidded eyes unreadable.

He’d visited me before.
Three times at the Kosei Monitoring Center.
Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t promise anything.

I didn’t trust him.
But he hadn’t lied to me yet either.

Nezu set his cup down with a soft clink.

“Let’s talk about your future, shall we?”

I didn’t respond.

“Up until now, your education has been… limited,” Nezu said. “But your test scores show remarkable intelligence. Coupled with your quirk, and your containment record, UA believes it’s time to offer something more.”

I said nothing.

“We’d like you to join the Hero Course. As a student in Class 1-A.”

I didn’t move.

“I wasn’t aware I had a say in the matter,” I said finally, voice flat.

Aizawa’s eyes flickered.

Nezu just chuckled, calm as anything.
“Everyone has a say, Tsuyara-shoujo. It’s just that not everyone gets the same consequences if they say no.”

My hands tightened in my lap.

“You’ll be under supervision,” Nezu continued. “Special monitoring. But you’ll have freedom. Training. A chance at a life.”

A lie.
Or at least, not the whole truth.

“Where would I be staying?” I asked.

“There are no dormitories yet,” Nezu said. “Until further notice, you’ll live with Aizawa-sensei. He’s agreed to guardianship.”

I turned my head toward him.

He didn’t look back at first.

“Because I’m one of the only two people at this school who can stop you,” he said simply.

Matter-of-fact.
Not cruel.
Not threatening.

Just the truth.

Nezu smiled again, thinner this time.

“You’ll be treated like any other student, Tsuyara-shoujo,” he said. “But if you hurt anyone—intentionally or otherwise—the consequences will be immediate.”

I nodded once.

Slow. Heavy.

“I understand.”

Nezu leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased.
“Then it’s settled.”

I rose from my seat automatically.

Aizawa moved beside me, silent.

As I turned toward the door, he spoke—quiet, low, almost easy to miss.

“I’m not here to babysit you. I’m here to make sure you don’t forget how to live.”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t trust it.

I followed him anyway.

⸻

The edge of the memory faded as I stared at the open doorway in front of me.

Aizawa’s apartment stretched beyond it—quiet, cluttered, heavy with the smell of dust and coffee and faint old laundry.

He was already inside, moving casually, shrugging off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair without looking back.

The door hung open behind me.

Cold air brushed against my back.

The hallway buzzed faintly with the dying noise of students rushing toward their trains, their homes.

I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag.

One step forward.

Then another.

The floor creaked beneath my weight.

I pulled the door shut behind me, the soft click loud in the stillness.

The latch slid into place like a closing cage.

I kicked off my shoes automatically, lining them neatly beside Aizawa’s battered sneakers. My socks whispered across the worn floorboards as I stepped further inside.

The living room was sparse.
A battered gray couch. A low table stacked with scattered papers.
And curled up in the center of the couch, a black cat blinked lazily at me, tail flicking once in disinterest.

It didn’t care if I belonged here.

Neither did the apartment.

Neither did Aizawa.

His voice came from somewhere in the kitchen—low, casual, like he was reciting facts to the air.

“Guest room’s down the hall. Bathroom across from it. Kitchen’s yours. Touch my files and we’ll have a problem.”

Simple.

Clear.

No welcome.
No expectations.

Good.

I moved across the living room quietly, every step deliberate, every breath measured.

No family photos.
No trophies.
No framed certificates.

Nothing personal.

The cat yawned, stretched out one paw lazily, and dropped its head back onto the cushion.

I swallowed against the tightness curling in my chest.

It wasn’t a home.

It wasn’t anything.

But for tonight, it was shelter.

And for now—

That would be enough.

⸻

Bakugou’s POV

The cafeteria was still buzzing.

Voices too high, too loud, bouncing off the walls like static electricity.

“She growled, right?” Kaminari half-whispered, half-laughed.

“Yeah, dude, like—real serious growling.” Sero leaned forward, wide-eyed.

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “It didn’t sound fake. It sounded like she meant it.”

Across the table, Mina just stared at the cafeteria door, biting her lip.

Bakugou didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, scowl sharp enough to cut steel.

Idiots.

Extras.

None of them saw it.

None of them felt it.

That wasn’t fear.
That wasn’t panic.

It was a warning.

Calculated.
Controlled.

Not someone losing it.

Someone choosing it.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, irritation sparking hotter.

The others kept whispering—students from nearby tables, laughing nervously, throwing glances toward the door Hibari had slammed through.

“Did you see Bakugou’s face?”
“Nah, no way he was scared—”
“Still, though, that was freaky—”

Bakugou ground his jaw tight.

He wasn’t scared of her.

He wasn’t scared of anyone.

But he wasn’t blind either.

That girl moved like she had teeth she wasn’t showing yet.
Like she could shred through half the class if she wanted to—and was just choosing not to.

That wasn’t control.
That was restraint.

And restraint like that?

It didn’t last forever.

Bakugou leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table with a heavy thud.

“Idiots,” he muttered, just loud enough for his squad to hear. “She’s not scared of us. She’s scared of herself.”

The words sat heavy on the table.

The truth always did.

He didn’t care what her damn quirk was.
Didn’t care what her sad little backstory was.
Didn’t care what Nezu or Eraserhead thought they were pulling by dropping her into his class.

Let her keep playing silent.

Let her keep thinking she could hide.

Sooner or later, she’d slip.

And when she did—

Bakugou would be right there, ready to rip every damn secret out of her.

Chapter Text

The first night passed like a ghost.

No orders.
No locked doors.
No cameras blinking in the corners.

Just quiet.

Too much of it.

The walls of Aizawa’s apartment were thin—she could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of an old clock somewhere down the hall. The faint, familiar scent of coffee hung in the air like a second layer of wallpaper. Dust, too. Faint traces of laundry detergent.

Nothing sharp.
Nothing sterile.

The black cat pushed the door to my room open once.
Blinking at me with slitted golden eyes before curling up in the hallway without a sound.

I didn’t know his name.
Not yet.

I didn’t sleep easily.

The mattress was soft in a way that made my skin crawl. My body, trained by years of hard concrete and cold steel, didn’t know how to relax. Muscles locked without permission. Every creak of the floorboards made my blood prickle.

No cages.

No bars.

But no safety either.

I stayed awake until exhaustion dulled the edges of my mind.
When sleep finally took me, it was shallow and restless, broken by the dawn.

⸻

Morning came gray and hollow.

Light leaked through battered curtains, drawing thin lines across the floor. The air was cooler than it had been at night—fresh, a little sharper. I pulled on my uniform automatically: the standard UA attire, already neatly pressed and hanging in my closet when I’d first arrived. Issued back when Principal Nezu had approved my enrollment.

A piece of paper, signed and sealed.
A name slotted into a system.

Not a place earned.

My fingers tugged the blazer straight across my shoulders. No hesitation. No thought wasted.

When I emerged from the room, the apartment smelled stronger.

Coffee.
Fresh brewed. Bitter. Heavy.

In the kitchen, Aizawa was moving in slow, practiced motions—one hand cradling a chipped white mug, the other still half-trapped inside the sleeve of his capture weapon. His hair was even more chaotic than yesterday, sticking out in stubborn angles, dark circles heavy under his half-lidded gaze.

He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

He didn’t look at me.
Just pointed vaguely toward the counter, where a second mug sat cooling.

“You want coffee?” he asked, voice rough from sleep.

No ceremony. No expectation.

The question hung there—simple. Ordinary.

I stared for a second longer than I should have, the unfamiliarity of it sinking slow and deep into my ribs.

The smell wasn’t just the apartment.

It was him.

Coffee, wool, faint soap.

Human. Tired. Grounded.

Something inside me shifted almost imperceptibly.
An instinctive file tucked it away without permission: familiar scent. Not enemy.

I moved to the counter.

Picked up the mug—warm in my palms—and located the milk jug without being told.

A small splash. Enough to take the edge off the bitterness, not enough to drown it.

I stirred once with the back of the spoon, set it down, and moved quietly to the table where Aizawa had already dropped himself into a chair.

No invitation.
No dismissal either.

I sat.

We drank in silence.

The only sounds were the low hum of the radiator and the faint, rhythmic thudding of paws crossing the wood floor.

I didn’t look up immediately when the cat stopped beside me.

Only when a soft, insistent nudge pressed against my calf did I glance down.

The black cat blinked up at me, slow and unbothered. His tail curled loosely around his paws, waiting.

The small weight of the stare nudged something deep in my chest—something old, something primal.

Recognition.

Not dominance.
Not threat.

Invitation.

I set my mug down.

Lightly, cautiously, I brushed my fingers along his head.

Warm. Silky. Solid.

He purred once, low and lazy, before curling himself against my leg.

I stared at him a moment longer, then—without thinking too hard—turned my head toward Aizawa.

“What’s his name?” I asked quietly.

Aizawa sipped his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Sorah,” he said without missing a beat.

I nodded once, tucking the information away like another marked piece of the new territory.

Sorah.

The cat rumbled again, pressing closer against my shin.

I let him.

For the first time in longer than I could remember—

I wasn’t alone.

Not really.

And it didn’t scare me the way I thought it would.

⸻

We left the apartment without a word.

Aizawa grabbed his keys from the hook near the door, pocketed them without comment, and I followed him down the cracked stairwell to the small lot behind the building.

His car was already waiting—an older black sedan, scraped along one side, stubborn in the way only long-suffering machines could be.

I slid into the passenger seat without hesitation.

The drive was silent.
No music. No conversation.
Just the low hum of the engine and the gray morning pressing against the windows.

I watched the streets bleed past us in slow, muted colors.

Normal.

Almost.

When we pulled into UA’s lot, Aizawa parked with a practiced jerk of the wheel, killed the ignition, and stepped out. I followed, keeping pace beside him across the broad pavement.

At the main entrance, he broke off without a word—turning toward the wing that housed the teacher’s offices.

I kept going.

I didn’t need to be told where to go.

Third floor.
Class 1-A.

The hallways were still quiet at this hour. A few students passed, dragging their feet, clutching bags or half-finished breakfasts. I moved through them like a shadow.

The door creaked slightly as I pushed it open, stepping into the now-too-bright classroom.

⸻

A handful of students were already there—gathered loosely near their desks, laughing, exchanging notes, shoving at each other in the casual, unthinking ways that said they belonged here.

They noticed me immediately.

Conversations thinned. Voices dropped.

Eyes tracked my movement across the room.

I kept my head straight, my gaze level, my feet silent against the polished floor.

Second-to-last row. Third seat from the window.
My assigned place.

I made it there without interference, dropped my bag soundlessly next to the desk, and sat.

No greetings. No challenges.

But I felt it—the weight of curiosity pressing against my skin.

Especially from the group near the middle—the ones clustered closest together.
The boy with spiky red hair. The loud blond boy with a black lightning bolt in his hair. The girl with pink skin and bright, curly hair.
And further back, sharper than the rest, a flicker of red eyes under spiked blond hair.

Still watching.

Still silent.

I let them look.

I wasn’t here to entertain anyone.

⸻

I had just started pulling out my notebook when I caught a shadow shift out of the corner of my eye.

Someone approaching.

Not aggressive. Not loud.

Hesitant.

I turned my head slightly—and found myself looking at a boy with messy green hair and wide, earnest eyes.

Midoriya.

I remembered him vaguely from yesterday. Hero costume too big for his frame. Movements too careful. Smelled like nerves and fresh laundry detergent.

He stopped a few feet from my desk, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“U-um…” he started, voice cracking halfway through the word.

I stared at him.

He swallowed hard, then straightened his shoulders like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t terrified.

“I… I just wanted to ask…”
Another pause.
Another struggle.

“If it’s okay—could you maybe… tell me what your quirk is?”

His words tumbled out in a rush, messy and breathless.

I blinked once.

Expression flat.

Voice even.

“No.”

The answer dropped like a stone between us.

He froze.

Mouth open, hands mid-gesture.

Like someone had unplugged him.

A long beat passed.

Then—

“A-a-a-ah! I-I’m sorry!”
He bowed so fast his forehead almost hit his knees.
“I didn’t mean to intrude or be rude or—I just thought—you don’t have to—! S-sorry!”

The panic spiraled outward, frantic and honest.

I watched him bow three more times in rapid succession before scuttling backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The desk next to mine shook from the force of his retreat.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t sigh.

Just turned back to my notebook, flipped it open to a blank page, and started jotting down meaningless lines of text.

The class returned to its low buzz, but the weight of it didn’t lift.

Not really.

The Bakusquad was still watching.

And so was he.

⸻

The door slid open with a dry scrape.

A wave of cold air swept through the room—and Aizawa entered, wrapped like a corpse in his yellow sleeping bag, hair tangled worse than it had been earlier.

The class straightened instinctively.

Some students stopped mid-conversation.

A few jumped back into their seats like they were trying to outrun a threat.

Aizawa didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Just stood there, slouched, bleary-eyed, taking stock.

Finally, he scratched at his jaw and muttered:

“Sit down. Shut up.”

The buzzing snapped off like a switch.

I let my pen fall still against the page.

The day was starting.

And whatever came next—

I was ready for it.
__________

Lunch break came faster than expected.

The buzz of chairs scraping back, footsteps flooding the hallway, the metallic rattle of bentos snapping open.
The clamor filled the corridors like a tidal wave.

I slipped through it, a shadow caught in the undertow, following the scent of food and human heat to the cafeteria.

Found an empty table near the far wall—away from the main clusters.

Dropped my tray without ceremony.
Sat.
Ate.

Rice, fish, soup. Efficient calories. Nothing fancy.

I kept my head down, eyes half-lidded, watching the room in reflections on the glossed tabletop. Watching the students laugh, talk, jostle each other without fear or hesitation.

Watching the way they moved without walls.

It wasn’t jealousy.
Not exactly.

It was distance.

A gap that couldn’t be crossed with words alone.

I was halfway through my food when I felt it—the slight shift in the air around me.

Not hostile.

Not aggressive.

But deliberate.

I lifted my gaze without raising my head—and found a small group hovering a few feet away from my table.

The loud blond boy with the black lightning bolt in his hair. The spiky redhead with the easy grin. The girl with pink skin and bright, curly hair.
A dark-haired boy with tape dispensers on his elbows.

And behind them—half a step removed—
Bakugou.

His lunch tray dangled from one hand, careless and tilted like he barely cared whether it stayed upright.
His free hand flexed at his side, restless, impatient.

He wasn’t trying to hide his irritation.
He wasn’t trying to smooth anything over.

He was here because he chose to be.

And somehow, that made it mean more.

Kirishima—the redhead—stepped forward first, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

He didn’t look threatening.
Just… hesitant.

“Uh…” he started, voice low, a little rough from nerves. “Listen… about yesterday. Sorry for being so nosy.”

The others murmured quiet agreements behind him.
No excuses. No defensiveness. Just straight-up apologies.

Bakugou said nothing.

Just stood there, arms loose, tray dangling, weight cocked to one hip like he couldn’t believe he was wasting his time on this.

It didn’t erase the feeling of being cornered from before, but it dulled the edge slightly.

Kirishima cleared his throat.

“If we, uh… if we promise not to ask you anything weird… can we eat here too?”

He said it casually.
Like it didn’t matter either way.

But there was a thread beneath his words—a thin pull of sincerity.
Real effort.

I didn’t answer immediately.

Just stared at them.

Not glaring.
Not challenging.

Just… reading.

The way they fidgeted. The way they didn’t step closer, didn’t push.
The way Mina rocked back on her heels, giving me more space without being told.
Even Bakugou, tense and coiled like a lit fuse—he stayed where he was.

No scent of deceit.
No posture of predators.

Just curiosity.
And maybe something quieter beneath it.
Recognition. Pack behavior, tentative and clumsy.

I tapped my fingers once against the table.
A silent rhythm.

Then nodded.

Small. Sharp.

Permission.

They didn’t cheer or make a big deal out of it—probably sensing better than they realized how easily the thread could snap.

They sat down.

Mina dropped into the seat across from me, flashing a small, sheepish grin.
Kirishima leaned his elbows on the table like he was afraid to crowd me.
Kaminari and Sero settled a little further down.

Bakugou dragged a chair out last.
The legs screeched loudly across the floor, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.
He dropped into the seat without ceremony, arms crossed tight around his tray, scowling like it offended him just to breathe the same air.

For a few minutes, nobody said anything.

Just the clatter of chopsticks.
The low hum of cafeteria noise.

Mina eventually made a soft comment about how bland today’s lunch was.

Kaminari tried to argue that it wasn’t so bad.

Sero snorted into his rice.

Bakugou didn’t speak.
Didn’t eat much either.

Just glared sideways at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

I ate in silence, letting the voices drift around me.

Then, without looking up, I spoke—quiet, clipped, almost too soft to catch.

“I shouldn’t have growled.”

The words dropped into the space between us like a flat stone hitting water.

Kirishima blinked at me.

Mina’s smile flickered wider, real this time.

Kaminari laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his head like he didn’t know what to do with the moment.

Even Bakugou reacted—his arms tightening briefly across his chest, mouth twitching in something almost like a scoff.

No awkward thanks.
No big declarations.

Just a small, invisible wire stretched between us.
Not strong yet.

But there.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning.

The apartment was silent, except for the soft dripping of the coffee pot and the faint, slow thrum of the city beyond the windows.

Morning sunlight crept in thinly, slicing the living room into strips of grey and gold. Dust motes floated in the shafts of light. Somewhere across the room, the black cat curled tighter into a loaf shape, purring softly against my thigh.

I sat cross-legged on the worn couch, a mug of coffee cradled loosely between my hands. The warmth seeped into my fingers. The fabric of my gym pants was soft, broken in from too many wash cycles. It still smelled faintly of the institutional soap UA used.

The cat shifted in my lap, pressing its head harder against my ribs. I scratched behind its ears without thinking.

The sound escaped from deep in my chest—low, rumbling, almost a vibration. It wasn’t human. Not a hum. Not a sigh. Something deeper, something more primal. A comfort sound my body had started producing without my permission.

Across the room, Aizawa glanced up from behind his coffee mug, one eyebrow raised.

“Instincts?” he asked, voice rough with sleep and something wry under the surface.

I hesitated. Then nodded once.

“It happens,” I said quietly, words barely more than breath. “When I’m… calm.”

Aizawa took a slow sip of his coffee, the movement unhurried, almost lazy. He didn’t comment right away.

Then, dry as sandpaper, he muttered, “Better than baring your teeth.”

It startled something small in me—a crack in the wall I kept sealed behind my ribs. Before I could stop it, the faintest twitch pulled at the corner of my mouth. Not a real smile. Barely a shadow of one. But it was there.

Aizawa caught it. I knew he did. But he didn’t say anything. Just went back to his coffee like it didn’t matter.

The cat in my lap purred louder, curling into a tighter ball against my side. I rested a hand on its back, feeling the steady vibration through its body, matching my own.

The silence stretched long and thin between us.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

I stared into my cooling coffee, letting my mind drift. Letting the past week peel itself open in slow, sharp images.

It had been… a lot.

Lunches with the Bakusquad had somehow become a routine, no one making a big deal about it.

Kirishima’s teeth—sharp and sharklike—should have registered as a threat. But they didn’t. His laughter was too open. Too warm. No danger in it.

Kaminari’s constant buzzing energy.
Sero’s easy, crooked grin.
Mina’s pink curls bouncing with every laugh—loud, bright, sticky like candy. No danger.

They were loud.
They were chaotic.

But they weren’t predators.

And Bakugou.

Different.

Bakugou didn’t joke like Kirishima.
He didn’t buzz with nervous energy like Kaminari.
He didn’t fill space with noise like Mina or Sero.

He existed like a fuse burning short—contained heat, sharp tension, barely restrained violence.

He stared.
Glared.
Watched.

Every movement he made crackled with something dangerous—a constant readiness to detonate.

Dangerous.
Unapologetic.

But honest.

There was no falsehood in him.
No smiles hiding teeth.
No lies wrapped in polite noise.

He was anger, pure and simple.

And somehow, that made him easier to understand.

Then there was Midoriya.

Always fidgeting, always too eager, always teetering on the edge of wanting to ask questions he knew better than to ask.

He didn’t push—not after the first few attempts.
I learned quickly that if I answered him with clipped, one-word responses, he backed off.

“Dangerous.”
“Instinct-based.”
“Not important.”

It didn’t stop him from trying. But there was no malice in it.
Just a stubborn curiosity that couldn’t seem to hurt anything.

And then… there was Todoroki.

Which brought me back to the first sparring match I was able to participate in since starting at UA.

It had been the middle of the week.
Hero Training. Physical sparring.

Up until that point, I’d only observed from the side—silent, arms crossed, unnoticed unless someone was taking attendance.

But that day, Aizawa’s voice cut through the noise of the gym:

“Todoroki. Tsuyara. You’re up.”

There was a second of hesitation—mine and the class’s.

I shifted, feeling the faint tightening of eyes on me. Waiting. Measuring. Wondering if I’d say no.

I didn’t.

I stepped forward. Calm. Cold. Ready.

Todoroki was already standing there, waiting. Expression blank. Stance balanced. No arrogance. No hesitation.

We didn’t speak.

Aizawa barked the start.

And we moved.

The spar was clean.
No cheap shots.
No dirty tactics.
Just measured footwork, sharp jabs, defensive turns.

He didn’t underestimate me. And I didn’t hold back. It wasn’t a fight for dominance. It was an exchange of respect.

Time ran out before either of us could claim a victory.

Aizawa ended the match with a low grunt of acknowledgment. I stepped back. Todoroki mirrored me.

Nothing more.

After the final bell rang, I had gathered my things, moving toward the exit with the others—until I heard it:

“You forgot this.”

I turned.

Todoroki held out my notebook, neutral, steady. I took it from him with a nod.

“Thanks,” I said. Then, quieter:
“Good spar today.”

He met my eyes, his voice low and even:

“You too.”

No awkwardness. No unnecessary words. Just quiet acknowledgment.

The kind my instincts could understand.

The black cat shifted again in my lap, dragging me back to the present.

I ran a hand down its spine, feeling it arch into the touch.

The low, raptor-purr rumbled out of me again, unnoticed.

Across the room, Aizawa flipped a page in his book, his coffee cooling beside him.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the air around me didn’t feel like a cage.

It wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t safe.

But maybe…

Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought.
__________

Bakugou POV

The sunlight leaking through the window pissed me off.

Too bright. Too clean.

Didn’t match the way my muscles twitched under my skin, the way my head buzzed even after an hour of training.

I should’ve been fine.
Morning run. Weights. Showers.

Didn’t help.

Something still scraped under my ribs—sharp and restless—grinding louder the longer I tried to ignore it.

Tch.

I kicked the edge of my bedframe harder than I meant to, the metal groaning under the hit.

My mind kept circling back. Over and over. Since she showed up.

Since Tsuyara Hibari walked into 1-A like she didn’t owe a damn thing to anybody.

It was just a few days ago.
After class.
The classroom was clearing out—chairs scraping back, conversations fading into the hallway.

She moved different.

Didn’t rush.
Didn’t linger.

Just grabbed her stuff and headed for the door. Sharp. Silent. Detached.

I didn’t even think.

I caught up to her before she could slip out.

Blocked her path with a step and a glare.

“Oi. You gonna answer or what?
What’s your damn quirk?”

She blinked once—slow, flat. Didn’t flinch. Folded her arms across her chest like she couldn’t be bothered to care I was standing there.

“Dangerous.”

That was it. One word. Flat. Calm. Dismissive. Like I was just another noise she could ignore. My lip curled.

“That ain’t a fucking answer.”

I stepped closer, dropping my voice low, daring her to back up.
For half a second—a flicker, almost too fast to catch—her pupils slitted. Narrow. Vertical. Predator sharp.

It was gone almost instantly—but not before my instincts bristled, cold and hard under my skin.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me with that same cold steadiness. Voice low and sharp enough to slice:

“You don’t want to know.”

I growled, fists curling.

“The hell I don’t.”

Her voice dropped further—almost a whisper, almost a warning:

“Just hope you never have to see it.”

A beat.

“Because if you do…You might not walk away from it.”

The classroom around us felt too still. Silent. Heavy.

I stared her down—wanted to crack that mask, force the truth out of her—but she just turned. Stepped past me.
Left me standing there, fists clenched, heart hammering against my ribs.

And then yesterday.

Hero Training.

The gym buzzed with noise—extras whispering, bumping into each other, too loud, too stupid.

I sat near the front, arms crossed, scowling.

Waiting.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the chatter:

“Todoroki. Tsuyara. You’re up.”

Instant shift. People leaned forward. Eyes locked. Curious. Nervous.

Finally.

The new girl was stepping onto the mat.

It wasn’t a full-blown quirk fight. Hand-to-hand only. No quirks. Just instinct. Balance. Timing.

Pure.

Todoroki moved first. Sharp. Clean. Controlled.

She moved cleaner. No hesitation. No wasted effort. No fear.

Not even a trace.

Todoroki tested her.

She tested him right back. Tight footwork. Fast blocks. Minimal movement. Nothing flashy. All edge.

The idiots around me whispered:

“She’s so calm.”
“She’s so cool!”

Tch.

They didn’t get it. It wasn’t calm. It was containment. Pressure. A bomb wired tight under cold hands.

The match ended without a winner.

Todoroki bowed.

She dipped her head—barely. Turned away. Like it hadn’t even cost her anything.

Now, back in my room, fists flexing, jaw tight—the last few days gnawed at me like teeth.

She wasn’t just hiding strength.

She was hiding something worse.

Something bigger.

And every second she kept it buried made my instincts scream louder.

Fine.

Let her hide.

Let her pretend.

Next time—Next time, it wasn’t gonna be Todoroki facing her down.

Next time—It was gonna be me.

And whatever she was keeping caged—I’d rip it the fuck out myself.

⸻

Little did I know—I wouldn’t have to wait long. And not in the way I was expecting.

Chapter Text

The classroom buzzed with the restless hum of a Monday morning.

Footsteps. Chair legs scraping. Voices weaving in and out of each other.

I sat at my desk near the back—still. Silent. Watching.

My fingers curled loosely around the edge of the table, feeling the faint vibration of movement all around me. It scratched against my skin like a low, constant itch. The aftertaste of too many scents lingering in the air—fabric softener, breakfast, body heat, nerves.

But under it all, something else.

Something familiar.

I caught it before the door even opened.

Coffee.

The bitter scent of ground beans, carried in low and heavy like smoke on the breeze. Worn cotton. Tired breath. A thread of static energy that tugged at the base of my spine, even before the first footstep fell.

I straightened slightly, pupils narrowing.

Aizawa.

Not even here yet—but close enough that instinct caught him before my eyes could.

It startled me, how automatic it was.

Another new line being stitched into the fabric under my skin—unseen, but pulling tighter every day.

The door slammed open with a bang.

Conversations died mid-sentence.

Aizawa Shouta shuffled into the room like a man twice his age, slouched under the weight of exhaustion he didn’t bother hiding. His capture weapon dragged the faintest whisper against the floor. His eyes were barely open.

Someone coughed nervously.

He ignored it, scratching the back of his head, and muttered in a voice that barely qualified as awake:

“Alright. We’re picking a class representative.”

Blank silence.

And then—chaos.

The room erupted as half the class shot to their feet, shouting over each other.

“I wanna do it!”
“No way, pick me!”
“I’d be great at it!”
“Vote for me, vote for me!”

Desks rattled. Voices cracked.
Someone in the front row actually threw a fist in the air like they were campaigning for president of the world.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

From my seat near the back, the whole class looked like a school of fish suddenly turning on itself—bumping shoulders, clamoring for attention, scattering instinctively toward the loudest voice.

Pathetic.

And then—

Out of the noise—

One voice cutting through:

“Everyone, please calm down!”

My eyes shifted.

There—near the center of the room.

Tall. Upright. Glasses glinting in the fluorescent light.

The boy—Iida—pushed his hands through the air in sharp, controlled motions, trying to herd the others back into their seats like sheepdogs corralling a panicked flock.

“This is not how heroes behave! We should elect our representative properly! Respectfully! With a vote!”

The others wavered—uncertain—but the force of his voice, the certainty behind his movements, cut through the frenzy.

Slowly, reluctantly, the class started settling.

Some muttered complaints. A few grumbles. Someone flopped dramatically back into their chair.

Iida didn’t flinch. He just adjusted his glasses with a sharp motion and crossed his arms, waiting for order to return.

I watched him a second longer.

Measured.

Calculated.

No unnecessary noise.

No empty bravado.

Just clean, decisive action.

My hand moved without thinking, resting against the cool surface of the desk.

If we were supposed to pick the most qualified—

The most suited to lead—

There wasn’t even a choice to make.

Iida.

It was obvious.

The ballots were scraps of paper, torn hastily from notebook pages.
Aizawa barely supervised the process, half-asleep at his desk with a coffee mug cradled between both hands.

One by one, they scrawled names.

I didn’t hesitate.

Iida.

Simple. Direct. Uncomplicated.

When the votes were counted, the results were as predictable as the chaos that followed:

Midoriya Izuku — three votes.

Momo Yaoyorozu — two votes.

Scattered votes for others—enough to cause confusion and resentment, but not enough to matter.

Aizawa barely lifted his head as he mumbled:

“Midoriya’s the class rep. Yaoyorozu’s vice.”

There was a stunned silence.

Midoriya practically wilted under the sudden attention, looking like he’d rather crawl under a desk than accept.

Iida looked—disappointed.

But he masked it quickly, straightening his tie with mechanical precision.

I didn’t react. Just rested my chin on my hand, staring out the window as the morning sunlight sliced harsher across the sky.

The cafeteria roared with noise.

Students from every year and section packed the wide, high-ceilinged space—lined up for trays of food, shoving through tables, laughing, shouting, moving in endless, messy lines.

I moved through it like a ghost.

Plate in hand. Eyes steady. Footsteps light.

The Bakusquad—Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina, Sero—had claimed a table near the back, half-obscured by one of the big concrete support beams.

They waved when they spotted me.

Even Bakugou, though he didn’t wave—just jerked his chin in a motion sharp enough to be an invitation.

I slid into the empty seat without a word, setting my tray down, adjusting my weight to keep the exits in view.

Noise rolled over me like a tide.

I let it pass.

For a moment, conversation buzzed harmlessly—Kirishima talking about gym class, Mina laughing at something Sero said, Kaminari whining about the homework load.

I ate quietly, letting them chatter.

And then—
I lifted my head slightly.

Turned toward Bakugou.

Deadpan.

Steady.

“Bakugou,” I said, cutting through the noise.

He stopped mid-bite, frowning.

“Tch. What.”

I didn’t blink.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Kirishima leaned in, grinning like he was waiting for something explosive.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, suspicious already.

“Depends.”

I tilted my head slightly, voice as flat and even as stone:

“Why do you smell sweet?”

The table went silent.

For half a second.

And then—

Kaminari burst out laughing, practically choking on his rice.
Mina slapped her hand over her mouth, trying and failing to smother a cackle.
Even Sero grinned wide enough to show teeth.

Bakugou stiffened like someone had just insulted his entire bloodline.

“THE HELL?!”
He slammed his chopsticks down, teeth bared, sparks flickering faintly from his palms.

I just kept looking at him—calm, indifferent—as if I had asked about the weather.

“Like burnt sugar,” I added, blinking slowly.
“Like caramel left too long over a flame.”

Kirishima was doubled over the table now, gasping for air between wheezing laughter.
Sero was banging his fist against the table, struggling to breathe.
Even Mina had tears in her eyes, hiccuping.

Bakugou looked like he was ready to throw his entire lunch tray across the cafeteria.

“IT’S MY DAMN SWEAT, SHITHEADS!”

He practically roared it, voice crackling.

I sipped my water, unbothered, letting the noise roll past me again like a storm I didn’t mind standing in.

The Bakusquad dissolved into chaos around me, howling, teasing, throwing napkins at Bakugou while he tried to fry them with glares alone.

For the first time since I’d set foot in UA—

A thread of warmth—sharp and fragile—uncoiled somewhere low in my chest.

It wasn’t a smile.

Not yet.

But something in the vicinity.

Something close.

The sirens hit like a physical blow.

A sharp, wailing shriek that cut straight through the cafeteria’s noise.

Lights overhead flashed red, slicing the space into shards of color and confusion.

Trays clattered to the floor.

Chairs screeched back.

Voices rose, high and panicked.

Someone screamed.

My muscles locked before I even processed it.

My instincts—always too close to the surface—snapped free like a whip.

My heartbeat thundered once—twice—and then everything narrowed.

Focus.

Noise sharpened to unbearable clarity.

I felt the shift before I realized it was happening—
the itch under my skin, the prickling heat through my fingertips.

My claws slid out without permission.

A sudden crack as they sank deep into the cafeteria table.

The steel groaned around the punctures, splintering faintly under the pressure.

I stayed frozen, staring at the damage, my breathing shallow.

Around me, the Bakusquad jolted.

Kirishima, nearest to me, startled—but caught himself.

“Whoa—Hibari—”
He reached out—slow, careful, hands open, like approaching a cornered animal.

Mina pushed her tray aside, scooting closer, voice quick and bright and steady:

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Deep breaths, girl. You’re good. We’re good.”

Sero moved behind Kirishima, tension vibrating off him, but his posture stayed loose. Nonthreatening.

Even Kaminari—still half-laughing from the earlier chaos—stilled, watching with wide, wary eyes.

And Bakugou.

Bakugou didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Just stared at me—sharp, focused—watching like he was cataloging every breath, every twitch, every shift under my skin.

Not scared.

Not cautious.

Calculating.

I wrenched my claws free from the table with a low, broken scrape of metal.

Forced my hands into fists.

Breathed once.

Twice.

The noise around us was growing worse—
students shoving toward the exits, pushing and yelling and panicking.

The Bakusquad circled tighter—
Kirishima nudging my shoulder,
Mina throwing an arm around my back,
Sero gesturing urgently toward the doors.

“C’mon,” Mina said brightly, voice strained but steady, “let’s get moving before it gets worse.”

I let them steer me.

I couldn’t trust my own footing.

Couldn’t trust my own hands.

We broke away from the table just as the press of bodies shoved harder against the cafeteria doors, flooding the hallways in a frantic stampede.

The corridors outside were chaos.

Students everywhere.

Shouting. Crying. Pushing.

The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low.

I ducked my head, kept my breathing tight and fast, trying to fight the instinct clawing at my ribs.

But the hallway narrowed—and someone shoved me, hard, against the windows.

My shoulder hit the glass with a dull thud.

For a second—
panic flared.

Teeth bared.

Hands twitching toward claws again.

And then—
a body slammed into place beside me.

Not pinning.

Shielding.

Bakugou.

Without a word, without looking at me, he planted himself between me and the crush of students.

Shoulders squared.

Back braced.

Like it was automatic.

The scent of burnt sugar hit me again—sharp and clean and grounding—and I latched onto it without thinking.

My heartbeat slowed—barely.

I stayed close to his side, letting the tension bleed out one breath at a time, knuckles still aching from how hard I was clenching my fists.

Bakugou didn’t look at me.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, solid and fierce and immovable, bracing against the tide.

Somewhere ahead, above the noise, a voice rose—

“Everyone, stay calm! It’s just reporters! There’s no danger!”

I lifted my head.

Saw Iida—standing half on top of the emergency exit ledge—arms raised, shouting clear instructions through the chaos.

And somehow—
somehow, the mass of students listened.

The panic ebbed, turned into nervous shuffling.

A slow, uneven evacuation.

Order stitched itself back into the crowd.

I watched Iida for a second longer.

Watched how easily they listened.

How quickly he made them move.

That instinct—the one that picked apart threat and trust—marked him:

Steady.

Reliable.

Someone to follow.

The classroom felt strange when we filtered back inside.

Too bright. Too sterile.

The leftover panic clung to the air like static—buzzing just under the surface of everyone’s nerves.

Chairs scraped.

Bags dropped.

Students shifted awkwardly in their seats, glancing around, murmuring low.

I dropped into my chair at the back, my shoulders stiff, my hands still aching faintly from clenching too tight.

Bakugou took his seat without a word, two rows ahead of me, still tense.

Kirishima slumped into his chair with a heavy sigh, scratching the back of his head.
Sero leaned over to whisper something to Kaminari, who let out a shaky laugh.

Across the room, Midoriya stood.

Fidgeting.

Glancing nervously toward the front where Aizawa slouched in his chair like a cat ready to claw the next loudmouth who breathed wrong.

Midoriya cleared his throat once.

Twice.

Then—voice cracking—he said:

“Um. About the class representative thing.”

The room quieted.

All eyes turned.

Midoriya flailed his hands a little, flushed red, but kept going:

“I, uh—I think Iida-kun should have the position.”

Gasps.

Muttering.

A few wide-eyed stares.

Midoriya rushed ahead before anyone could interrupt:

“During the alarm—he stayed calm. He organized us. He got everyone to the exits safely. He was amazing. I think that’s what a real leader does.”

Across the room, Iida blinked behind his glasses, clearly blindsided.

Someone—probably Uraraka—whispered something encouraging at him.

A beat of hesitation.

And then quiet nods rippled across the room.

Even Bakugou—who looked like he’d rather chew glass than agree with anyone—grunted once and didn’t argue.

I just sat back.

Silent.

Watching.

It made sense.

It was the right choice.

The kind of decision that settled in the bones, instinctively correct.

The kind that didn’t need explanation.

I let my eyes drift closed for a second, breathing out through my nose.

The tension in the room thinned.

Shifted.

Stitched itself into something closer to normalcy.

The classroom was still settling when Aizawa’s voice dragged everyone’s attention back like a hook through water.

“Settle down.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The clatter of bags and papers filled the short, awkward silence before everyone sat straighter in their seats.

Iida finished adjusting his glasses, sitting back down with the rigid formality of someone ready to tackle a mountain with pure willpower.

I watched him for a heartbeat longer—something steady about the way he composed himself—and then let my gaze drift toward the front of the room.

Aizawa slouched against the desk, arms crossed, scarf pooling like a lazy shadow around his neck. His hair stuck up in messy angles, dark and wild as always.

“We’re doing rescue training this afternoon,” he said, tone flat like he was announcing an overdue assignment instead of something the rest of the class clearly wanted to vibrate out of their skins for.

Around me, the energy spiked again—contained, buzzing under the surface.
Midoriya’s hand twitched toward the air before he yanked it down again.
Kirishima was already grinning wide enough to show teeth.
Mina bounced once in her seat.

Aizawa ignored them.

“You’ll be transported to an off-site location. Meet at the bus in twenty minutes after changing.”

He paused, his gaze dragging across the room, sharp even under the sleepy weight of his eyes.

“You’ll meet Pro Heroes there for your special training. Disaster scenarios—floods, fires, collapsed buildings. Expect the unexpected.”

No names.

No extra details.

Just enough to make the class buzz harder, exchanging wide-eyed glances.

I stayed still.

Silent.

But a thread of tension tightened under my skin.

Aizawa’s tone, the heavy pause between his words, the sharpness hidden behind the lazy posture—it meant something.

Something important.

“Teamwork. Quick thinking. And above all—”
his voice dropped a shade lower—

“Control.”

The word clipped short, aimed like a thrown knife.

I didn’t miss the flick of crimson from Bakugou’s eyes two rows ahead.

But I didn’t meet his gaze.

Aizawa pushed off the desk with a grunt.

“Don’t be late.”

Students immediately began to scramble—gathering their bags, rushing toward the door, voices already rising into excited, tangled noise.

I moved to follow them when—

“Tsuyara.”

His voice caught me again.

I turned, stepping toward him.

He didn’t bother lowering his voice much, but nobody was paying attention anyway.

“You’ll wear your gym uniform for this,” he said.
“You still haven’t submitted a hero costume request.”

No accusation.

Just fact.

Just another thing filed under “yet to be decided.”

I nodded.

He gave a grunt—approval or indifference, impossible to tell—then slouched past me, disappearing down the hallway.

The hallway buzzed with movement.

I shouldered my bag, kept my pace even, and headed for the lockers.

The bus was loud.
Not in the way the cafeteria had been—this was sharper, brighter, bouncing chatter against the open space like ricochets off steel walls.

The layout wasn’t rigid rows; it was open, seats lining the sides with only a few two-seaters near the back. Students clustered together naturally, conversation threading between them without needing permission.

I stepped onto the bus and, without hesitation, made my way toward the back.
Bakugou was already there, scowling out the window.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t acknowledge me.

But he didn’t stop me either when I slid into the seat beside him.

I sat stiffly, keeping my body angled slightly away—half-facing the bus, half-facing nothing at all.
No bag. No extra gear. Just the gym uniform and my own quiet tension.

For a moment, the noise of the bus faded.
All I registered was him.

Burnt sugar.
Smoke.
Sweat.

Sharper now.
Clearer.
Familiar in the same way a warning signal becomes familiar.

No affection.
No safety.
But—
Recognition.

Not threat.

Not yet trust.

But something growing beneath my skin—
a primal note of familiarity.

The beginnings of something a little more than survival.

Kirishima was leaned over from across the aisle, flashing a grin that showed too many teeth but none of them dangerous.

“So, Bakugou, sitting with Hibari, huh? Didn’t peg you for the friendly type!”

Bakugou growled low under his breath but didn’t answer.

Kaminari piped up from a few seats down, voice too loud like always:
“More like he’s scared of her ‘murderous aura’ or something!”
He wiggled his fingers dramatically.

Sero and Mina snickered.

Bakugou’s growl grew sharper.

“Shut it before I blast your faces off.”

Typical.

I said nothing.

Just watched the banter, feeling the subtle tugs of connection—not strong enough to pull me in, but noticeable now, like gravity pressing against the soles of my feet.

“Seriously though,” Sero added, turning toward me a little more.
“What is your quirk, Hibari? You barely said anything about it.”

Mina leaned in eagerly, pink hair bouncing.
“Yeah! You always just say it’s ‘dangerous’ and that’s it! What’s it do?”

Even Kirishima’s curiosity sharpened.
Friendly. Curious. Not predatory.

Twenty sets of eyes weren’t on me.
Just a few.
Manageable.

I let the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then, low, calm, unbothered:

“It’s instinct-based.”

No embellishment.
No invitation for more questions.

The Bakusquad exchanged looks—but none of them pushed.
Kirishima just gave a casual shrug and leaned back against his seat like he hadn’t expected a full answer anyway.

Kaminari pouted dramatically but got distracted when Mina poked his ribs.

They returned to chattering about costumes, quirks, and who would be strongest at rescue training.

Bakugou stayed silent beside me, arms folded, face unreadable—but I felt his attention drift toward me every now and then.
Not directly.
Not obviously.

But there.

The engine rumbled.
The bus rocked slightly as we crested a curve.

I turned my head slightly, staring out past Bakugou’s reflection in the window.

Outside the windows, the main school buildings gave way to open training grounds and dense tree lines.
Roads wound through the campus outskirts—quiet, structured, deliberately isolated.
Still UA territory.
Still controlled.
But farther from the heart of the school.

The drive wasn’t long.
Just long enough for the excitement to build—for the wrong kind of tension to coil tight beneath my skin.

If I had been anyone else—
Maybe I would’ve smiled at how normal this almost felt.

But I wasn’t anyone else.

So I just leaned back against the seat, loose but ready, and waited.

We weren’t there yet.

But something inside me—something old and buried deep—stirred.

A pulse.
A warning.
Something was coming.

I just didn’t know what.

Yet.

Chapter Text

The bus rattled as it pulled to a stop.

Without looking up from his phone, Aizawa muttered:

“Shut up. We’re here.”

The noise inside the bus died instantly.

Seats scraped and thudded as students jumped up, a restless buzz filling the narrow aisle.

I moved slower, deliberate, staying close to the back of the group as we filed off.

Ahead of us rose a massive dome of steel and glass, curving high enough to scrape the artificial clouds clinging to the ceiling.

The air outside smelled dry and metallic, too clean to be real.

Waiting at the entrance stood a figure in white, a sleek white helmet catching the filtered light.

The Space Hero: Thirteen.

Recognition flickered through the group — excited gasps, low whispers.

Thirteen lifted a gloved hand in greeting.

“Hello, everyone!”
The voice was bright, cheerful, amplified slightly through the helmet.

“I am Thirteen. It’s an honor to meet you!”

More murmurs, wide-eyed stares.
Midoriya looked like he might actually pass out.

Thirteen stepped aside, gesturing toward the wide entrance.

“This facility is called the Unforeseen Simulation Joint — USJ for short.”

The words bounced lightly in the open space.

“I helped design it to simulate various disaster scenarios — so you can practice rescue operations in realistic conditions.”

A few students leaned forward eagerly, straining for a better view.

I stayed near the rear of the group, eyes steady.

Training ground.

Simulated danger.

Not real.
Not yet.

“You’ll be working alongside me today,” Thirteen added, voice softening. “Focus on control. Focus on saving lives.”

The class buzzed again — excitement, nerves, too much energy vibrating through the air.

We followed Thirteen through the entrance.

Inside, the space opened up sharply —
a massive stairway leading down into a sprawling plaza, ringed on all sides by towering fabricated disaster zones.

The view from the top was dizzying — burning wreckage, mountains, floods, crumbling ruins — all laid out around the plaza like a shattered crown.

Students clustered around the railing, pointing, whispering.

I stayed slightly back.

Watching.

Scanning.

The scent of cold concrete and recycled air filled my lungs — too sterile, too still.

Thirteen stopped near the top of the stairwell, turning back toward us.

“This,” she said, sweeping an arm wide, “is where your training begins.”

Her voice brightened, carrying easily:

“Heroes don’t just fight villains. We save lives. That’s our most important job. Today, you’ll practice rescuing people from disaster situations.”

The excitement in the group crackled, barely contained.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Measured.

Waiting.

“But,” Thirteen added — the word hitting like a stone dropped into still water —
“your Quirks are powerful. If you lose control, you could easily hurt others — or yourselves.”

A ripple passed through the group.

Unease.

Nervous shifting.

I tasted the sharp spike of fear threading the air.

And then—

Something changed.

Subtle at first — the faintest vibration through the floor.

A thickening of the air — wrong, electric.

I snapped my head toward the plaza below — instincts clawing up my spine.

Down below, at the center of the plaza, mist began to swirl — dark, churning, expanding outward like a wound tearing open.

Students gasped.

The mist thickened — growing into a black vortex — until a shape emerged at its center.

Pale skin.
Light bluish hair, wild and matted.
A hand clamped tightly over his face like a grotesque mask — and more hands, dangling from his arms, gripped his body like broken ornaments.

His movements were twitchy, disjointed — wrong.

Two gleaming red eyes peered out between the fingers across his face.

And behind him—

More.

Villains.

Dozens of them, pouring through the mist like a dam had broken — spreading across the plaza, armed, shouting, grinning.

And among them —

Something else.

A hulking figure — monstrous, towering over the others.

A creature, not a man — its exposed brain glistening wetly under the dome’s artificial light, a jagged beak splitting its face, muscles straining against blackened skin.

It moved even when standing still — something unnatural flexing just under its surface.

The students around me recoiled instinctively — a breathless ripple of horror.

I didn’t move.

Just watched.

Marked it.

The creature.

The boy with hands like shackles.

The villains spreading like a virus across the stone plaza.

The last of the villains stepped clear of the mist—

And behind us.

The air thickened again.

The mist boiled upward near the entrance.

We turned — too late.

Another figure formed from the mist — humanoid but wrong.
Dark fog coiled into the rough shape of a man, a heavy metal collar glinting where shoulders should be, and two yellow eyes flickering faintly inside the smoke.

“You cannot escape,” it said, voice low and mechanical.
“We are here to extinguish the Symbol of Peace.”

Fear cracked through the group — sharp, disjointed.

Bakugou didn’t hesitate.

With a snarl, he lunged — palms sparking bright — explosions flaring in his hands.

“LIKE HELL!”

Kirishima hardened instantly, charging forward, a stone-fist drawn back to strike.

They hit —

—or tried to.

Their attacks passed straight through the mist — no impact, no damage.

Tendrils of black fog lashed outward.

Bakugou, Kirishima — and me — caught in its pull.

Half the class too — swallowed up in coils of smoke, torn off our feet.

The ground disappeared.

The air disappeared.

Weightless.

Spinning.

Falling into black.

The world spun —
black, breathless —
until gravity slammed back into me like a hammer.

I hit hard.

Concrete cracked under my hands and knees, the shock rattling through my bones.

The impact drove the air from my lungs, but I rolled fast, bleeding off momentum, getting low to the surface instinctively.

Nearby —
heavy thuds.

Bakugou, landing in a crouch, boots skidding across the rooftop.

Kirishima, hitting next — rougher, but already scrambling upright, skin hardening on reflex.

The ground beneath us groaned ominously — a fractured, unstable rooftop.

I flexed my fingers once, claws slicing through the dust — feeling the tremble under the concrete.

Not stable.

Not for long.

Above us, what remained of the ceiling opened into the high, broken ribs of the Collapse Zone — wreckage clawing at the dome’s distant lights.

Around us — fractured buildings, split streets, wrecked cars half-swallowed by debris.

I pushed up to a crouch.

Low, alert.

Bakugou whipped his head around, scanning — fast, sharp — eyes narrowed.

Kirishima moved closer automatically, posture defensive, keeping us tight.

We barely had time to orient before movement flared at the edge of the ruins.

Shapes.

Not civilians.

Not teachers.

Villains.

Five, maybe six — dropping from higher rubble, boots pounding against stone, crude weapons flashing in their hands.

Laughter rang out — sharp, vicious.

They hadn’t seen us yet — not clearly — but it was only seconds.

The rooftop cracked louder under our feet.

Thin fractures spiderwebbed outward from where Bakugou had landed — chunks of concrete tipping dangerously.

My eyes narrowed.

We wouldn’t hold this ground.

Bakugou seemed to realize it too.

He jerked his chin sharply — a silent command — and surged forward.

The villains shouted when they saw him, energy spiking.

One fired a blast of something — compressed air maybe — and the force punched through the already-weakened rooftop.

The world dropped again.

The ground sheared away.

We fell with it —
slabs of concrete collapsing inward, spiraling into chaos —
and then slammed down into the dark belly of the building.

Dust exploded upward — thick, choking, blinding.

I hit a hard floor, rolled once, twice, and came up crouched — coughing through the grit, senses wide open.

Cracked walls.

Shattered beams.

Half a floor still intact above us — open air gaping where the roof had been.

Light speared through broken windows, dust motes spinning in the beams.

Bakugou landed hard nearby, skidding on broken tile, teeth bared in a growl.

Kirishima rolled to his knees, bracing with one hand, coughing hard but staying upright.

The villains dropped through the shattered roof after us — reckless, stupid.

Two landed badly — one crumpled with a scream as his ankle twisted wrong.

Three others touched down clean — moving fast, weapons raised.

No warning.

No talking.

Just violence.

Bakugou lunged first — palms snapping open — a sharp controlled explosion detonating at the nearest villain’s chest, sending him flying backward into a crumbling pillar.

Kirishima slammed forward next — shoulder-checking another villain into a half-broken wall hard enough to shake the room.

I moved without thinking — instinct faster than thought — slipping into the blind spot of the third attacker.

A knife swung — wide, clumsy.

I ducked under it — felt the blade whistle past — and drove my claws upward into the soft part of his arm.

A gurgled cry — the knife clattered from his hand.

I wrenched free, spinning low, and swept his legs out from under him with a sharp kick to the knees.

He hit the ground hard, already unconscious before he landed.

Breath harsh in my throat, I shifted position — fast, silent — reassessing.

Bakugou was already turning toward the next threat — a girl with metal talons extending from her fingers.

Kirishima took a blow to the shoulder — blades sparking harmlessly off his hardened skin — and grinned like it was a warm-up.

Another villain circled wide — trying to flank us.

I bared my teeth.

Not today.

Dust swirled heavy in the air.

The building groaned again — walls shifting, debris raining from above.

No stability.

No backup.

No orders.

Just us.

Three against many.

Three against the whole rotten weight of this crumbling world.

I flexed my claws once, feeling the heat of Bakugou’s explosions warming the cold edges of the broken room.

The villain nearest me lunged — fast, low.

I met him mid-strike — claws slashing, body twisting tight.

Bones crunched under my grip.

Another attacker reeled in, swinging a crowbar.

Bakugou intercepted — an explosion lighting the space between them, burning the weapon into scrap.

Kirishima charged straight into two more — absorbing hits, driving them backward, giving no ground.

Three predators.

No mercy.

No hesitation.

No escape.

The last villain hit the ground with a hollow, ugly thud.

The dust hung thick in the broken space — gritty in my throat, clinging to my skin.

For a moment, the only sounds were harsh breathing and the low groan of settling concrete.

Bakugou kicked a piece of rubble aside with a snarl, smoke still rising faintly from his palms.

Kirishima leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, catching his breath — blood smearing down his hardened forearm but ignored like it didn’t matter.

I stayed crouched, claws flexing once against the cracked floor, scanning for new threats.

None.

For now.

Kirishima was the first to speak — voice rough, urgent:

“We gotta help the others! They probably got scattered too — we should find ’em and back ’em up!”

He straightened, clenching his fists, ready to charge back into the wreckage without hesitation.

Bakugou snorted — sharp and violent — cutting the words off like a blade.

“Tch. Dumbass.”

Kirishima blinked at him, frowning.

Bakugou jerked his chin sharply — the direction unmistakable.

“That mist freak’s the key. He’s how they got in, and he’s the only way they’re keeping us trapped in here.”

His voice dropped lower, rougher:

“We take him out — we cut off their escape route. Then we wreck the rest.”

The words rolled out like fact, not argument.

Kirishima hesitated — shoulders tensing, fists clenching — but he didn’t argue.

Because Bakugou was right.

Even I knew it — felt it, deep in the same place that mapped threats and marked survival paths without needing permission.

The mist creature — the one with the yellow eyes and the metal collar — was the real choke point.

Not the grunts.

Not even the twitchy boy with hands like chains.

If we took him out — everything else would fall apart faster.

I shifted slightly, dust curling around my feet.

Bakugou caught the movement — the barest flick of green eyes — and for half a second, our instincts aligned.

No words.

No nod.

Just understanding.

Kirishima cracked his knuckles once — loud and sharp — and blew out a hard breath.

“Alright. Plaza first. Take out Misty.”

Bakugou grinned — savage, teeth bared.

“Finally, your brain’s working.”

Kirishima flipped him off half-heartedly but already turned toward the ragged hole we’d fallen through.

I followed without needing to be told.

The ground crumbled slightly underfoot as we moved — boots crunching through broken glass, the walls groaning around us.

No orders.

No plan.

Just the three of us — moving together now, sharp and unspoken — predators slipping through the wreckage, eyes already locked on the next kill.

The plaza.

The mist.

The way out.

We ran.

Through the broken skeleton of the Collapse Zone —
feet pounding cracked concrete, breath slicing sharp through dust-heavy air.

The path wasn’t clean.

Wreckage towered on all sides — split buildings, shattered glass, fallen beams — a graveyard of stone and steel.

But we moved fast.

Silent.

Efficient.

No wasted energy.

Just survival.

Bakugou led, pushing forward with teeth bared, hands sparking faintly at his sides.

Kirishima kept pace just behind him, dodging rubble, body braced and ready.

I stayed a half step back — scanning, calculating, heart hammering against my ribs in a steady, brutal rhythm.

Plaza.

Mist.

Escape.

That was all that mattered.

And then—

It hit me.

Not a sound.
Not a sight.
A smell.

Blood.

Thick, sharp, copper-heavy.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

My whole body locked mid-stride — feet skidding against loose gravel — breath jerking short.

The world blurred around me — vision tunneling — instincts clawing up my spine.

Bakugou and Kirishima jolted ahead a few steps before they noticed I wasn’t moving.

Kirishima twisted first, urgent:

“Hibari? What’s wrong?!”

Bakugou spun, scowling — voice snapping like a whip:

“The hell are you doing? Move your ass!”

The scent roared in my skull.

Without meaning to, my voice tore loose — low, raw, barely a whisper:

“…blood… hurt…”

Kirishima’s face twisted — confusion laced with fear.

Bakugou stalked a step closer — sparks crackling hot at his fingertips:

“WHAT the fuck are you talking about?!”

The scent roared harder —
blood, copper, sharp, screaming through the air —
and they didn’t smell it.

Didn’t feel it.

Didn’t know what it meant.

Blind.

Too slow.

He was bleeding.
He was still fighting.
And they didn’t understand.

My breath came short and harsh — a snarl locked behind my teeth.

I had to make them understand.

So I chose.

Let the shift ripple across my vision.

My pupils contracted into razor-thin slits, slicing the world into harsher focus.

I met Bakugou’s glare head-on and snapped — low, furious:

“I said I can smell it!
Aizawa’s hurt! He’s bleeding — I don’t know how bad!”

Both of them froze.

Not just from the words.

From the sight of me.

Kirishima’s eyes widened — caught between shock and something closer to fear.

Bakugou’s scowl deepened — but he didn’t back off.

Recognized the shift for what it was.

Predator.

Instinct.

I didn’t wait for an answer.

I tore forward —
running harder —
breath ragged —
the sharp scent dragging me like a hook toward the plaza.

Bakugou and Kirishima followed without another word.

Three bodies.

Three instincts.

No hesitation now.

No mercy.

Only forward.

Chapter Text

We burst into the plaza — and everything else fell away.

Smoke clawed at the broken edges of the walls, drifting low and heavy across the shattered ground. Fires burned in crooked, broken patches. Support beams lay twisted and snapped, like someone had crushed the building in a giant fist.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Not from exhaustion — but from the weight of the scene sprawling out before me.

All Might — the pillar of invincibility himself — was pinned.

The creature holding him was massive. Taller than any man, heavier than any beast. Its skin was stretched black over muscle so thick it barely seemed real.
And those claws — god, those claws — were buried deep into All Might’s side, pressing him forward, holding him in place like an animal waiting to tear its prey apart.

Mist wrapped around them, curling up from the ground like a living thing.
Kurugiri.
His dark void expanded and rippled, trying to drag them both inward — trying to rip All Might to shreds within the endless black.

I caught a glimpse of blood — deep red, spilling heavy down All Might’s legs — and the taste of copper hit the back of my throat.

“Holy shit,” Kirishima breathed, just behind me. His voice sounded distant.

Bakugou didn’t stop.
He shot forward like a live wire, explosions flaring bright at his palms. His combat boots scraped harshly against the ground. The black and orange of his hero costume looked almost violent against the smoky wreckage — heavy green gloves flashing as he moved, the orange palms catching the firelight.

I stayed frozen a second longer.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I couldn’t move.
Something inside me recognized the scene in front of me — the blood, the chaos, the helplessness — and it grabbed hold of my spine with cold fingers.

Near the shattered stairwell —
I spotted Midoriya, Asui, and Mineta, dragging Aizawa-sensei’s limp, blood-soaked body upward.
One arm thrown around each of their shoulders, Aizawa’s head lolled forward — too still, too heavy.

Midoriya turned —
his eyes locking onto All Might trapped against the Nomu.

The horror that snapped across his face was something raw, something I recognized deep in my own ribs.

“No!” Midoriya screamed.

He broke away from Asui and Mineta without hesitation, charging back down the stairs toward the battlefield.

But Bakugou cut him off.
“Get out of my way, Deku!” he shouted, veering past him, aiming instead for Kurugiri.

Bakugou hurled himself forward, bare explosions flaring off his palms — no grenade gauntlets, just raw, controlled blasts channeled through his green gloves.
He plunged his hand into the mist — and grabbed onto something solid.
The flash of metal hidden inside Kurugiri’s swirling form.

With a grunt, Bakugou slammed Kurugiri to the ground, pinning him viciously.

“You fucking move,” Bakugou growled low, “and I’ll blow you to pieces.”

Kurugiri’s mist rippled and struggled against his grip, but Bakugou didn’t give an inch.

The temperature dropped like a stone.

A gust of cold swept across the plaza — and Todoroki appeared, sliding into position with ruthless precision.
His right side — the ice side — gleamed pale against the blackened debris.

Without even pausing, Todoroki swept his hand forward —
and thick, heavy ice erupted across the ground, locking the Nomu’s feet, its legs, its torso in a tightening cocoon of white-blue frost.

The monster roared — but it couldn’t move.

All Might wrenched free, blood spraying from his open wounds, staggering several feet across the battlefield.

For one second — just one —
it felt like the tide might turn.

Until I saw them.

Crushed against the fractured stone.
Twisted metal frames. Blood soaking into the cracked leather and broken metal.

Aizawa-sensei’s goggles.

No lenses. No protective shield.
Just the battered remains of what used to guard the eyes of the only man who had ever looked at me like a person, not a weapon.

The metallic scent hit my nose — thick, suffocating, burning at the back of my throat.

The battlefield blurred.
The cold vanished.
The roar of the Nomu, the shouting, the fighting — all drowned under a rising, deafening pressure inside my skull.

He was the first.

The first person who didn’t flinch away from me.
Who didn’t lock me up.
Who didn’t call me dangerous and turn their back.

He gave me a place.
He gave me a life.

If he bled out here — if he died in this wreckage, abandoned and broken —
then I would lose everything.

My chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
Tears burned at the backs of my eyes, but I shoved them down — swallowed the pain until it seared like acid.

Not again.
Not again. Not again.

I curled my hands into fists until my nails dug through the skin.

The ground swayed under my feet.

A sound cracked through the fog clouding my brain —
a low, grinding growl.

The Nomu moved.

The thick ice Todoroki had trapped it in split apart, shattering into splinters.
Its flesh — torn, frozen — knitted back together at a terrifying speed.

Shigaraki’s voice cut across the battlefield, scratchy and raw.

“Nomu! Free Kurogiri!”

The monster roared —
and launched itself toward Bakugou.

The world moved too fast for me to track.

One second, Bakugou was crouched low over Kurugiri, his gloved fists tightened for another blast —
and the next, he was hurtling backward, slammed across the ground.

All Might had moved.

Too fast to see.
Too powerful to stop.

He shoved Bakugou clear, sending him crashing to the dirt right near me, Kirishima, and Todoroki.
Midoriya stumbled, barely catching himself, wide-eyed.

All Might — wounded, bleeding, battered — took the Nomu’s full, monstrous blow square in the chest.
And still stood.

Across the plaza, Shigaraki wheeled toward the downed villains.

“You!”
He jabbed a bloody finger at a crumpled figure — the villain with barrel-shaped fingertips.

“Shoot them!”

Gunfinger groaned, lifted his battered hand —
and fired.

The air cracked.

Bullets sliced through the smoke, sharp and brutal, hurtling straight for where we stood.

I didn’t think.

I moved.

One breath —
and I threw myself forward, stepping between the bullets and the boys behind me.

Midoriya gasped — Kirishima shouted — Todoroki tensed —
but it didn’t matter.

I braced for impact — prepared to be torn apart —

but the bullets hit something else.

The impacts jolted through me —
thudding against something dense and unnatural under my skin.

I looked down.

Black, razor-edged scales rippled across my arms, spreading up my sides beneath the shredded fabric of my gym uniform.

My fingertips cracked, splitting open —
and claws — curved, wicked — tore free from my flesh.

No gloves to hide it.
No uniform tough enough to hold it back.

A low, sick noise caught in my throat.

My eyes burned —
and when I blinked, the world sharpened into something too vivid, too alive.
I could smell the blood and fear rising off the others like smoke.

No— no, stay human— stay—

My knees gave out.

I collapsed hard onto the ground, clawed hands scraping against the stone, lungs seizing for breath.

The shift was pulling at me —
crushing my bones, shredding the human shape I was fighting to hold.

Around me, I heard them —

“Hibari!”
“Hibari, are you okay?!”
“Talk to us!”

Footsteps moved closer — hands reaching — voices cracking with panic.

Too close.

Too close.

They couldn’t touch me.
They couldn’t see what was happening — what was clawing its way to the surface.

I bared my teeth — barely human anymore — and snarled out, voice shredded and broken:

“Don’t come closer!”

The sound ripped through the plaza — half human, half something wild and monstrous.

The boys froze — stunned — fear bleeding sharp and real into the air.

And I couldn’t stop it.

Not anymore.

I could hear them —
the shuffle of feet, the sharp intake of breath, the frantic beat of hearts hammering against ribcages.

They didn’t listen.

I smelled it — fear — sharp and sour in the air.
Felt it — the way Kirishima’s weight shifted like he was about to move.
Saw it — the way Midoriya’s hands twitched, fists clenching at his sides.

They didn’t understand.
They still wanted to help.
They didn’t see what I was becoming.

I gritted my teeth harder, digging my clawed fingers into the ground.

Stay back. Stay back. Stay back.

For a terrifying second, I thought they wouldn’t listen —
thought they would reach for me anyway —
and that the thing slithering inside my chest would lash out before I could stop it.

Then a voice cracked through the air — raw, loud enough to shake the dust from the broken walls.

“NOBODY MOVE!”

I flinched.

It wasn’t anger.

It was desperation.

All Might’s voice — stripped down to something rough and human — ripped across the plaza like a whip.

Everyone froze.
Even Bakugou, whose body was still tensed like a live wire.

The smoke curled around us, hot and sticky against my skin.
The taste of ash filled my mouth.

I lifted my head — just barely — and saw him.
All Might.

He wasn’t towering anymore —
he was staggering, bleeding — but none of that mattered.

He wasn’t looking at the Nomu.
He wasn’t watching the villains.
He wasn’t focused on the battlefield at all.

He was looking at me.

Straight at me — like I was the most important thing in the world at that moment.

And when he spoke, it wasn’t loud anymore.
It was low.
Gentle.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice cracking slightly.
“You’re alright, kid. Just stay with us. Don’t lose yourself.”

My chest heaved.
The monster under my skin clawed harder.
My vision swam.

The ground under my hands felt too sharp — too real —
and at the same time like it was slipping out from under me.

I tried to breathe —
tried to find the air in my lungs —
but every inhale dragged acid down my throat.

All Might’s voice was the only thing keeping me tethered.
The only thing keeping the beast from tearing me open completely.

“It’s okay,” he said again, softer now.
“We’ve got you.”

I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to stay.

I tried —
god, I tried —

but the world wouldn’t stop shaking.

Across the plaza, something moved — wrong, violent, jagged.

I forced my head up higher, vision swimming.
Through the dust, through the blood pounding in my ears, I saw him.

Shigaraki.

His hands were clawing at his neck, raking red gashes into his skin.

His face twisted — fury and disgust and hatred contorting every line.

He didn’t speak at first — he screamed it —
a ragged, feral shriek that tore through the plaza like a blade.

“NOMU! GET HER!”

The command hit like a detonation.

The Nomu roared —
louder than before, louder than anything —and the ground trembled as it launched forward.

Straight for me.

I tried to move.

I tried to push up on my shaking arms, tried to get my legs under me, tried to shift, dodge, anything—

but my body wouldn’t obey.

It was like being caught under ice.
Frozen and sinking.

All I could do was lift my head — barely — and watch the monster bear down on me.

The last thing I saw before the world snapped was the flash of its massive fist, dark and jagged against the smoke.

Then —

impact.

A white-hot explosion of pain punched through my ribs.
The air ripped from my lungs.
The world flipped sideways.

I felt myself lift off the ground —
felt the broken stone tear across my back —
felt the cold wind blast against my face as I flew through the wreckage.

And then —

the wall.

Cracked stone met me with a deafening, brutal crash.

The sound of impact echoed through the plaza — so loud it swallowed everything.

Dust exploded upward in a thick, suffocating cloud, swallowing the battlefield whole.

I hit the ground hard, dust choking my nose and mouth, stone digging into my palms.

I tried to stay awake.
Tried to breathe.
Tried to hold on.

But the pain was too much — and something deeper, darker, more ancient was tearing loose inside me.

The shift.

I could feel it rising, shredding through my ribs, my spine — the beast clawing its way out of my bones.

I couldn’t stop it this time.

I couldn’t stay human.

The last thing I heard was the crack of stone splitting under my hands —
the roar of the Nomu splitting the sky —
and the voices of my classmates — shouting — panicked — trying to reach me —
slipping farther and farther away.

I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t fight anymore.

But before the dark swallowed me whole, I threw one last thought into the storm.

Not for myself.
For them.

Protect them.
Please.
Protect them. Not hurt them. Protect them…

And then —

nothing.

Chapter Text

Bakugou POV

One second, she was on the ground.

Crouched low, clawed hands dug into the cracked concrete, shoulders heaving with every ragged breath.
Her gym uniform was torn open in places — not from enemy fire — but from something underneath, something alive, shifting, wrong.

Her voice still echoed in my ears — raw, shredded, not human anymore.

“Don’t come closer.”

And then —
before any of us could move, before any of us could reach her —

the Nomu’s fist came down.

It hit her dead-on.
Launched her across the plaza like a broken doll.

I didn’t even have time to shout.

I watched — helpless — as she smashed into the stone wall on the far side of the plaza with a sickening crack that rattled through my ribs.

The force of the impact kicked up a massive cloud of dust — thick, blinding — swallowing her up whole.

Gone.

Just like that.

The world froze.

I stood there, fists clenched so tight my gloves creaked, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to punch its way out.

The dust spread fast — heavy and dirty — choking the air between us and the place where Hibari had fallen.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but the groaning of cracked concrete and the low moan of the broken walls around us.

Then —

voices.

Panicked.
Shattered.

“Hibari?!” Midoriya’s voice cracked, desperate, stumbling forward two steps before freezing.

“What the hell just happened?!” Kirishima shouted, wide-eyed, looking back at me like I had any answers.

Todoroki stayed silent — but even he shifted his weight, his hands twitching at his sides, eyes sharp and scanning the dust like he was waiting for something to explode out of it.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Something deep in my gut — some ugly, primal part of me that had never steered me wrong before —
was screaming at me to stay the fuck still.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught All Might moving.
Slow. Controlled.

He stepped in front of us — between the group and the cloud.

His whole body was coiled tight like a damn spring, not with the kind of energy you used to throw a punch —
but the kind you used to keep yourself from making a fatal mistake.

And when he spoke —
it wasn’t loud.

It was low.
Sharp.
A command cut down to its bones.

“Nobody moves.”
“Not an inch.”
“No sudden movements. No shouting. No fighting. Nothing.”

The air turned heavy — so thick it felt like it was pressing down against my skin.

Even Bakugou Katsuki didn’t move.

Even I knew better.

The dust kept swirling, blocking everything from view.

I strained my eyes, fists flexing uselessly at my sides.

The others stood frozen behind me —
breathless — waiting — hoping — terrified.

And then —
out of the silence —

I heard it.

Not footsteps.
Not a cough.
Not even a normal growl.

It was…
something else.

A low, wet rumble — almost like breathing, but deeper, heavier, vibrating under the cracked ground.

A sharp, deliberate clicking sound —
bones snapping, teeth grinding together — coming from inside the cloud.

Another slow, guttural exhale — rough, animal, but too calculated, too smart.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Something was in there.
Alive.
Waiting.

The dust shifted.

Something moved —
slow at first, dragging across broken stone —
heavy and deliberate, like it wasn’t stumbling blind but stalking.

At first, just the silhouette.

Low to the ground.
Long and lean.
Crouched on all fours, muscles rippling under a hide of black, gleaming scales.

Two thick, golden stripes slashed down her sides — bold and brutal against the darkness.

Her head tilted slightly as she moved — a slow, calculating tilt — and the dust caught the shine of her green slitted eyes, sharp as blades, watching us from the gloom.

Not human.

Not anymore.

One of her hind legs shifted forward —
and I caught it —
a curved, wicked sickle claw lifted slightly off the ground.

It clicked once —
sharp, deliberate —
against the cracked stone.

The sound wasn’t loud —
but it echoed.

A killer’s step.

The kind of claw made to rip. To tear.
To end.

I swallowed hard.

The creature — Hibari — prowled forward another slow, calculated step.

No rushing.
No roaring.
No panic.

Just controlled, measured violence, radiating off her in waves.

Watching.
Assessing.
Waiting.

The others broke first.

Deku’s voice, trembling and cracking:

“Is that… is that Hibari?”

Shitty Hair whispered, stunned:

“What the hell kind of Quirk is this?”

Even IcyHot’s voice, usually cold and calm, dropped to a harsh, raw whisper:

“That’s… that’s not normal. That’s not human.”

Panic was rising — sharp and choking —
fear crawling up the back of my throat.

And then —

All Might’s voice cut through it like a blade.

Low.
Controlled.
Grave.

“Stay where you are. Don’t make a sound.”

His hand lifted slightly — not to fight, not to shield —
but like he was trying to calm a predator.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t for Hibari.

It was for us.

His voice dropped lower, cold and heavy with warning.

“Strength. Speed. Intelligence. Predation.”
“A bloodline older than humanity itself.”“Forged from the instincts of creatures that ruled this world millions of years ago.”
“Two predators fused into one. Built for survival. Built for combat.”
“Not a mutation. Not an accident.”
“A living echo of a world that time forgot.”

All Might exhaled once, slow and heavy.

Then —
his voice dropping into something almost reverent:

“They call her Quirk… the Indoraptor.”

I couldn’t look away.

None of us could.

The dust didn’t clear.

It clung low to the ground, swirling around her black-scaled form like smoke from a dying fire.

She stood low — crouched, balanced on clawed hands and feet —
every muscle under that armor of scales tight, ready, coiled.

And she wasn’t moving fast.

She was moving like a hunter.

Slow.

Careful.

Deadly.

She lowered her head —
snout hovering just above the cracked stone —
and breathed deep.

The sound of it rumbled across the ground —
slow, dragging, too heavy to belong to anything human.

Her chest expanded — once, twice —
deep, deliberate inhalations.

She was scenting.

The air.
The blood.
The dust.
The battlefield itself.

I could almost hear it —
the way she sorted through the scents, organizing the chaos like a predator mapping out a kill.

Her head tilted — that slow, inhuman tilt that no person could ever mimic —
and she dragged one claw lightly across the ground.

Click.
Scrape.

Another sound buried deep in her throat — low and guttural —
more like a question than a threat.

Then —

she started looking.

Not at us.

Not at All Might.

Not yet.

First —
across the battlefield.

Her eyes — those slitted green blades — cut through the dust and locked onto Shigaraki.

I felt it —
a ripple of tension in her muscles.

She didn’t growl.

She didn’t charge.

She just watched him —
like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.
Something wrong. Something broken.

Then — the Nomu.

Her snout lifted slightly — tasting the scent in the air —
and a sharp twitch ran through her scales.

Recognition?
Warning?
I couldn’t tell.

But she didn’t attack.

Then — Kurogiri.

A strange, almost confused rumble broke low in her chest as she flicked her gaze over the warping mist of his body.

Instincts clashing with logic.

Predator trying to understand something that shouldn’t exist.

And only then —

only after assessing everything else —

did she turn to us.

She turned toward us.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The dust clung around her black-scaled form like a living thing,
rising and swirling with every low, heavy breath she took.

Every muscle in my body locked tight.

This wasn’t some berserker charge.
It was worse.

Calculated.

Predatory.

Alive.

The click of her curved claw against the cracked ground
rang sharp in the heavy air with every slow, stalking step.

Click.
Click.
Scrape.

Her massive body moved low — prowling —
her tail curling slightly behind her, thick with barely-contained tension.

The black scales covering her gleamed faintly under the broken floodlights,
and the twin gold stripes down her sides rippled with each measured shift of her weight.

She wasn’t rushing.

She wasn’t panicking.

She was choosing.

The first thing she did —
she sized up All Might.

Her head lifted slightly,
green slitted eyes narrowing,
breathing deep and slow.

The air around us tightened like a noose.

All Might didn’t move.

Just stared her down, silent and steady.

Then her gaze slid —
onto me.

I felt it hit —
sharp, cold, cutting through every layer of armor and bravado
like a blade pressed to my throat.

I stood my ground,
fists tight, heart hammering.

But I didn’t flinch.

Not in front of her.

Another shift —
Shitty Hair.

The smallest twitch of Hibari’s nostrils —
an almost approving rumble low in her chest.

Recognition.

Strength.

Familiarity.

IcyHot next.

The air chilled even more.

She paused longer there,
watching, calculating,
sensing something colder, sharper, different.

And then —
Deku.

The smallest sound escaped him —
a tiny, broken breath caught high in his throat.

I didn’t even have to look to know he was shaking —
I could feel it.

The fear bleeding off him was thick,
sour in the back of my throat.

She prowled closer to him.

The massive weight of her body shifted silent over the stone —
tail flicking once in the dust.

Her head lowered —
slow —
snout dropping level with Deku’s chest.

The green slits of her eyes locked onto him,
unblinking.

Breath heavy.

Slow.

Measured.

The whole world narrowed down to that single terrifying moment.

She opened her mouth slightly —
rows of serrated teeth flashing faint in the dusty air —
and inhaled.

A long, slow breath.

Then another.

And another.

Sniffing him.

Cataloging him.

Mapping him in a way no human could understand.

Deku was frozen.

Trembling.

Wide-eyed.

His hands shook where they hung at his sides —
tiny tremors he couldn’t stop.

And then —
Hibari moved.

Not to bite.

Not to strike.

She tilted her massive snout slightly —
nudged against Deku’s chest —
and pushed him back.

Firm.

Deliberate.

Not violent —
but forceful enough to knock him off balance.

Deku stumbled backward —
falling hard onto the cracked ground with a sharp gasp.

Every muscle in my body snapped tight.

All Might took a half-step forward.

Shitty Hair flinched like he was about to jump.

IcyHot’s hands flared — mist hissing between his fingers.

But Hibari didn’t attack.

She didn’t slash.

She didn’t tear.

She just stood there —
over Deku’s fallen body —
breathing slow, chest rising and falling heavy.

Watching him.

From the outside —
it looked brutal.

Terrifying.

Like she was seconds away from ripping him apart.

But standing there,
heart punching my ribs,
skin crawling under my gloves,
I realized something:

There was no killing intent.

No rage.

No hunger.

Just something quieter.

Harder.

Territorial.

Protective.

She wasn’t attacking Deku.

She was pushing him aside.

Clearing the weak link from the line.

Not because he disgusted her.

Because she was stepping in.

Because in her mind —
this was her hunt now.

Her fight.

Her pack.

But none of us knew that.

All we could do was watch —
frozen, breathless —
waiting for the moment the predator struck.

And then —

another sound broke the air.

Low.

Sick.

Splintered at the edges.

Shigaraki.

Laughing.

Muttering.

A thin, broken scrape of sound that crawled across the ruined plaza
like nails down rusted metal.

The words slipped loose —
half-crazed, half-gleeful —
and I caught every damn one:

“Heh… I know who she is…”
“Saw a file on her… a long time ago…”
“Master would love this… heh… perfect… should bring her back… should take her…”

A hot pulse of rage snapped through me,
tightening every muscle in my body.

Bastard wasn’t even trying to hide it.

He wanted her.

Wanted to take her.

Not kill her.

Own her.

And Hibari —

she heard him too.

It wasn’t a slow shift this time.

It was instant.

Violent.

The massive black-scaled body that had been stalking slow and silent snapped taut,
muscles locking hard enough that I heard joints crack.

Her tail whipped once —
a sharp, brutal crack against the ground that split the stone like glass under a hammer.

Dust blasted outward from the force.

Her breathing changed —
deeper, rougher —
every exhale carrying a low, vibrating growl that scraped the inside of my ribs.

The green of her slitted eyes narrowed —
thinner, sharper —
burning holes through the air.

She was already near us —
standing just a few feet ahead,
close enough that I could hear the faint scrape of her claws against the stone.

And now —
she moved.

Not away.

Not toward Shigaraki.

Not toward the Nomu.

She planted herself more firmly —
stepping one foot forward,
shoulders dropping low, tail lashing once in a sharp, warning arc.

Shielding us.

She didn’t need to cross the field.

She was already here —
already between us and the enemy —
and now she made damn sure every inch of her body screamed it.

I caught every detail —
the ripple of muscles under her hide,
the way her massive frame spread out just enough to block most of the view between us and the villains,
the way her curved claws carved deep into the fractured stone like she was anchoring herself there.

A wall.

A weapon.

A shield.

Or a bomb.

Behind me, I heard Shitty Hair murmur:

“…Is she… standing guard…?”

IcyHot’s voice was low, uncertain:

“Or trapping us…?”

Deku’s breath hitched — quick and sharp, barely controlled.

I didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because even I wasn’t sure.

And then —

she roared.

The sound tore through the plaza like a living blade —
a shockwave that shattered the heavy silence
and cracked the dust into spiraling storms around her.

It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t animal.

It was something older.

Something born long before humans learned fear.

I felt it in my bones.

In my teeth.

In the blood hammering against the inside of my skull.

Her first roar hit straight at Shigaraki —
short, brutal, sharp enough that the bastard flinched —
jerking like a puppet yanked on broken strings.

His hand snapped up toward his neck,
scratching, clawing, twitching.

Hibari’s tail lashed again —
a vicious whipcrack across the ground that sent fresh dust flaring up around her.

Then —

she turned.

The massive head snapped toward the Nomu —
every line of her body tightening, focusing,
like a blade being drawn out of a black-forged sheath.

The scales along her spine lifted —
bristling —
the air vibrating with the raw, cold intent bleeding off her.

And she roared again.

This time louder.

Angrier.

A sound that cracked the walls of the plaza,
vibrated through the broken concrete,
slammed against my ribs like a hammer.

Even the Nomu — that mindless freak —
hesitated.

Twitching —
snarling —
stepping back a pace before it caught itself.

And Shigaraki —

he cracked.

Clawing at his neck —
voice scraping raw through his teeth:

“Nomu — capture her!”
“Don’t kill — Master wants her alive!”

The Nomu shifted —
muscles bunching, eyes flashing —
and then it lunged.

Straight at her.

Straight into the jaws of something no human had ever been built to survive.

And for the first time since this nightmare started —

I wasn’t sure if standing behind her made us safe.

Or made us next.

The Nomu charged first.

Heavy feet slammed into the ground —
each step sending cracks racing across the shattered stone —
shoulders lowered like a battering ram aimed straight at Hibari.

But she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even backpedal.

Instead, she lunged forward —
meeting him head-on with a low, guttural snarl that vibrated in my chest.

They clashed hard —
the sound of impact sharp enough to make my teeth ache.

The Nomu swung wide —
a brutal hook —
but Hibari ducked under it, black and gold flashing through the swirling dust.

Her tail whipped low — cutting a sharp arc across the ground —
and as the Nomu stumbled forward,
she struck.

Claws flashing.

Sharp, deliberate slashes.

I saw it —
the way her curved claws ripped four deep gouges into the Nomu’s side —
how dark blood sprayed across the cracked floor in heavy splashes.

Four ragged wounds slashed through its ribs —
muscle torn wide open, blood spilling heavy and fast.

But even before she pulled back —
I caught it —
the muscle already starting to knit itself closed,
blood slowing, flesh twisting and pulling together like some sick kind of magic.

The Nomu roared —
louder, wilder —
and swung again.

This time Hibari twisted —
but she wasn’t fast enough.

A heavy fist smashed across her flank —
a brutal, crushing punch —
and she slammed into the ground.

Hard.

Dust exploded around her.

She didn’t roar.

Didn’t scream.

She slithered back instead.

Low.

Silent.

Controlled.

Her black-scaled body slid across the broken ground —
pulling herself away from the Nomu —
a good few meters from where we stood.

Creating distance.

Drawing it in.

Behind me, I heard Shitty Hair gasp:

“Shit — she’s hurt!”

IcyHot’s voice was sharp, tense:

“We can’t just stand here—”

Deku’s breathing was fast, panicked —
barely holding together.

Even All Might shifted forward —
muscles coiling tight —
ready to jump if she went down.

And Shigaraki —

he chuckled low across the plaza.

Confident.

Mocking.

“Heh… easy… easy… got her… Master’s gonna be so proud…”

I ground my teeth hard enough I could feel them crack.

Hibari stayed low.

Motionless.

Breathing shallow.

The Nomu lumbered toward her —
massive hand stretching out —
reaching toward her throat.

Slow.

Methodical.

Closer.

Closer.

We couldn’t move.

Couldn’t shout.

Couldn’t breathe.

The Nomu’s fingers hovered inches from Hibari’s snout —
ready to clamp down —
to drag her off like a broken toy.

And then —

she moved.

Faster than anything I’d seen in my life.

Her jaws snapped upward —
massive black-scaled head launching off the ground —
and she clamped down hard on the Nomu’s outstretched arm.

The sound it made —
the sick, wet crunch of bone and tendon splitting —
punched the air out of my lungs.

The Nomu howled —
staggering sideways —
but Hibari didn’t let go.

She held on.

Four massive clawed fingers dug deep into the cracked stone —
claws carving through it like it was nothing —
anchoring her whole body against the Nomu’s struggles.

And then —

slowly,

terrifyingly,

she rose.

Her black-scaled body lifted —
higher and higher —
dragging the Nomu’s trapped arm with her.

The wicked curve of her four massive claws flexed and locked as she straightened,
towering upright on her hind legs.

The Nomu tried to yank free —
jerking back hard —
but Hibari was stronger.

So much stronger.

I could hear it.

The wet pop of muscles tearing.
The sharp, sickening crack of tendons snapping under the strain.
The grinding crunch of bone caught in a vice.

And then —
with a brutal, horrifying wrench of her head —
she bit through.

The sound was like ripping wet canvas —
thick and awful —
followed by the sharp, brutal snap of bone giving way.

The Nomu’s arm tore free —
not cleanly —
but in a mess of shredded muscle and dangling ligaments,
arteries bursting like broken pipes,
blood gushing in thick, steaming jets across the ruined ground.

Chunks of meat and shredded skin slapped wetly onto the cracked stone.

The spray hit the ground in heavy, rhythmic beats —
soaking the dust black and red.

Even standing meters away,
I could hear it —
the wet tearing,
the heavy, viscous splash of blood hitting stone.

It clung to the air —
hot, metallic, choking.

And Hibari —

she didn’t even hesitate.

She kept her jaws locked tight around the severed limb,
tearing into it with terrifying precision —
grinding bone between her massive teeth,
devouring it like nothing more than a prize claimed.

The blood ran down her snout,
coating her black-scaled chest in slick, dark streaks.

She looked monstrous.

Untouchable.

Alive in a way I had never seen her before.

The Nomu stumbled back —
bellowing, half in shock, half in fury.

But even as it reeled —
I saw it —

The mangled stump of its shoulder twisting and bubbling,
new muscle weaving itself over shattered bone right before my eyes.

Regenerating.

Fast.

Relentless.

Like killing it was going to take a hell of a lot more than just ripping pieces off.

Behind me, no one spoke.

No one breathed.

Even All Might froze mid-step —
shock carved into every line of his face.

I heard Shitty Hair choke out:

“Holy shit…”

IcyHot didn’t say a word —
face pale, hands clenched.

Deku trembled —
eyes locked wide on the monster standing in front of us.

And me —

I felt my heart hammering against my ribs.

A cold, electric dread running under my skin.

Because for the first time since we walked into this hell —

I realized something deep in my gut.

This wasn’t just survival anymore.

Hibari wasn’t just fighting.

Wasn’t just defending.

She was hunting.

She was reigning.

She was ruling.

And the battlefield belonged to her now.

Not to the Nomu.

Not to Shigaraki.

Not to us.

To her.

The blood was still dripping from her jaws when she moved.

No warning.

No roar.

No hesitation.

One second she was standing there —
steam rising from her black-scaled shoulders —
the next she launched forward.

Upright on her hind legs —
not crawling —
running.

Fast.

Faster than any of us could even react.

The stone under her feet exploded into dust as she sprinted,
massive body coiled with raw power,
arms tucked close,
head low and locked onto the target.

The Nomu barely had time to shift.

It stumbled back —
trying to brace —
trying to react.

Too slow.

Way too slow.

Hibari leapt.

A full-body, bone-shattering launch into the air —
her black figure slicing through the dust cloud like a living missile.

She hit the Nomu square in the chest with a sickening crunch —
the sound of flesh and bone colliding at full force —
and they crashed to the ground.

The plaza shook from the impact.

Chunks of broken stone flew in all directions.

They rolled —
a chaos of claws and limbs and teeth.

Hibari didn’t waste a second.

She was all motion —
snarling, slashing, tearing.

Her claws raked across the Nomu’s chest —
stripping deep trenches into its regenerating muscle.

Her jaws snapped at its shoulder —
tearing into already healing flesh, ripping more pieces loose.

Her tail lashed —
striking the Nomu’s side with enough force to crack the concrete under them.

The Nomu roared —
thrashing, trying to throw her off.

But she was faster.

Smarter.

Deadlier.

She pinned him.

Her right hind leg slammed down —
the curved killing claw on her foot driving straight into the Nomu’s lower spine.

I heard it —
the wet pop of vertebrae rupturing —
the cracking snap of nerves severing.

The Nomu’s legs buckled.

Collapsed.

Still snarling, Hibari shifted her weight —
left hind claw hooking deep into the Nomu’s left arm,
sinking into the flesh and pinning it down against the ground.

The Nomu thrashed —
trying to yank his free arm around —
but Hibari was already moving.

Left hand — her front claws —
slammed down hard onto the Nomu’s skull,
forcing its face into the stone with a sharp crack.

Right hand —
her other set of brutal claws —
grabbed the Nomu’s right arm,
twisting it back and locking it tight.

In seconds —
seconds —
she had him completely immobilized.

Pinned belly-down on the ground.

Crushed under her weight.

Held at four separate points —
spine, arm, arm, head.

The Nomu let out a broken, furious snarl —
legs twitching uselessly, arms straining, head grinding against the cracked floor.

But he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hibari loomed above him —
massive, heaving, black and gold against the ruined plaza.

Blood smeared her chest and snout,
dripping down her arms,
soaking into the ground around them.

She wasn’t roaring.

She wasn’t raging.

She was in control.

Watching.

Breathing deep.

Holding her prey down with the same cold, efficient brutality
as a creature born to dominate the hunt.

I stared —
unable to move —
heart hammering out of rhythm.

Behind me, I heard Shitty Hair mutter hoarsely:

“Holy fuck… she’s… she’s got him…”

IcyHot was silent, face unreadable.

Deku was trembling, staring wide-eyed at the scene like he couldn’t believe it was real.

All Might had frozen mid-step —
the tension rolling off him thick enough to choke on.

But Hibari —
she didn’t look at us.

Didn’t acknowledge us.

All her focus was on the Nomu.

Holding.

Crushing.

Dominating.

She shifted her weight slightly —
pressing the curved killing claw deeper into the Nomu’s spine —
eliciting a fresh, ugly scream from the pinned creature.

She wanted him to feel it.

To know —
without doubt —
that he had lost.

That he was prey now.

Nothing more.

The Nomu was pinned —
crushed under Hibari’s claws like a goddamn broken toy —
and across the ruined plaza, I watched it happen:

Shigaraki snapped.

He didn’t just get mad.

He didn’t just get frustrated.

He fucking snapped.

His whole body jerked forward, stiff and shaking —
hands flying to his neck, scratching violently, tearing at the thin skin until blood started trickling down his throat.

“My Nomu —”
“He was made to defeat All Might!”
“How the hell — how the hell can she —”

His voice broke into a high, ugly shriek as he stomped a few steps forward, spit flying from his mouth.

Scratching, clawing, almost ripping himself apart.

“Master said he was unstoppable!”
“He’s supposed to be invincible!”

Dust swirled around him —
his ragged gasping breaths slicing through the heavy, broken air.

Kurogiri shifted beside him, voice tight, urgent:

“Tomura Shigaraki, please — control yourself.”
“Master would not approve of this—”

But Shigaraki wasn’t listening.

He didn’t even seem to hear.

All he could see —
all he could focus on —
was Hibari.

Towering over the Nomu.

Holding him down.

Owning him.

And then —

behind me —

All Might’s voice cut through the madness, low and grim:

“There are only two people at U.A. capable of restraining her…”
“Myself.”
“And Aizawa.”
“If she’s pinned the Nomu… it’s no wonder.”

The words hit like a hammer.

I felt Shitty Hair stiffen beside me.
Saw IcyHot’s jaw clench tight.
Heard Deku’s breath catch — sharp, panicked.

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

Because deep down, I already knew.

Hibari wasn’t just strong.

She wasn’t just dangerous.

She was something else entirely.

And when I looked back at her —
still pinning the Nomu like it weighed nothing —
she was looking at us.

Green, slitted eyes narrow and sharp —
something flickering behind them.

Not a smile.

Not a snarl.

Something worse.

An almost-smirk.

Not cruelty.

Not hatred.

Pure, cold dominance.

Like she knew exactly what she was —
and exactly how much it scared the hell out of us.

Across the plaza, Shigaraki screamed again:

“Nomu! Get her! Hold her down!”
“We need her!”

But the Nomu didn’t move.

Still pinned.

Still crushed.

Still trapped under Hibari’s killing claws.

And for the first time —

real, raw terror carved itself into Shigaraki’s twisted face.

He staggered forward, hands flailing wildly.

Scratching harder.

Blood dripping from his fingertips.

Voice cracking high and ugly:

“I’ll capture her myself!”
“Master needs her!”
“It doesn’t matter — even if she’s lost a limb — as long as I deliver her!”

He was spiraling.

Ripping himself apart.

Taking a stumbling step toward Hibari —
toward the blood, the monster, the nightmare.

And that’s when the air shifted.

Heavy, fast footsteps thundering across the entrance.

Iida’s voice slicing across the battlefield like a thunderclap:

“I’ve returned with reinforcements! The teachers are here!”

At the top of the staircase,
the figures of the Pro Heroes stormed in —
guns drawn, quirks blazing.

Snipe moved first —
smooth, calm, precise.

Gun raised.

Barrel aimed.

The crack of the rifle shot tore through the air —
a sharp, brutal sound.

The bullet shattered the stone at Shigaraki’s feet —
a warning shot, close enough to kiss his boots.

Shigaraki jerked back with a snarl —
staggering toward Kurogiri, who was already preparing a warp gate.

The battlefield tilted —
power shifting, momentum slipping away from them.

And Hibari —
still crouched over the pinned Nomu —
still breathing heavy and slow —

watched it all happen.

Silent.

Waiting.

Ruling.

Shigaraki’s body staggered backward into Kurogiri’s swirling portal, still scratching at his neck like a rabid dog.
Blood smeared down his throat, his voice cracked and furious as he shrieked:

“This isn’t over…”
“We’ll come back for her.”
“And next time — we’ll kill you, All Might.”
“Nothing will stop us.”

Then he was gone — swallowed by darkness, the portal snapping closed with a hiss that echoed across the shattered plaza.

And just like that —
the Nomu shuddered once —
and collapsed in a heavy, broken heap, dust puffing from the impact.

Hibari reacted immediately.

Her body twitched — tense, alive —
before she ripped her claws free from the Nomu’s ruined back, blood hissing against the ground.

She stepped backward, slow and wary —
green slitted eyes darting toward the teachers now spilling across the entrance.
Snipe. Cementoss. Midnight. Ectoplasm. Others behind them.
Weapons drawn. Quirks ready.

Strangers.
Threats.

A low, guttural growl rumbled up from deep in Hibari’s chest —
not a warning anymore — but a pure, primal threat.

Every heavy step the teachers took closer made her growl sharper,
snarl harsher.

Her hind legs tensed —
and then that terrifying sound started:
click-click-click.

The sharp tapping of her sickle claws against the broken stone, rhythmic and deliberate —
a cold, ancient rhythm that made the hair on the back of my neck rise.

She wasn’t posturing.
She wasn’t bluffing.

She was seconds away from tearing into anyone who moved wrong.

Hibari’s body was low and snarling, her claws clicking sharply on the stone.
The teachers were still advancing, slow, cautious.

All Might moved first, stepping forward, hands raised carefully.

His voice was calm, steady:

“It’s over, young Hibari. Come back to us.”

She didn’t respond —
if anything, her growling deepened, sharp and rumbling.

Tch.
Worth a shot.
Not like she’d listen to any of these extras anyway.

I stepped forward next — voice rough, controlled:

“Oi. Stand down, dumbass.”

Then the dumbasses around me tried too, like they thought words were gonna fix this.

Shitty Hair took a cautious step forward:

“Hey… it’s okay now! You’re safe.”

IcyHot stayed even:

“There’s no more enemies left.”

And Deku, shaking like a damn leaf:

“H-Hibari… please… come back…”

Hibari’s answer?

Not words.

Not understanding.

She snapped her jaws —
a brutal, steel-trap crack loud enough to slap across the whole plaza.

We all froze.
Even All Might stiffened for a second.

One more step —
one wrong move —
and she would’ve torn through us without thinking.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement.

Snipe, maybe twenty meters away now,
hand brushing his earpiece.

He listened — a tiny pause — then his whole body shifted.

No words needed.

He slung the weapon he was carrying over his back and pulled out something else —
sleek, modified —
a different kind of rifle.

Custom-built.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me what was coming.

I just watched — heart hammering once against my ribs —
as he lifted the barrel slowly, aimed carefully, and pulled the trigger.

The shot was almost silent —
a sharp hiss of compressed air.

The dart buried itself deep in Hibari’s shoulder.

She snarled — a wet, broken sound —
her muscles locking as she instinctively tried to resist.

But whatever they’d cooked up in that dart…
it hit her fast and hard.

Her legs trembled.
Her claws scraped once against the stone.

Then she collapsed —
the impact shaking the ground around her.

We watched — not breathing —
as her monstrous body began to shift back.

The scales melted away.
The tail shrank.
The claws and teeth receded.

Leaving her human again —
small, naked, curled into herself —
bare and bloodstained against the broken stone.

Midnight moved first —
quick, quiet —
stepping forward with a soft blanket.

She draped it carefully over Hibari’s unconscious body,
shielding her from view with steady, gentle hands.

All Might knelt next to her —
his shadow huge across the rubble —
and rested a massive hand near her trembling shoulder.

His voice dropped, softer than I’d ever heard it:

“You fought hard… it’s over now.”

I stood back — arms crossed —
my heart still punching against my ribs.

Watching her breathe — slow and heavy under the blanket —
watching the way even unconscious,
even bloodied and broken,
she still felt dangerous.

Not because she meant to.

Because it was what she was.

My fists tightened without thinking.

Fear burned low in my chest.

But it wasn’t fear that made my blood light up like this.

It was something hotter.
Sharper.

Excitement.

I grinned — just a little.

A flicker of heat curling at the corner of my mouth.

“She’s not just some wildcard.”
“She’s a goddamn monster.”
“And if I ever wanna be the best…”
“…I’ll have to beat her too.”

Chapter Text

There was no sound at first. No feeling.
Only the soft, pulsing darkness behind my closed eyes.

It was safer here.
Safer not to wake up.

But the world clawed at me anyway.

The smell of antiseptic hit first — sharp, acidic, burning the back of my throat.
Then came the faint, rhythmic beeping of monitors, the muted scrape of footsteps somewhere beyond sterile walls.

I shifted slightly, and pain lanced through my body — deep, raw, sinking straight into the bones.
Heavy. Wrong.
My muscles felt sluggish, stitched together with bruises and wire.

The light pressed against my eyelids — bright, relentless, impossible to ignore.

I tried to stay under, just a little longer.
Tried to sink back into the dark.

But survival was carved into me deeper than sleep.
My instincts forced me up.

With a dry, reluctant breath, I opened my eyes.

The ceiling above me swam into focus — white panels, painfully bright.
The room reeked of bleach, medicine, blood.
Everything was too clean. Too still.

For a few precious seconds, I didn’t remember.

And then everything slammed into me at once.

Warped.
Fighting.
Blood.

The world spun — villains screaming, Bakugou blasting, Kirishima shouting.

And their faces — wide-eyed, pale, horrified.

Fear.
Recoil.

They hadn’t looked at me like a classmate.
They had looked at me like something dangerous.

My hands clenched the stiff hospital sheets before I even realized it, nails digging into the thin fabric.

And underneath it all — deep and cold — came the memory of Nezu’s voice:

“You’ll be treated like any other student, Tsuyara-shoujo. But if you hurt anyone—intentionally or otherwise—the consequences will be immediate.”

The words coiled around my throat and squeezed.

I had hurt them.
Maybe not with claws or teeth — but with fear.
And sometimes fear was enough.

The thought lodged sharp under my ribs.

They’re going to send me back.

Back to the cages.
Back to the cells.
Back to the place where survival meant silence and obedience, not choice.

A sharp, broken sound clawed at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down.
There wasn’t enough air in the room.
There wasn’t enough space.

The soft creak of a door handle turning made my whole body go still.

Footsteps — three sets — crossed into the room, deliberate and heavy.

I kept my eyes locked on the ceiling.
Frozen.
Bracing for the verdict I already knew was coming.

The footsteps stopped just inside the room.

I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
It was safer to stay still — to be small, invisible.

For a long moment, there was only silence.
Thick and heavy, pressing against my ears.

And then, even before I dared to look, I smelled them.

Aizawa.

Beneath the sharp sting of antiseptic, his scent hit me — worn cloth, the bitter weight of coffee, the heavy drag of exhaustion.
Blood clung faintly to him too, sharp and metallic, painting over the edges of everything else.

Nezu.

His scent stirred a deeper memory — sharp, clean, threaded faintly with something metallic and cool.
It pulled up the small, cold office where we had first met, where the conditions of my stay had been laid out so clearly.

And then — the third scent.

Unfamiliar.
Cool, edged with leather and ink.
A scent I didn’t know.

It made my instincts bristle under my skin, sharpening like needles, but I forced them down.
Forced myself to stay still.

The soft scrape of a chair being pulled back broke the silence.

I shifted my eyes just enough to see.

Nezu sat calmly in a plain chair beside the bed, paws folded neatly in his lap.
He looked smaller than I remembered, but somehow no less dangerous.
There was nothing in his face to offer comfort. Nothing to offer escape.

Behind him, Aizawa stood — silent, battered, draped in layers of clean white bandages.
One arm was slung in a brace across his chest, and thick bruises ringed his throat.

I swallowed hard against the tightness in my chest, guilt burning sharp and acidic.

The third man — the unfamiliar one — stood nearby.
A police badge was clipped to his belt, his posture deceptively relaxed, his eyes razor-sharp and watching everything.

All three of them watched me.

Judgment waiting.

I tightened my fingers in the blanket, grounding myself in the scratchy fabric.

Nezu was the one who finally spoke — voice polite, clipped, impossibly calm:

“Before we begin, allow me to introduce Detective Tsukauchi.”
“He specializes in cases involving Quirks and public safety.”

The detective gave a small nod, nothing more.

His gaze stayed steady, weighing me carefully.

I forced myself not to look away.

Nezu continued — same calm tone:

“Tsuyara-shoujo,” he said. “We’d like you to tell us what you remember.”

No threats.
No accusations.

Just a quiet, patient invitation to confess.

My mouth was dry. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t find my voice at all.

Then somehow, somehow, I forced the words out.

My throat burned, but somehow I forced myself to speak.

“We were warped… thrown into the Collapse Zone.”

The memories unspooled slowly, each one dragging knives behind it.

“We fought off the villains there. Minor ones. I don’t know how many.”

I kept my eyes low, fixed somewhere past Nezu’s shoulder.
I couldn’t look directly at them. Not yet.

“When we finished…”
“Kirishima wanted to go help the others. Bakugou argued we should go for the Warp Gate user. He said it was the villains’ way in and out.”

My fingers twisted in the blanket again — a small, sharp motion I couldn’t stop.

“We agreed to head for the plaza.”

I swallowed hard, heart hammering against my ribs.

“On the way there… I smelled it.”

The memory still knifed through me — raw, vivid.

“Aizawa-sensei’s blood.”

I didn’t lift my head.
I didn’t need to see their faces to feel the tension prickling through the room.

“It… hit me like a weapon. Pure, deep, primal fear.”

I dragged a shallow breath into my lungs, forcing myself to keep speaking.

“We got to the plaza. All Might was already there. Fighting.”

But it wasn’t All Might my instincts locked onto.

“I saw… Aizawa-sensei’s goggles.”

A breath hitched in my chest, but I buried it deep.

“They were lying in a pool of blood.”

The world around me had kept moving — shouts, gunfire, explosions — but I had frozen.
Locked inside myself, spiraling down.

“I knew what that meant.”

The words came heavier now, sticking to my tongue like ash.

“I couldn’t move. I knew what was happening around me… but I couldn’t move.”

For a moment, there was no sound except the soft mechanical ticking of the monitors beside me.

“When the bullets were fired… I didn’t think. I just reacted.”

The memories burned — sharp and unforgiving.

“I jumped in front of Midoriya… Bakugou… Todoroki… Kirishima.”

Protect. Defend. Shield.

“But my knees buckled.”

My voice dropped lower, rougher.

“The shift… started. I tried to hold it back. I fought it.”

Another breath — bitter and shaking.

“Then… the Nomu punched me into the wall.”

The memory of the impact was sharp enough to make my bones ache.

“After that… I couldn’t stop it.”

I tightened my fists in the blanket until my knuckles ached.

“I begged. If I couldn’t stop it… I begged my quirk not to hurt them. To protect them instead.”

I didn’t realize I was trembling until I felt the slight shudder running through my arms.

The room stayed silent.

The words stuck in my throat — raw and heavy — but I forced them out anyway.

“Please…”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.”
“Please don’t send me back.”

Slowly, I lifted my head — just slightly — and for the first time, I looked at them.

Waiting for the judgment I already knew I deserved.

No one moved.
No one said anything.

I thought maybe this was it.
Maybe they didn’t need to say the words aloud.
Maybe the silence itself was the sentence.

My heart slammed against my ribs again, desperate and bruising.

I pressed my hands deeper into the scratchy blanket, trying to ground myself.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, old training whispered:
Stay still. Don’t make it worse. Accept it. Survive.

My chest felt tight enough to split open.

Nezu shifted slightly in his chair — just a small movement — and my stomach twisted hard.

I waited for the words that would seal it.

Waited for them to tell me what I already knew.

Waited for them to send me back.

The silence stretched so long I thought maybe I was wrong.
Maybe they were just waiting for someone else to come and take me away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nezu tilt his head — just slightly — toward the detective.

The unfamiliar man — Tsukauchi — met his gaze without speaking.
There was a pause I didn’t understand, then the faintest nod.

My stomach twisted hard.

I didn’t know what the signal meant.
Didn’t know if it was good or bad.
It felt like the floor was tilting underneath me.

Nezu turned next to Aizawa.

Another silent exchange.
Another small, unreadable nod.

The weight of it pressed down on me until I could barely breathe.

And then — and only then — Nezu shifted slightly where he sat, turning his head fully back toward me.

His voice broke the silence — light, almost conversational:

“A real hero,” he said, “doesn’t think about the consequences when someone else is in danger.”

The words cut clean through the static roaring in my ears.

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him right.

Nezu’s paws folded neatly in his lap. His expression was calm, thoughtful — almost kind.

“A real hero jumps between the threat and the people behind them — without hesitation,” he continued.
“That’s exactly what you did, Tsuyara-shoujo.”

My breath caught in my throat, sharp and painful.

“Even when instinct took over… even when control slipped from your grasp…”
“You chose to protect.”

I stared at him.
At all of them.

I didn’t understand.
I didn’t know how to understand.

“That’s why,” Nezu said, smiling faintly, “you are still with us. And why you belong at U.A.”

The room blurred at the edges for a second — light bending, breath thick in my lungs.

I pressed my hands hard into the blanket again, trying to anchor myself.

Behind Nezu, Aizawa watched me — steady, tired, his posture loose with exhaustion.
There was something almost soft in the way he held himself — no threat, no anger.

Tsukauchi stood silent, the unknown still radiating from him, but no hostility.

They believed me.

They were giving me a chance.

I didn’t deserve it.
But it was there, stretched out in front of me, real and solid and terrifying.

Slowly, carefully, I dragged air into my lungs.

I wasn’t being sent back.
Not today.

Nezu had arranged a car to take us home.
The ride passed in silence, the city blurring into streaks of gray beyond the windows.
And now we were here — at the door.

Aizawa shifted his weight slightly, but didn’t move to reach for his keys.
His arm was still tucked against his side, movements stiff and limited under the layers of bandages.

It took me a second to understand.

Then — awkward, unsure — I stepped forward.

His keys dangled from one of the belt loops at his hip, easy to grab.

My fingers brushed them carefully, trying not to jostle him, and slid them free.

The familiar click of the lock filled the narrow hallway.

The second the door cracked open, the scent hit me.

Coffee.
Worn cloth.
The clean bite of old soap and paper.

Familiar.

Warm.

I froze, halfway across the threshold.

The smell wrapped around me without warning, sinking deep into my chest before I could stop it.

It wasn’t sharp like the hospital.
It wasn’t sterile or suffocating.

It smelled like… something real.
Something steady.

It smelled like him.

And it felt — for just a breath, just a heartbeat — like coming back, not being brought somewhere strange.

I stood there, stupidly frozen in the doorway, breathing it in like it was the only thing holding me up.

Aizawa’s voice broke the moment, dry and unimpressed:

“You gonna let me inside, or should I sleep in the hallway?”

The deadpan tone was so normal it almost knocked me off-balance.

I blinked hard, scrambled a step forward into the apartment.

Aizawa followed at a slower pace, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot.

No orders.
No tension.
Just the soft click of the door sliding into place.

I hesitated again, standing in the middle of the room like I didn’t know what to do.

Aizawa didn’t say anything.
Just dropped into the worn couch with a slow, exhausted exhale, shifting carefully to protect his injuries.

There was no expectation in the air.
No pressure.

So I moved stiffly toward the couch and sat down too — not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the steady pull of his presence anchoring the room.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence didn’t feel sharp anymore.
It didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt… safe.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, breathing didn’t feel like a battle.

Aizawa shifted slightly beside me, adjusting the sling against his ribs.

His voice came after a long moment — low, rough, almost an afterthought:

“You did good, kid.”

I turned my head toward him, startled, but he was already leaning back, eyes half-closed.

No ceremony. No expectation of a response.

Just the truth, laid down quietly between us.

And somehow, those three small words felt heavier than anything else that had happened all day.

The world was soft and blurred when I woke.

No sharp alarms, no shouts, no crashing urgency.

Just pale light bleeding through the curtains and the low hum of conversation somewhere beyond my door.

For a few seconds, I didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.

My body still ached, deep and dull, stitched together with bruises and exhaustion.
But it was a survivable ache.
A reminder that I was still here.

I pushed myself upright slowly, every joint stiff and reluctant.

The apartment smelled like it had the day before — coffee and old cloth and paper — but something else threaded through it now.
Something newer.
Brighter.

I inhaled cautiously — and immediately stilled.

Bright soap.
Leather.
Energy curling faint and sharp at the edges — like static building in the air.

Familiar, but strange enough to set a prickle down my spine.

Someone else was here.

I slid my legs over the side of the bed and stood carefully, testing my balance, then padded quietly down the short hallway toward the living room.

The low rumble of voices grew clearer — steady, casual, worn into an easy familiarity I didn’t understand.

I hesitated just inside the archway, hidden for a second by the wall.

Aizawa was slouched deep into the couch, his sling adjusted awkwardly as he cradled a mug of coffee.
His bandages were fresh and clean, but exhaustion hung from him like a second skin.

Across from him, stretched out in a sagging armchair, lounged another man.

His blond hair — usually spiked high in every photo I’d seen — was tied back into a messy man bun.
He wore jeans and a hoodie, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, a relaxed sprawl in his limbs that said he was exactly where he belonged.

They looked like they’d done this a hundred times before.
Like I had stepped into something old and ongoing.

The blond man noticed me first.

He grinned wide, casual and easy, no threat anywhere in his posture.

I froze halfway into the room.

The words blurted out before I could stop them:

“Why are you dressed like that? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

A split second later, panic flashed cold and sharp under my ribs.
Had I overslept?
Was I supposed to be somewhere?

Aizawa set his mug down with a soft clink.

His voice came dry and scratchy:

“Classes are canceled for two days. You slept through the first one.”

The panic stumbled to a stop.
I stood there, awkward and stiff, unsure what I was supposed to do next.

The blond man — Present Mic, Yamada Hizashi — leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Hey, little listener,” he said, voice warm and light. “How ya feeling?”

I blinked at him, still trying to connect the casual tone to the loud, wild figure I had seen a few times last week during English class.

He grinned wider at my silence.

“Badass quirk you got there, kid,” he added.

Aizawa didn’t even blink.

Deadpan:

“Hizashi. Stop terrorizing my student.”

Instead of stopping, Present Mic-sensei leaned back in the armchair, slouching even further.

“She’s not just your student, Shouta,” he said, flashing a wicked grin.
“She’s basically your daughter at this point.”

Aizawa leveled a flat, exhausted stare at him.

Present Mic-sensei only stretched lazily, unfazed.

“Dadzawa,” he said thoughtfully. “Yeah. That’s what I’m calling you from now on.”

Aizawa sighed — a deep, long-suffering breath — and went back to his coffee without arguing.

Present Mic-sensei turned back to me like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into the conversation.

“Seriously though,” he said, voice softer now. “Badass quirk.”

I didn’t know how to answer.

The words sat heavy and useless in the back of my throat.

Instead, I mumbled something incoherent, half a bow, and backed away toward the hall — toward the small safety of movement, of routines I could control.

In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth in small, mechanical circles.
Ran a brush through my hair until it lay flat enough not to attract attention.
Changed out of my pajamas into a plain hoodie and jeans.

Each motion was stiff, automatic.
A ritual of normalcy to hide how badly my instincts were scraping inside my chest.

I still didn’t know what the plan for today was.
If there even was one.

Maybe they didn’t have a plan at all.

That thought was somehow worse.

When I finally padded back toward the living room, the apartment smelled the same — coffee, cloth, soap — but the air felt thicker.
Tense, but not hostile.

I stopped just short of stepping into view.

Voices drifted toward me — Present Mic-sensei’s voice bright and sharp without needing to shout.

“Seriously?! She’s sixteen and you never got her a phone?!”

Deadpan silence from Aizawa.

Another indignant huff from Present Mic-sensei.

I froze, halfway hidden behind the wall, unsure if I should retreat or announce myself.
The tension wasn’t aimed at me — but it still made my pulse spike uncomfortably.

Present Mic-sensei spotted me almost immediately.

His grin widened like I’d walked straight into a trap.

Before I could even think about backing away, he crossed the room in two long strides, grabbed me lightly by the shoulders, and steered me toward the door.

“Gonna borrow her for a few hours!” he called cheerfully over his shoulder.

I barely had time to yank my sneakers on before I was shuffled out the door, blinking against the late morning light.

Whatever guesses I had about today’s plan — none of them looked like this.

The car hummed quietly around us, the city slipping past in a soft gray blur.

I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, my hands clenched in my lap.
The back seat was overflowing with bags — at least ten of them — stuffed with hoodies, shirts, jeans, gym clothes, shoes.

The kind of things normal people had without thinking about it.

A brand-new phone sat awkwardly in my lap, screen still glowing, half-forgotten between my hands.

Present Mic-sensei tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel with one hand, humming low under his breath.

The sunlight had shifted while we were out — softer now, bleeding into the long shadows of late afternoon.

It hadn’t gone like I expected.

There was no crowd.
No overwhelming press of noise or strangers.

He hadn’t taken me to a normal mall.
He’d taken me to a pro-hero complex — a place designed for people who didn’t want to be recognized.
Small. Quiet. Tucked away between administrative buildings and medical clinics.

He’d thought about it.

About me.

And he hadn’t said anything about it — no big speech, no careful explanations.
Just… acted like it was normal.

The weight of that realization pressed deep under my ribs — warm and unfamiliar and terrifying all at once.

The day blurred past in a whirlwind of shoving jackets into my arms, arguing over sneaker colors, refusing to let me pay for anything.

Present Mic-sensei hadn’t hesitated once.

He hadn’t treated me like a burden or a ticking bomb.

Just… like a student.
Like a kid who needed things.

Needed normalcy.

Needed choices.

I blinked down at the phone in my hands.

The contacts screen was still open.

Present Mic-sensei’s number was already saved — bright and smiling in the corner, a ridiculous selfie attached to the contact.

There was another empty space — waiting.

I blinked down at the phone again.

Present Mic-sensei had already saved his number for me — some ridiculous selfie flashing in the contact photo.

There was another entry too — simple and plain.

Aizawa’s number.

Present Mic-sensei must have added it while I wasn’t looking — probably figured I wouldn’t think to ask.
Or maybe he just didn’t trust Aizawa’s handwriting either.

I stared at the open contact screen for a long moment.

A week ago, I had been locked behind walls.
Caged.
Controlled.

And now…
I was sitting in my English teacher’s car, surrounded by choices I didn’t know how to make, holding a brand-new phone in my lap like it was something dangerous and sacred all at once.

Freedom wasn’t what I thought it would be.

It was louder.

Messier.

Harder to hold.

Slowly, carefully, I typed in the contact name.

Not “Aizawa-sensei.”

Not “Aizawa Shouta.”

I typed:

Dadzawa.

The letters sat bold and defiant against the clean white screen.

I saved it before I could second-guess myself.

The quiet satisfaction that followed didn’t feel like rebellion.

It felt like breathing.

The city rolled past the windows, painted gold and gray by the dying light.

The car turned down a familiar street, the apartment complex rising out of the fading evening haze.

I curled my fingers a little tighter around the phone.

Maybe this was what freedom looked like.

Not perfect.

Not clean.

But real.

And mine.

Chapter Text

There was a weight sitting square on my chest when I woke up.

Thick. Heavy.
Familiar in a way I hated.

It didn’t hit all at once — not sharp, not clean.
It crept in slowly, seeping into the edges of my mind like water through a crack.
Dread.
Heavy and low and unrelenting.

Today, I would have to face them.
The ones who had seen me lose control.
The ones whose fear had clung to the air, pouring from their pores like smoke — because of me.

I moved through the motions of getting ready without thinking.

Wash face.
Brush teeth.
Clothes — uniform, crisp and heavy against my skin.
Shoes — polished but worn at the edges.

Each movement mechanical. Stiff.
Like if I slowed down for even a second, the panic would catch up to me and swallow me whole.

The apartment was quiet when I shuffled into the living room.

The coffee pot burbled lowly — familiar, steady — filling the small kitchen space with the sharp, bitter scent that clung to Aizawa like a second skin.

The black cat blinked at me from its perch on the back of the couch, lazy and unimpressed.
I reached out automatically, running fingers through soft fur, grounding myself in the simple, mindless motion.

Coffee.
I needed coffee.

The mug was already sitting on the counter, coffee dark but lightened slightly by a swirl of milk, steam curling lazily into the air.
I wrapped both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my skin, anchoring me.

I didn’t realize I was gripping it too tightly until Aizawa spoke from the couch —
voice low, scratchy, and utterly deadpan:

“You’re thinking too loud.”

I stiffened, fingers tightening instinctively around the ceramic.

For a few seconds, I didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.

Aizawa didn’t press.
He just watched me over the rim of his own mug, expression blank but not unkind.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, awkward and tense, before finally managing to force the words out — low, almost guilty:

“I’m… scared.”

The admission hung heavy in the space between us.

Not weakness.
Not an excuse.
Just the truth.

Aizawa hummed — low and noncommittal — setting his coffee down on the table with a soft clink.

He didn’t tell me I was being ridiculous.
He didn’t tell me to suck it up.

He just looked at me — tired, steady — and said:

“You’ll face it. Like you always do.”

No grand speeches.
No coddling.

Just quiet certainty — the kind that slipped under your skin and stayed there.

The kind that made it harder to drown.

I wrapped my hands tighter around the mug and let the warmth hold me up a little longer.

The hallway stretched long and empty in front of me.
Every step toward the classroom felt heavier than the last.

My fingers twitched uselessly at my sides, aching for something to hold onto.
My palms were damp against the fabric of my skirt.

I could hear them before I reached the door.

Voices.
Low. Familiar.
Threaded through with tension and nervous energy.

I slowed automatically, heart thudding sharp and uneven against my ribs.

The classroom door was slightly ajar.

I hovered just outside, frozen.

Their voices spilled through the narrow crack:

“Dude, did you see when she shifted?!” Sero’s voice, bright with leftover adrenaline. “It was insane!”

“Seriously?!” Kaminari chimed in, a nervous laugh tucked into the words. “What even is her Quirk anyway?”

There was a shuffle of movement.
Someone setting down a bag.
A chair scraping faintly against the floor.

Kirishima’s voice — steady, solid:

“All Might said it’s called Indoraptor. It’s a hybrid — strength, speed, instincts. Animalistic.”

A short pause.

“She looked…”
Ojiro’s voice, softer, uncertain.
“She looked really scary.”

Silence stretched just a second too long.

Then —
Tokoyami, calm, his voice deep and measured:

“A creature of shadows, unchained from reason.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

My muscles locked tight — a cold weight settling deep in my gut.

They were talking about me.
Not just the ones who had seen it up close.
Now the whole class knew.

And maybe they were right.

Maybe I was something dangerous, something wrong.

I squeezed my hands into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms.

Part of me wanted to bolt.
Turn around.
Disappear down the hall and find someplace to hide.

But another part — quieter, heavier — rooted me in place.
Because this was what I had chosen.

Stay.
Try.
Face it.

The scrape of footsteps behind me broke the spiral.

I stiffened instinctively, muscles locking — but even without turning, I knew who it was.

The familiar scent hit me a second later — worn cloth, bitter coffee, exhaustion clinging like a second skin.

Aizawa.

He moved past me at a slow, careful pace, one hand pushing the door open fully.

He brushed past me without hesitation, one hand pushing the door open fully.

The voices inside cut off immediately.

I stayed frozen outside the door, the cool air from inside brushing against my skin.

Inside, there was a sharp inhale — someone gasping softly.

“Sensei—! You shouldn’t be up yet!”
That sounded like Uraraka.

“Yeah, you should still be resting!”
That was Iida — sharp and earnest, as always.

Aizawa’s voice came back — dry as desert stone:

“My well-being is none of your business.”

A beat of stunned silence.

And then —
Kirishima’s voice, a little awed, a little amused:

“Even covered in bandages… so manly.”

A weighted silence fell.

I hovered outside, heart pounding so loudly I was sure someone would hear it.

Then — timid, almost shy — Uraraka again:

“U-uhm… Aizawa-sensei… W-Where’s Tsuyara-san?”

Another silence, thicker this time.

And then —
without so much as a shift in tone —
Aizawa deadpanned:

“She’s been standing outside the door for the last ten minutes.”

The words hit like a slap.

I froze harder, heat crawling up the back of my neck.

The silence inside the room turned sharper — confused, awkward —
and all at once, I realized every pair of eyes inside was probably turning toward the doorway.

Toward me.

Waiting.

The silence inside the classroom pressed against my skin like a living thing.

Every instinct screamed to run — to disappear —
but I forced one foot forward.
Then another.

The door creaked faintly as I slipped inside.

The air hit different once I crossed the threshold —
thick with tension, thick with the weight of too many stares.

I didn’t look at them.
I didn’t dare.

I kept my eyes locked somewhere over their heads, pretending not to notice the way the room had frozen — the way conversation had died the moment I stepped inside.

My fingers twitched uselessly at my sides, the strap of my school bag cutting a sharp line into my shoulder.

For a second — a terrible second — I thought maybe they wouldn’t say anything at all.
Maybe they would just watch.

Maybe that was worse.

Aizawa broke the standoff — voice flat and unimpressed, cutting through the room like a knife:

“Sit down, Tsuyara.”

The command snapped against my spine, sharp enough to move me.

I dragged my feet toward my seat — tucked near the back of the classroom —
slid stiffly into the chair without looking up.

The cold of the chair bled through my uniform.

Aizawa didn’t waste time.

He stepped fully to the front of the room, movements slow but certain despite the layers of bandages, and leveled a tired but steady look across the classroom.

“Your fight’s not over yet,” he said.

No drama.
No preamble.
Just a hard, simple truth.

The class shifted, shoulders tightening instinctively.

I swallowed against the knot rising in my throat.

Aizawa continued:

“In two weeks, the U.A. Sports Festival will be held.”

A few sharp inhales.
Whispers.
Someone cursed quietly under their breath.

Aizawa let it hang for a moment before finishing:

“All students are expected to participate.”

The words hit me harder than they should have.

Participate.

Fight.

Compete.

On a stage in front of strangers — in front of heroes — in front of everyone.

Could I even trust myself enough for that?

My hands curled into fists under the desk, the scarred knuckles digging into my palms.

The shift had happened so fast at USJ.
No warning.
No control.

Could I really risk something like that happening again — in front of an entire stadium?

The thought knifed through my gut, sharp and cold.

The classroom blurred at the edges, voices stirring faintly around me as the others absorbed the announcement.

I sat frozen at my desk —
the weight of the future already crushing down on my ribs.

The hours that followed didn’t feel real.

The classroom buzzed faintly around me — voices, chalk on the board, the low hum of projectors and pens scratching across notebooks — but none of it sank in.

The lessons blurred together, a meaningless smear of words and sound.

Math.
History.
Literature.

It could have been anything.

My hands moved automatically, writing notes I wasn’t reading, copying diagrams I wasn’t seeing.

Every few minutes, a new ripple of tension would roll across the room —
tiny shifts in breathing, in posture, in glance —
and even without looking, I could feel it:

The glances.

The stolen looks.

Quick, sharp, uneasy.

Some were curious.
Some were wary.

None of them lingered long — no one dared —
but they were there.
Constant.
Pulsing just under the surface.

I kept my head down.
Focused on the scratch of my pen against paper.

Pretended not to notice the way the air shifted every time I so much as moved.
Pretended I was normal.
Just another student.

Not something they were waiting to see snap again.

The clock on the wall ticked slow and loud, marking every dragging second.

It felt like trying to breathe underwater —
each moment stretching longer, thinner, more fragile.

I told myself to focus.
Told myself to survive the morning.
Told myself not to flinch.

It wasn’t a fight.
Not in the way I was used to.

But it still felt like survival.

The minutes stretched thin.
Too thin.
Threadbare and cracking at the edges.

I stared blankly at the front of the room, at the chalk dust floating lazy in the pale sunlight, at the way Aizawa’s voice blurred into static after the first few words.

Nothing anchored.

Nothing stuck.

It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, toes curled over the drop, waiting for the ground to give out.

I shifted once in my seat — small, almost invisible — and still felt the ripple that ran through the room.

Still felt the way attention snapped toward me — quick, sharp, then hastily looked away.

Like watching someone stand too close to a live wire.

My breath sat heavy in my chest.

Focus.
Focus.

But every second crawled slow and merciless —
scraping against my nerves until they sparked raw under my skin.

It wasn’t just fear anymore.
It wasn’t even panic.

It was weight.
Slow and grinding and endless.

Like being trapped underwater — seeing the surface but too tired to swim.

I set my pen down carefully, hands trembling faintly even as I forced them still.

I was waiting.

For something.

For anything.

And I didn’t know if I wanted it to come —
or if I was just too tired to keep pretending it wouldn’t.

The bell shrieked through the silence —
sharp and sudden, cutting straight through the fog wrapped around my mind.

I jerked upright in my seat, heart slamming painfully against my ribs.

Lunch.

The word drifted sluggishly through my head, dragging old memories with it:

Crowded tables.
Shouting across trays.
The easy pull of familiar scents — burnt sugar, caffeine, spice — wrapping around the Baku Squad.

It hadn’t been long.
A week, maybe.
But it felt like another lifetime now.

I used to sit with them.
Used to laugh — awkward, quiet bursts slipping free before I could stop them — at Kaminari’s terrible jokes.
Used to catch quick glances with Kirishima when Bakugou’s shouting rattled the walls.
For a brief moment, I had almost belonged.

The thought twisted sharp in my gut.

Would they even want me near them now?
After what they had seen?

Before I could spiral deeper, my body moved — sharp, automatic.

I stood up — fast, too fast — the legs of my chair scraping a harsh line across the floor.

The noise ripped through the classroom like a gunshot.

Every head snapped toward me.

A flash of movement —
and Bakugou’s crimson gaze locked onto mine instantly, sharp and unblinking.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then I turned sharply —
snatching up my bag —
and walked stiffly out the door before anyone else could react.

I didn’t run.

But it was a near thing.

The hallway was too bright, too open, as I slipped into it.

I kept walking —
shoulders tight, pulse hammering at the base of my throat —
heading for the cafeteria like it was the only thing left anchoring me to the ground.

The cafeteria buzzed low and constant —
a tidal wave of voices, trays clattering, sneakers squeaking against tile.

I hovered just inside the doorway, heart hammering too loud against my ribs.

The scent of food was thick — grease, spice, sugar —
but underneath it, deeper, heavier, was the sharp, biting smell of fear bleeding out of my own skin.

I clutched my tray tighter, scanning desperately for somewhere — anywhere — empty.

An open table.
Far corner.
Half in shadow, tucked against the wall.

I moved for it like it was a lifeline, weaving through the crowd with stiff, jerky steps.

The tray clattered too hard when I set it down.
I didn’t sit right away — stood frozen for a second, hands clenched at my sides, willing the tremor out of my muscles.

Then I dropped into the seat — back straight, head low — and stared at the untouched food.

The chopsticks felt heavy and alien in my hand — like they didn’t belong there either.

I didn’t move.
Didn’t eat.

Just breathed shallowly against the rising, gnawing tide of panic.

All the ground I thought I’d gained —
gone.

One mistake, one slip, and it was like starting over again —
like I was right back in the white walls and metal restraints,
right back under flickering lights where fear wasn’t a reaction but a reason.
A reason to be locked away.
A reason to be called unstable.
Other. Dangerous. Wrong.
No matter how much I tried, how much I pretended to be normal —
one crack, and they’d see it again.
Not a classmate.
Not a girl.
Just a threat in a uniform.

I stared at my food, cold and untouched.

The smell hit me before the sound did.

Sharp.

Familiar.

Burnt caramel.
Metal.
Ash.

Bakugou.

And wrapped around him — the others — lighter, different, but just as sharp:

Kirishima.
Mina.
Sero.
Kaminari.

Their scents wove through the heavy cafeteria air, pulling sharp and fast at the edges of my mind.

I stiffened — frozen in place — and listened:

Their footsteps were uneven — some heavy, some slow.
The clatter of trays shifted with each step, metal edges knocking against plastic.
Low voices rose and fell between them — hesitant, broken by pauses — as they weaved through the crowd, searching.

I didn’t look up.

I couldn’t.

But I felt it —
the moment they spotted me.

The sudden stop — all at once, like someone had cut their strings.
An awkward shuffle of feet against tile, trays tilting slightly in uncertain hands.
A thick ripple of hesitation moved between them — unspoken, uneasy — like no one wanted to be the first to say what they were all thinking.

I could practically hear the way they froze, standing there with full trays and nowhere to go.

Low murmurs drifted across the space between us — too soft to catch fully.

Undecided.

Uncertain.

Waiting for someone to move first.

I kept my head down, staring at the food I couldn’t bring myself to touch.

The air felt heavier now — thicker — the weight of their hesitation pressing against my skin like a hand.

They were still standing there.
Still undecided.

Still looking at me.

I could feel it.

A sharp scrape of a chair somewhere nearby.
The low murmur of conversations I wasn’t part of.

And then —
footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate.
Each one struck with a weight that cut through the noise like thunder on tile.
Purposeful.
Unhesitating.
Not the kind of steps that questioned or waited — the kind that had already decided.

Coming straight toward me.

My heart lurched painfully against my ribs.

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

The weight of him — the sharp, electric crackle of his presence — pressed harder against my senses with every step.

Even through the noise and chaos of the cafeteria, Bakugou burned clear and unmistakable.

The smell of him cut through everything — burnt caramel, scorched metal, the faint tang of ozone like the air before a storm.
Wild and sharp and alive.

He didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow down.

He dropped his tray onto the table with a loud, sharp clack —
the sound making me flinch despite myself —
and sat down across from me like he owned the damn space.

I blinked at him —
frozen —
not understanding.

He caught me staring and scowled instantly, jabbing his chopsticks at me with unnecessary aggression:

“What the hell are you lookin’ at, Scales?!”

The words snapped sharp through the air — loud enough to draw a few stares from nearby tables.

My mouth opened — then closed again, useless.

The nickname hit like a slap across the face.

I blinked at him — mouth opening, then closing uselessly — completely thrown.

Scales?
Was… was that supposed to be a nickname?

Before I could even think about answering, more footsteps shuffled hesitantly toward the table.

I looked up — and found the rest of the Baku Squad hovering awkwardly nearby.

Kirishima.
Mina.
Sero.
Kaminari.

Each holding a tray.

Each looking uncertain — shifting from foot to foot, stealing glances at each other.

For a second, none of them moved.

Then — Kirishima, ever the brave one, stepped forward a little and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

He didn’t look scared of me.

Nervous, maybe.
Careful.
Carrying the raw, uncertain fear of someone reaching out and not knowing if they’d be pulled in —
or pushed away.

The others hovered behind him — Mina shifting her weight anxiously from foot to foot, Sero scratching the back of his neck, Kaminari fiddling nervously with the edge of his tray —
waiting.

Holding their breath.

Waiting for the answer they weren’t sure they deserved.

Kirishima squared his shoulders awkwardly — rough, earnest — and said:

“Hey, uh… mind if we sit here?”

I stared at them — mute, stunned — not sure how to respond at all.

The tight knot in my chest didn’t loosen —
but for the first time all day, it shifted.

Softer.
Lighter.
Almost… bearable.

I forced myself to move — just a little —
giving a short, stiff nod.

It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t even really confident.

But it was enough.

The others shuffled into their seats slowly —
Kirishima sliding into the spot beside Bakugou, Mina flopping across from him, Sero and Kaminari squeezing onto the bench at either end.

The air stayed thick for a moment — too many glances, too many swallowed words —
until someone coughed awkwardly and broke the tension enough to start moving again.

Trays clattered.
Chopsticks scraped against plates.

I picked at my food without appetite, just for something to do with my hands.

For a long, heavy minute, no one said anything.

Then — predictably — Kaminari broke first.

He leaned over his tray, flashing a bright, nervous grin that didn’t quite hide the tension knotting his shoulders.

“Sooo… you’re not gonna, like, go full predator on us again anytime soon, right?”

He tried for a laugh at the end, but it cracked halfway through and died an awkward death.

The table went dead silent.

Sero grimaced, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Yeah, uh… gotta admit…”
“It was really scary. Watching you shift like that.”

The words weren’t cruel.
Just honest.

I dropped my eyes back to my tray —
food blurring in front of me.

The chopsticks trembled faintly in my hand.

I swallowed once —
hard —
and said, voice barely above a whisper:

“I know.”

The sound barely made it across the table —
but they heard it.

I didn’t dare look up.

The silence stretched a little longer —
tight but not hostile.

Then Bakugou snorted — loud and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Tch. The hell — I wasn’t scared.”

I lifted my eyes at last — slowly, carefully — and met his glare head-on.

There was no challenge in my face.

No anger.

Just quiet, tired certainty:

“You were.”
“All of you were.”

I let my gaze shift —
from Bakugou’s bristling frame —
to Kirishima’s wide, uncertain eyes —
to Mina’s tight hands around her chopsticks —
to Sero and Kaminari’s nervous glances.

“I could smell it.”
“Fear — sharp and sour, clinging to your skin.”
“And I saw it too.”
“The way your hands shook.”
“The way you froze when I moved.”

The words were calm.
Matter-of-fact.

Not an accusation.

Just the truth.

The silence stretched — heavier now — crackling at the edges.

Kirishima flinched slightly —
not from shame, but from the weight of being seen so clearly, so completely.

Mina’s hands tightened around her chopsticks, knuckles going pale.

Sero shifted uncomfortably, glancing away like he wasn’t sure where to look.

Kaminari stared — wide-eyed and open-mouthed — like the realization was only just hitting him now.

Even Bakugou’s scowl faltered — the barest flicker of something sharp and unsettled crossing his face.

They hadn’t understood before.
Not really.
But now they did.

My world was sharper than theirs.
Closer.
Rawer.

I didn’t just see fear.
I smelled it.
Felt it bleed out of them like a second heartbeat.

And now they knew it too.

Kirishima scratched the back of his neck —
awkward, a little sheepish — his face heating faintly.

“Man… I didn’t realize you could smell us that clearly.”

He gave a short, embarrassed laugh — not mocking, just stunned.

“Guess there’s no hiding anything from you, huh?”

He hesitated —
then squared his shoulders, meeting my gaze without flinching:

“But yeah… you’re right.”
“I was scared.”
“We all were.”

He paused again — voice rougher, but sure:

“But you protected us.”

The simple honesty in his words cracked something deep inside my chest.

I took a shaky breath —
picking at the threads of my own fear, trying to pull the right words free.

Slowly — haltingly — I spoke:

“I was scared too.”

Their heads snapped toward me — startled.

I forced myself to keep going —
even as the words scraped raw against my throat.

“I didn’t know if I could control it.”
“I tried.”
“I fought it.”
“But when the Nomu hit me…”
“I couldn’t stop the shift.”

I pressed my hands flat against the table to keep them from shaking.

“I begged it.”
“Begged it not to tear you apart.”
“Begged it to protect you instead.”

The last words barely made it past the tightness in my chest.

The table stayed silent —
so still it hurt.

For a second, the table was frozen —
every breath held tight, every hand stilled halfway to a plate.

Sure they would see me for what I was.

Something dangerous.
Something wrong.

But when I dared to lift my head again —
to really look at them —

None of them had moved.

Then —
Kirishima shoved his tray aside with a clatter and leaned across the table, words tumbling out rough and fast:

“Shit, Hibari — you saved us!”
“Even when you were fighting yourself — even when it could’ve gone bad — you still chose us.”

Mina gave a small, choked laugh and swiped at her eyes with both sleeves at once, barely keeping it together:

“You’re not scary,” she said fiercely, voice cracking. “You’re ours.”

Sero raked a hand through his hair, wide-eyed but grinning — shaky and real:

“Yeah, seriously — you think we’re gonna run now? After all that?”

Kaminari didn’t even try to hide it — he just grinned, messy and wide, watery-eyed and earnest:

“You’re stuck with us now, dude.”

They weren’t polished words.
They stumbled.
They tripped over emotion.
They cracked and fumbled and didn’t say it clean.

But they meant every single word.

And Bakugou —
Bakugou just scoffed under his breath, low and gruff, like he was annoyed with all of them —
but he didn’t move.
Didn’t leave.

If anything, he leaned heavier into the table —
solid and steady as a mountain.

Choosing to stay.

Choosing her.

And something deep inside me — something cold and coiled and lonely —
unraveled just a little.

For a long, breathless moment,
I let myself really look at them.

Kirishima’s wide, honest grin.
Mina’s bright, fierce eyes.
Sero’s easy, lopsided smile.
Kaminari’s ridiculous thumbs-up.

Even Bakugou —
arms crossed, scowl welded to his face —
but still here.
Still not running.

The knot in my chest pulled tight —
then loosened —
then tightened again.

I could move forward.
Or I could stay frozen.

Choice.
It was mine now.

I hesitated —
the words heavy and clumsy on my tongue.

A scrap of memory surfaced —
bright and stubborn against the fear curling low in my gut.

Present Mic’s voice — bright and laughing, from a day that already felt a lifetime ago —
leaning casually against the car hood, arms crossed, grin lazy:

“Hey, kid. Freedom’s scary. But it means you get to choose who you let in.”
“Doesn’t have to be everyone. Just the ones worth the risk.”

I swallowed —
bracing myself —
and forced the words out:

“Do you…”
“Do you wanna exchange numbers?”

The silence that followed was so thick I wanted to choke on it.

Bakugou scoffed immediately mouth twisting into a scowl as he crossed his arm — rolling his eyes hard enough it was practically a full-body movement:

“As if. You’d just blow up my damn phone, Scales.”

But he didn’t move.
Didn’t get up.

Kirishima’s grin widened — almost blinding:

“Hell yeah!”

Mina bounced in her seat, already fishing her phone out of her pocket:

“Of course!”

Sero flashed a thumbs-up, and Kaminari grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

My hands shook a little as I pulled out my phone —
the new one Present Mic had forced on me just yesterday —
still awkward in my fingers.

We passed devices around the table —
clumsy, chaotic —
Mina demanding emojis, Kaminari mistyping half the names.

When it was over —
when my phone buzzed softly with all their numbers saved in my contacts —
I stared down at the screen for a long moment.

My fingers trembled slightly — but not from fear.

And when I looked up again —
at the stupid smiles and the easy chatter starting to build around me —

something loosened quietly inside my chest.

No fear this time.

Just a tiny, stubborn thing curling warm against my ribs.

Almost —
almost —
belonging.

It didn’t come easy.
It never had.

Belonging had to be fought for.
Claimed like territory.
Held fast against the world that wanted to tear it away.

And for once—
I was ready to fight for it.

Chapter Text

The air in the classroom was wrong.

Not loud. Not hostile. Just… heavy. Stretched thin like a wire, pulled too tight.

No one said anything outright. No one pointed. No one flinched. But I could feel it — in the way conversation dipped when I walked in, in how chairs scraped quieter, slower, like they didn’t want to draw attention. Like they were waiting for something.

It wasn’t fear. Not exactly.

I knew fear. Knew how it clung to skin, how it soured breath and soaked through cloth no matter how much you tried to hide it. I’d spent enough time in rooms full of it to know the scent by heart.

This wasn’t that.

The Baku Squad just… stayed steady. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn’t. But it helped.

Everything about them felt unchanged — like they were holding the line for me while I found my footing.

Kaminari gave me a lopsided wave the second I stepped through the door. Mina smiled — bright, warm, like nothing had changed. Kirishima nodded at me like always. Even Bakugou just grunted and dropped into his seat, not sparing me more than a quick glance.

But the rest of the class?

They didn’t look at me.

Not directly.

Not unless they thought I wasn’t looking back.

I caught it anyway —
the edge of someone’s stare lingering too long —
the way breath hitched from a few rows ahead —
the subtle shift of a chair angled just slightly away from mine.

Little things.
Uneasy things.
All of it loud, even in silence.

They weren’t scared out of their minds. But they were wary.

Watching me like something they didn’t quite understand yet.

Midoriya was the hardest to read.

He kept glancing at me — sharp, jittery, like he couldn’t help himself. Eyes darting, fingers twitching, lips moving like he was mumbling things under his breath, just low enough for me not to hear.

And his scent —

That’s what confused me most.

It was a mess. Not clean. Not just fear.

Guilt twisted through his scent — low and rancid, like old oil and regret simmering under his skin.
Shame soaked through him, quiet and biting. The kind that didn’t come from fear of others — but from failing his own impossible standards.
And underneath it all, tangled in the middle of everything:

Stubbornness.

Not the loud kind of stubborn — the quiet kind, clenched in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. The kind that didn’t quit.

I stared at my desk for a long moment, frowning.

At USJ, he couldn’t move. I remembered the stutter in his breath, the way he stood there, trembling slightly— not because he wanted to, but because fear had sunk claws into his spine and wouldn’t let go.

If anyone should’ve been afraid of me now, it should’ve been him.

But he wasn’t.

Not entirely.

And I didn’t know why.

There wasn’t room in my brain to pick that apart — not today.
Not with the Sports Festival looming like a storm on the horizon.

It clawed at the edges of my thoughts all morning — clung like burrs to everything else I tried to focus on.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until I’d be thrown into an arena. Put on a stage. Expected to perform — to fight — while all of Japan watched. While pros and strangers and classmates waited to see if I would snap again.

Could I even trust myself for that?

What if it happened again?

What if I shifted without warning — lost control in front of everyone?

I gnawed at the inside of my cheek and kept my eyes down.

I should’ve asked Aizawa this morning. Should’ve said something over coffee. But I hadn’t.

Now I’d have to wait until lunch.

Because apparently, saying five words over coffee was too hard.

And now I got to sit with the consequences… chewing a hole in my gut.

The bell rang sharp and loud, snapping through the end of the lesson like a blade. Chairs scraped. Bags rustled. The room stirred with the usual lunchtime energy — lighter than the morning, but still wired, still frayed at the edges.

I stood to gather my things, and the moment I slung my bag over my shoulder, Kirishima popped up from his seat, already turning toward me with that easy grin of his.

“Hey, you heading with us again?”

He made it sound like a casual offer — but I caught the slight lift in his voice, the quiet hope tucked under it.

Mina straightened, grabbing her bag and bouncing on her heels. “Yeah! Lunch crew sticking together, right?”

Sero leaned on the back of her chair, grin tilted. “Pretty sure your seat’s unofficially official now.”

“Don’t be weird about it,” Bakugou muttered without looking up from his notebook.

I blinked — once — then shook my head.

“Not today.”

It came out softer than I meant. Still flat. Still Hibari.

They all paused.

Not offended. Just… surprised.

Kirishima tilted his head a little. “You’re not hungry?”

“I have to talk to Aizawa-sensei,” I said. “Just for a moment.”

That seemed to answer enough. They nodded, still watching.

I adjusted the strap on my shoulder, nodded once in return — then turned and headed for the door.

But I could feel it —
the way Bakugou’s stare dug into my spine, unrelenting.
It followed me all the way to the hall, sharp as a blade at my back.

The walk to the staff wing was quieter than it should’ve been. Each step echoed too sharply off the tile — the sound of my shoes clipped and hollow. The nerves started low in my gut and clawed higher with every hallway passed.

I didn’t do this kind of thing.

I didn’t ask for exceptions.

Didn’t make special requests.

And yet here I was, walking to ask my homeroom teacher if I could skip the most important event of the school year.

Great.

The teacher’s office came into view — the one tucked behind a long wall of frosted glass, low voices drifting behind it.

I stopped in front of the door, hand half-raised. For a second, I just stood there, staring at the wood like it might give me an answer. Part of me considered walking away. Pretending I never came. But that would’ve made everything worse. So I swallowed down the nerves clawing at my throat… and knocked. Two times. Sharp. Measured. Final.

The door cracked open almost immediately, and a familiar blond head poked out, sunglasses glinting.

“Well hey there, little listener!” Present Mic’s grin was blinding, voice still too loud for the quiet corridor. “What’s up? Trouble with the mic drop?”

I blinked once. “No.”

A pause.

“I need to speak with Aizawa-sensei.”

He hummed, swinging the door open wider. “Lucky you — he’s not snoring for once.”

Then, without turning his head: “Yo, Eraser! You’ve got a visitor!”

A low groan answered — rough and unmistakable, like someone being dragged out of sleep against their will. It was followed by the scrape of a chair, the rustle of fabric — and then, faint but familiar, the scent hit me. Bitter coffee. Wool. Sleep-heavy exhaustion. The grounding scent of Aizawa. Steadying, in its own strange way.

There was a shuffle of movement behind the frosted glass. Papers rustled. A chair scraped. Then Aizawa appeared, emerging from behind a cluttered desk with his hair down — tangled waves — and sleeves pushed to his elbows. A bandage peeked from beneath one cuff — the other arm still held stiff in a sling, wrapped tight from shoulder to wrist.

He looked like he hadn’t slept since USJ — shadows bruised the skin under his eyes, shoulders heavy, mouth set in that permanent scowl that somehow still said functional. Barely.

He blinked at me, slow and unimpressed — like the light itself was a personal offense.

“I was sleeping.”

His voice was gravel.

“What do you want?”

No sugar-coating. No padding. Straight to the point.

Good.

Exactly what I needed.

“I want to talk about the Sports Festival,” I said.

His eyes narrowed — not just from the light, but with that quiet, surgical focus he always had when sizing up a problem. Like he was already peeling back the layers of my visit, bracing for whatever trouble I was about to drop in his lap. Irritated, yes — but under that, sharp. Awake. Waiting.

“Inside. Make it quick.”

I stepped through the door, keeping close to the wall as he sat heavily at his desk, dropping into the chair with a soft grunt.

“I don’t want to participate.”

There. Said it.

Aizawa didn’t blink. Just stared at me over the rim of his coffee mug, like he was trying to decide whether I’d lost my mind or not.

Finally, he sighed and set the mug down with a soft clink.

“That’s not entirely up to me.”

I said nothing.

“I can raise the issue. There’s a teacher meeting Monday morning. We’ll discuss options — personal evaluation, maybe.”

I nodded once.

“I’ll let you know,” he added. “But until then — go eat.”

His voice had dropped into that familiar, bone-deep tired register.

Dismissed.

I turned without another word, the weight of it all settling heavier between my shoulders with each step.

It wasn’t a yes.
But it wasn’t a no either.
And that… was more than I expected.

The cafeteria buzzed loud and low — trays clattering, voices overlapping, laughter echoing from one corner to the next.

I moved through the crowd without looking up, tray balanced steady in my hands.

Didn’t need to search.

I’d already caught their scent the second I stepped into the echoing lunch corridor — burnt sugar, citrus, melted wires — sharp and familiar through the chaos.

They were exactly where I expected them to be.
Middle table.
Same as always.

Kirishima leaned back in his seat, halfway through something that had Kaminari cracking up and Sero groaning into his rice. Mina sat curled into herself, chopsticks waving wildly with whatever point she was trying to make.

Bakugou sat with his arms crossed, half-eaten tray in front of him, staring like he was listening — but not really. Not to them, anyway.

When I moved closer, Kirishima noticed first. His eyes lit up and he nudged Mina with his elbow.

She turned, brightening immediately. “Hibari!”

Sero twisted in his seat, raising his hand in a lazy wave. “Yo!”

Kaminari just grinned, mouth full of fried tofu.

They shifted automatically — trays sliding, knees bumping under the table — making room without question.

I hesitated for only a second before stepping in. Quiet. Steady.

Kirishima patted the bench beside him.

“Glad you came back. Your spot was still open. Felt weird without you.” he said, voice easy.

I didn’t answer. Just set my tray down and slid into the space they’d carved open.

No one pushed. No one asked questions.

Conversation picked back up, like I’d never been gone.

I ate slowly. Quietly.

Let the noise wash over me like rain against a window — close, but separate.

Still, something tugged at the edge of my senses.

Bakugou sat across from me — chopsticks idle, tray pushed slightly off-center — and stared. Not aggressively. Not curious, either.

Focused.

Like he was waiting for something to click.

I didn’t look directly at him. Just kept eating. Steady, calm.

But I felt it.

That scrutiny — that heat behind the eyes, not unkind but sharp.

He didn’t ask what Aizawa said.
Didn’t say a damn thing.

But his stare never left me.
Not even when the others started talking again.
Not even when I refused to look up.

But I could feel it — the way he was clocking every twitch, every shift, every breath.
Like he was weighing something. Waiting on something.

He wasn’t loud about it.
Didn’t have to be.

I just kept eating.
Kept breathing.
Like my hands weren’t shaking under the table.

Because whatever Bakugou was thinking —
he wasn’t saying it.
Yet.

The walk back to the classroom was quieter this time.

Not awkward — not exactly — just… weighted. The air between us buzzed with something unsaid, but no one pushed. They talked around it. Sero threw something ridiculous at Kaminari. Mina hummed a song under her breath. Kirishima nudged Bakugou, got a grunt in response.

But I could still feel it.

Bakugou’s stare. The way it scraped against the back of my neck every time I looked away. Like he was trying to pin something down — and hadn’t yet decided whether to say it or not.

When we stepped through the classroom doors, the rest of the students were already filtering in — a steady hum of movement and voices. Chairs scraped. Bags thumped. The low murmur of returning routine filled the space like white noise.

I slid into my seat without a word, dropping my bag to the floor with a soft thud.

My notebook was barely open when I felt it.

Someone approaching.

I didn’t look up at first — not until the scent hit me.

Nervous sweat. Ink. The faintest trace of green tea shampoo.

Midoriya.

He was muttering under his breath as he walked — just loud enough for me to catch pieces.

“…Just do it. Come on, do it. Just—just go.”

I blinked up at him.

And then, without warning — he bowed.

A full ninety-degree bow — stiff, sharp, and absolutely trembling with nerves.

It was so sudden I actually froze.

Across the room, I felt it — all at once, like someone had flipped a switch:

Stares.

Conversations paused mid-sentence. Desks stopped shifting. The air tilted.

Every eye in the room was on us.

Midoriya didn’t seem to notice.

“T-Tsuyara-san!” he stammered, still bowed so low I could see the way his fingers gripped the edge of his pants. “I wanted to—um—I mean, I needed to… to thank you—”

His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and pushed through anyway.

“—for saving me.”

Silence.

No one moved.

I blinked.

That… wasn’t what I expected.

Not fear. Not an apology. Not even suspicion.

Gratitude?

He straightened slowly, red-faced, breathing hard. His eyes were bright behind the mess of his bangs, fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

“You protected us,” he said — softer now, but clearer. “I saw it. I’ll never forget it.”

His scent had changed. I could feel it curl through the air — uneven, but layered.

Fear, still — but not the kind that paralyzed.
Guilt, still — old and heavy, soaked into his skin like ink.
But also: Admiration.
Respect.

And something sharper — something stubborn and hot and unshaken:

Conviction.

But it wasn’t finished.

I could feel it in the way his weight shifted, in the way his fingers flexed restlessly at his sides.
In the way his scent stuttered — something held too tight in his throat, not fear this time, but pressure.
Like a pot ready to boil over.

He wasn’t done.

Whatever he’d said — it wasn’t the whole of it.
Not even close.

The moment held — awkward, unsteady — but honest.

I narrowed my eyes slightly.

“Midoriya.”

He flinched, nearly knocking over the desk next to him. “Y-yeah?!”

I stared at him.

“Spit it out.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again — jaw twitching like he’d bitten the words back at the last second.

His eyes darted to the floor, then to me, then away again.
Fingers clenched at his sides, then unclenched.
Breathing uneven. Shoulders braced.

I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head — a dozen unfinished sentences fighting for room.

Then, all at once — like if he didn’t say it now, it’d tear itself out of his throat anyway:

“Why… why did you push me back?”

The words dropped into the room like a thunderclap.

A full-stop silence fell over the class. No one breathed.

“When you shifted…” Midoriya’s voice cracked again. “Why me?”

I stared at him.

That was the question?

Not what are you — not how did you lose control —

Just: Why me.

I didn’t answer right away.

I just stared — letting the question hang there between us like a blade suspended in air.

Sharp.

Waiting.

Midoriya’s question still hung in the air — brittle and too loud — like a bell that hadn’t finished ringing. The classroom was silent. Completely, utterly silent.

Every eye was on me.

I could feel it — crawling along my spine, prickling the edges of my skin. The tension in the room had shifted. Curiosity edging out fear. Every breath held.

I glanced around once.

The Baku Squad was still, sharp-eyed and waiting. Bakugou’s stare cut like a blade, locked on my profile. The rest of the class leaned slightly forward — not close, but closer than before. Drawn in.

I turned back to Midoriya.

His hands were twitching again, fingers tapping nervously against the edge of my desk.

I exhaled slowly.

“I don’t know exactly.”

My voice was low, calm, matter-of-fact.

“It wasn’t a decision I made. It just… happened.”

Another small ripple moved through the classroom. Chairs shifted. Someone whispered something under their breath.

I didn’t let it grow.

“It was probably your scent.”

Silence.

The kind that pressed in from all sides — wide-eyed and breathless.

Midoriya blinked, completely thrown.

“My… scent?”

I nodded once, slow.

“My senses are different — especially in that form. Stronger. Sharper. Scent means familiarity. And you…” I hesitated. “You smelled familiar.”

His brows drew together, confused.

“You were shaking,” I added. “Frozen in place. Couldn’t move.”

I kept my voice level — didn’t say it like a weakness, just a fact. Just what it was.

“So the instincts… removed you from the fight.”

Another pause.

The words dropped quiet and final into the space between us. Not cruel. Not unkind. But honest.

Midoriya stood there, stunned. No one else spoke.

I looked at him — really looked — and then tilted my head slightly.

“Let me ask you something, Midoriya.”

He jumped slightly, eyes wide. “Y-Yes?”

“What do you think the Indoraptor is?”

He blinked rapidly, caught off guard.

“Uh—well, All Might said it was a hybrid, right?” he started, voice stumbling forward. “So maybe… a chimera-type Quirk? Strength, speed, heightened senses—?”

“Wrong.”

The word hit sharp.

Midoriya flinched.

I turned in my seat — just slightly — letting my eyes sweep across the classroom.

“Anyone else want to give it a shot?”

There was a moment of hesitation — and then Tokoyami cleared his throat.

“A werebeast, perhaps. Something born from darkness.”

“Wrong.”

Ojiro hesitated. “A mutation-type? Like mine?”

“Wrong.”

Kaminari raised a finger, grinning nervously. “Uh… haunted dragon-wolf hybrid? Maybe? From space?”

I stared at him flatly.

“Seriously? Wrong.”

Sero leaned back, deadpan. “Honestly thought you were a cryptid with a vengeance.”

I didn’t even blink. “Still wrong.”

They fell silent again.

I let the pause stretch — just enough.

Then I let my eyes drift across the room one more time. Slow. Measured.

“If you actually want to know what the Indoraptor is…”

Someone swallowed.
A few nodded.
Most just stared — held still by something they couldn’t name.

I didn’t answer right away.

For a moment, I just… sat there.

Staring down at the grain of the desk beneath my fingertips. Listening to the silence stretching thin around me.

This would be the first time.
The first time I told anyone the truth — not all of it, but something real. Something that belonged to me. Something no one had earned the right to know… but maybe still deserved.

It wasn’t easy.
Not when you’d spent your whole life learning not to share.
Not when you’d been taught that giving pieces of yourself away only made it easier for people to break them.

I almost let the moment pass.
Almost let the question die in the silence.

But then I glanced up.

And I saw them — faces tilted, eyes fixed, scents laced thick with anticipation. Curiosity curling like smoke from every row.

Not fear.
Not judgment.
Just a room full of people who didn’t understand me… but maybe wanted to.

So I told them.

“The Indoraptor is a dinosaur.”

The word dropped like a stone in water.

No one spoke.

For a heartbeat, the room just… blinked.

Then—

“What?”

“Wait— what?”

“Did she just say—?”

Chairs creaked. Someone nearly dropped a pen.

Ashido let out a strangled laugh, half-shocked, half-delighted. “A what now?!”

Sero leaned forward, eyes wide. “You’re telling us your Quirk is… dinosaur-based?! Like, actual dinosaur?!”

Tokoyami whispered something reverent under his breath. Ojiro just stared, mouth slightly open.

Iida made a sharp, startled noise — the sound of a man trying to make sense of chaos with sheer willpower. “Surely that’s not— I mean— that would suggest a genetic— how is that even possible?!”

Even Bakugou blinked once. Slowly. Like he was recalibrating the laws of reality.

I leaned back slightly, letting my gaze settle across the classroom.

Still.

Wide-eyed.

Disbelieving.

A few exchanged glances like I’d just started speaking a different language. One or two looked like they wanted to laugh — to break the silence and shake off the weight of it.

They didn’t believe me.

Of course they didn’t.

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

“You want facts?”

That pulled them tighter.

I scanned their faces. Hesitation. Unease. But underneath it — curiosity. Tugging at the air between us. Tangled in their scent.

Fine.

I gave them the truth.

“My quirk is modeled after a hybrid. Part Velociraptor. Part Indominus Rex.”

A ripple moved through the room.

I didn’t stop.

“Velociraptors were fast. Intelligent. Hunters. They worked in packs. Mapped terrain. Communicated. They weren’t the biggest predators — but they were some of the most dangerous.”

“They didn’t chase. They stalked. Surrounded. Learned your habits. Knew when you were weakest. And when one moved—”

I raised my hand and snapped my fingers once, loud enough to startle Kaminari.

“—the others were already in position.”

The room was frozen.

“And the Indominus?”

I let the word hang for a second.

“That was a monster. Bigger. Stronger. Meaner. Adaptive. It didn’t just outpower the other predators — it outsmarted them. It could cloak itself. Trick sensors. Remember weakness. It was solitary. Violent. Unpredictable.”

I let my eyes settle back on Midoriya — still standing, still staring.

“My quirk carries both. The speed. The strength. The instincts.”

A pause.

“And the aggression.”

“Built to stalk and strike and never miss.”

Another beat. Slower this time.

“But instincts can do more than just attack.”

I paused — gaze steady, voice even.

“Raptors weren’t mindless. They didn’t just hunt. They coordinated. Protected. Moved like a unit.”

“It’s not just strength. Or speed.”

“It’s instinct. Precision. Pack hierarchy.”

“They knew who to defend. Who to follow. Who to pull back when the formation started to crumble.”

I let that hang for a beat — heavy, deliberate. “That’s what the Indoraptor brings. Not just raw power — but an order underneath it. A structure.”

My voice dropped.

“It knew you wouldn’t be able to hold the line.”

I looked straight at Midoriya — gaze sharp, unflinching.

“When I shift… I don’t always get to choose who matters.”

“You smelled familiar. And you were frozen. Shaking.”

“It didn’t see a classmate. It saw the weakest link — someone who wouldn’t survive if the fight got too close.”

She paused — breath shallow, gaze unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“So it nudged you out of the way.”

My eyes narrowed, sweeping the room — slow, deliberate.
“I didn’t name it. Someone else did — before me.”

“Because that’s what it is. What it’s based on.”

“A dinosaur. Real enough to leave a mark.”

Somewhere in the front, Kaminari choked on his own spit. Someone else muttered something under their breath — a curse or a prayer, maybe both.

“I don’t shift into some made-up monster. This isn’t fantasy. My Quirk mimics something that once walked this earth — something older than reason, older than us.”

For a long moment, no one said a word.

Not a breath. Not a shuffle. Just silence, held taut like wire.

Then—

“…Holy shit,” someone whispered.

Another exhaled — slow, stunned.

The tension shifted — not lighter, not exactly. But different. Less suspicion. More understanding. Still unsure. But closer.

I didn’t look at any of them.

Just sat there, hands folded over my notebook, heart beating like a second pulse in my ears.

Maybe they didn’t get it. Not all of it. Not yet.

But they’d heard me.

And for now… that was enough.

The bell rang — sharp, sudden, slicing clean through the fog in my head.

I blinked.

Around me, the room shifted — chairs scraping back, voices rising, the dull thump of books being stuffed into bags. Most of it washed past me, noise without meaning.

I hadn’t realized how long I’d been sitting still.

By the time I looked up, the classroom had already emptied by half. Then more. Then all.

One by one, they drifted out. Midoriya. Kaminari. Mina’s laugh echoing faintly down the hall. Iida was the last, shutting the door behind him with a soft click and a mumbled “See you tomorrow.”

Silence followed.

Almost.

Because the scent hit me before anything else.

That burnt-sweet bite of nitroglycerin — like sugar scorched on metal. Subtle, but sharp.

Bakugou.

He hadn’t left.

I started gathering my things — slow, methodical, more out of habit than urgency.

My hands moved on their own — notebook, pen, textbook, all slid neatly into place. My body was present, but my mind wasn’t. I was still inside the question Midoriya had asked. Still beneath the weight of the answer I’d given.

Too much. Too honest.

But it was done now.

I slung my bag over one shoulder and stood slowly. The room felt strange — stretched, like something had shifted just enough to tilt the ground beneath my feet.

I exhaled once — quiet, sharp — and stood. Adjusted the strap of my bag. Turned toward the door—

Didn’t get far.

“Oi.”

The word snapped out like a spark — hot, sharp, and unmistakable.

I stopped.

Didn’t turn around immediately.

But I didn’t have to.

I felt him.

Bakugou Katsuki.

Heavy steps. Heat in the air. That crackling presence like a lit fuse shoved too close to skin.

He didn’t wait for me to face him.

“What the hell was that?”

His tone was flat — too flat for someone like him. Controlled. Tight.

Dangerous.

I turned.

He stood a few steps away, arms crossed, jaw set. Eyes sharp as flint.

I blinked once. “What was what?”

“That thing with Aizawa,” he snapped. “What’d you talk about?”

His voice was already rising — not yelling, not yet. But close. Like the ground before a quake.

I stared at him, face unreadable. “None of your business.”

Wrong answer.

His jaw flexed, shoulders tensing like he was winding up to blow.

“It better not be about the damn Sports Festival,” he growled. “You’ve been acting off ever since Aizawa brought it up. Thought you were just weird — now I’m not so sure.”
He took a step closer, voice low but sharp. “I’m telling you now — you better be training. I want an undisputable win.”

I didn’t flinch.

“You will get one,” I said evenly. “Don’t worry.”

His eyes narrowed. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

I looked straight at him.

“I’m not participating.”

The silence hit like a shockwave — fast and hard.

His expression twisted.

“The fuck do you mean you’re not participating?”

“I mean exactly what I said.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “Why the hell not?”

I stayed still.

“Because I can’t risk it.”

His hands balled into fists at his sides. “Risk what?! Losing to me?!”

“Losing control,” I said sharply. “In front of everyone. In a stadium full of people. You think I’m just gonna shift and gamble I won’t tear someone’s head off?”

“Damn right you won’t,” he barked. “Because you’ll have it under control. That’s the whole fucking point.”

“That’s not a guarantee,” I hissed. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“You think I don’t know pressure?” he cut in, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to have everyone watching, waiting for you to fail?”

I said nothing.

“You’re strong,” he snapped. “Stronger than half the extras in this room. I want to beat you at your best. Not watch you fucking vanish.”

I stared at him. Eyes sharp. Slits.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I’m not gonna stand on top of that podium unless I’ve earned it,” he said, voice low and lethal. “And I’m not gonna let you disappear just because you’re scared.”

I bristled. “I’m not scared—”

“Then prove it.”

He stepped even closer. I could feel the heat off him now — his quirk, his fury, the weight of his will.

“Give me your phone.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your damn phone, Scales.”

“…Why?”

His expression twisted. “Just give me your fucking phone!”

I stared for a second, then slowly, reluctantly, pulled it from my pocket and handed it over.

He snatched the phone straight from my hand — quick, deliberate — fingers flying across the screen like he’d done it a hundred times before.

A second later, he shoved it back at me. Not rough. Not gentle. Just… Bakugou. Abrupt. Final.

“Here.”

Then he turned without waiting, already heading for the door.

“Better answer when I text,” he muttered over his shoulder.

Then he was gone.

I looked down.

The screen was still lit in my palm, one new contact glowing at the top.

KING EXPLOSION MURDER.

The name stared back at me like a threat and a challenge all at once.

…Seriously?

I blinked. Then blinked again.

Ridiculous. Loud. Completely him.

But somehow… it made sense.

I let the screen go dark and slid the phone into my pocket, the weight of it suddenly heavier than it should’ve been.

And stood there.

Still.

Alone now.

What the hell just happened?

Chapter Text

Something buzzed low against the floorboards.

I didn’t move at first. Just lay there, half-facedown in the pillow, hair sticking to my cheek, breath warm against the fabric. The vibration didn’t stop.

I reached one hand down blindly, fingers dragging along cool wood until they bumped against the edge of my phone. I hooked it up with two fingers, squinting as the screen lit too bright in the early dim.

And then I just… stared.

A thread of messages. Long. Loud. One name over and over again at the top.

1 hour ago:
Meet me at the station.
Wear outdoor clothes. Bring water.

43 minutes ago:
Oi. Answer.

28 minutes ago:
You up or what?
Don’t make me come drag you out.

12 minutes ago:
I swear to god—
Fuckin’ Scales! Wake the hell up!
You think I won’t come get you?

Now:
You better not be ignoring me.
Swear to god I’ll blow your whole damn door down.

I stared at it for a long time.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even sigh.

Just let the quiet settle like dust in my chest.

I didn’t understand what he wanted from me.

That was the part that kept scratching at the back of my mind — not the yelling, not the threat of detonation. That was normal. Expected. But the persistence? The timing? The demand that I follow, no reason given?

It wasn’t like Bakugou to chase anything he didn’t already plan to crush.

And still… I was getting up.

I shoved the blanket off, dragged a hoodie over my sleep shirt, and stepped out into the hallway barefoot, phone still warm in my hand.

The apartment smelled like strong coffee and something faintly burned. Again.

When I stepped into the living room, the lights were still off — just the low glow of early sun leaking through the blinds, striping the floor like pale prison bars.

Aizawa was slouched on the couch in the corner, half-wrapped in a blanket, one arm curled behind his head, the other draped over his chest. Still bandaged. Still healing. His eyes were open but heavy. Watching me without a word.

At the small kitchen table sat Present Mic — barefoot, wild-haired, and shirtless except for a hoodie hanging off one shoulder. He was sipping coffee with theatrical serenity, pinky raised, like some spiritual monk who listened to dubstep.

This had become routine.

Waking up to find him here. Always barefoot. Always loud against the quiet.

I hovered in the archway, still holding my phone, unsure how to start.

Present Mic looked up and grinned like the morning hadn’t even earned the right to exist yet.

“Well, well, well,” he said, voice far too awake. “Look who finally joins the land of the living.”

He took a long, pointed sip from his mug. “Dare I ask who decided to ruin your morning?”

I didn’t answer. Just walked over to the couch, silent, and handed my phone to Aizawa.

He took it without question. Scrolled once. Didn’t change expression — but the breath he let out was the kind you didn’t notice unless you knew him.

I waited. Then finally spoke.

“Bakugou wants me to meet him.”

“Didn’t say why. Just this.”

I gestured vaguely toward the screen.

Present Mic stood up, mug still in hand, and ambled over to the couch like he had all the time in the world.

Then — dramatically, like a man committing to the bit — he leaned over the back of it with full body commentary.

“Bakugou?” he repeated. “At this hour? With instructions?”

He grinned wide, eyes glinting. “Ooh, spicy. That’s either a mission or a marriage proposal.”

I deadpanned, “It’s not a date.”

“Outdoor clothes and water?” Present Mic shot back, eyes wide. “Sounds sweaty.”

“Still not a date.”

From the couch, Aizawa exhaled again, quieter this time.

“Enough.”

There was a long pause. Just the hum of the fridge and the sound of Present Mic sipping smugly from his coffee.

I shifted on my feet. Didn’t mean to hesitate — but it happened anyway.

“Can I go?” I asked.

Aizawa didn’t even look up.

“You’re not grounded,” he said, voice flat. “Stay in touch. If he starts something, call me.”

Present Mic raised his mug like it was a toast to chaos.

“If you fall down a ravine,” he said, grinning, “we’ll bring snacks and a rope.”

I didn’t answer. Just turned and walked down the hall without a word, the floor cool beneath my feet and my phone still warm in my hand.

Back in my room, I moved on autopilot.

Black leggings. A fitted sports bra. The light zip-up jacket I only ever wore outside of campus. I pulled my hair into a low tie — quick, clean, controlled — and stepped into the black sneakers Present Mic had bought me on that ridiculous shopping trip.

They were comfortable. Loud in style, but quiet where it counted.

Water bottle. Bag. Phone.

I opened the thread again. The last message still pulsing at the bottom like it was waiting for a fight.

Swear to god I’ll blow your whole damn door down.

I thumbed in a reply.

Leaving now. I’ll be there in 15.

My finger hovered over send. Hesitant.

Because once I hit it, there was no taking it back — no pretending I wasn’t already walking toward whatever this was.

It wasn’t obligation pulling me. Not curiosity either.

It was something else. Sharper. Less reasonable.

Then tapped it.

I stood there a second longer than I should’ve, phone cooling in my hand.

No part of me knew what to expect — not from Bakugou, not from whatever this was supposed to be.

But I still tied my shoes tight.

Still stepped into the hall.

Still shut the apartment door behind me, silent as ever.
He wants something.
He’s been watching me since USJ — staring like he’s trying to crack me open just to see what’s buried underneath.
And yet… I’m still going. Why?

The station sat quiet under a pale blue sky, the streets so still it felt like the whole city was holding its breath.

I crossed toward the entrance, sneakers soft against the pavement, the zip of my jacket pulled halfway up against the morning chill. Black leggings. Sports bra. Jacket. Nothing heroic about it — but something deliberate. Light. Fast. Ready for… whatever this was.

He was already there.

Leaning against the low wall just outside the doors, arms crossed tight over his chest, hoodie tied low around his waist. Joggers. Fitted t-shirt. No gear. No uniform.

Just Bakugou.

He didn’t look up right away. But I knew the moment I stepped into range — the shift in his posture, the subtle click of his jaw. The scowl was already there, sharp and carved-in like it’d never left.

“Tch,” he muttered, without moving. “So you do check your phone after all.”

He pushed off the wall, stood fully, irritation radiating off him like heat.

“Texted you an hour ago. You think I like standing here like a fucking idiot waiting for you?”

I stopped a few feet away. Calm. Steady. Expression blank.

“I said fifteen minutes.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. And you used every damn second. Like you’re proud of it.”

Then he turned — abrupt — and started toward the station without another word.

I watched his back for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The pace. The way his scowl was aimed forward now, like he could glare the day into submission.

Then I followed.

This is different.

The train rattled steadily beneath us, the city peeling away in soft blurs of concrete and power lines.

Forty minutes. Outskirts of Musutafu. Long enough for the silence to settle thick between us — not long enough for it to break.

We sat side by side. Not touching. Not speaking. But close enough that his scent lingered sharp in the air between us.

Burnt sugar. Almost like caramel, but rougher at the edges. Clean shampoo. Body wash. Like he’d just stepped out of the shower and hadn’t bothered to hide it.

I didn’t turn to look at him, but I felt every shift — the rigid line of his crossed arms, the way his foot tapped twice and then stilled. His gaze was pinned to the window like it owed him something. An answer, maybe. Or a direction.

Once, I glanced over.

He was already looking — not at my face, but down. My jacket. The way my clothes moved with me. Assessing. Measuring. Like I was a data point he hadn’t finished cataloguing.

He didn’t say anything. No insult. No comment. No snide remark.

Just looked. Then looked away.

Eventually, I spoke.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Just answered, flat.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

That was it.

I let it drop. There was no use pulling something from him he didn’t want to give.

The rest of the ride passed like that — metal and breath and motion. The rhythm of wheels over track. The quiet weight of something neither of us wanted to name.

The train slowed to a crawl, then hissed to a stop at what barely passed for a platform — just a cracked stretch of concrete and a sun-bleached sign tilted slightly to the side.

We stepped off together. No crowd. No sound. Just us and the low hum of heat rising off stone.

The second my feet hit the ground, my senses adjusted.

The air was different out here. Clean. Untouched. Heavy with the scent of damp stone, moss, and dry bark. The sharp tang of tree sap. A low trace of distant dirt.

No exhaust. No static buzz of power lines. Just silence — thick and close — pressing low against my ribs.

Bakugou didn’t say a word.

He just started walking.

I followed.

The road was narrow. Asphalt turned to gravel. Gravel gave way to dirt. Trees gathered at the edges like they were waiting for something.

Up ahead, a break in the treeline. A path — barely there, overgrown and half-forgotten — winding into the hills.

I glanced at him again.

He hadn’t said a single word since we left the station. Just moved with purpose, like this was routine. Like this place belonged to him.

I didn’t ask where we were going.

Not yet.

But something in my chest curled tighter with every step.

He picked this place for a reason.
Not just for the quiet. Not for the space.
I just haven’t figured out why — and that’s what bothers me.

The trail wound higher, narrowing with every step.

Dirt turned to stone. Roots twisted up from the ground like veins, slick with moss and broken time. Every few meters, the ground shifted — loose stones, tangled roots, patches of earth half-eaten by time.

He didn’t slow down.

Bakugou walked ahead, shoulders square, gaze locked forward like his body already knew where to go. His pace was steady — not rushed, not careless. Just focused. Like this wasn’t a hike, but a route he’d already memorized.

A mission. Not a walk.

I followed in silence.

My breathing was calm. Steps light. I wasn’t struggling to keep up — not physically.

But inside, my thoughts narrowed. Sharpened.

He wasn’t dragging me anywhere.

He was guiding me.

Like this trail had a purpose. Like I hadn’t earned the destination yet.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t glance back. Just kept moving with that clipped, precise rhythm — every step saying something he wouldn’t.

And that scent again — heat and caramel, sharp and restless. But cleaner now. Shampoo still clinging faint around the edges. Burnt sugar in the air.

He showered… for this?

I didn’t ask where we were going.

Not yet.

I wanted to see where he stopped.

Wanted to see what it looked like when he finally turned around — and faced me.

The trail opened without warning.

One step, and the trees thinned into a clearing — wide, sun-cut, wind-touched. At its center: the bones of something ancient. A shrine maybe. Or a lookout point, long collapsed. Stone slabs jutted out of the ground like broken teeth. Moss crept up their edges. The dirt had sunken in around the foundations, swallowing time one cracked tile at a time.

It wasn’t a battlefield. But it felt like one.

I stopped at the edge, jacket tugged by a passing gust. Wind hissed low through the trees, like it knew what was coming.

Bakugou kept walking.

Four more steps into the ruins — then he halted. No hesitation. Like he knew exactly where to stop.

And then he turned.

Just like that — the whole air changed.

No smirk. No sneer. Just a look like he’d been thinking about this longer than I knew. Like this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment detour. This was planned. Chosen.

And that scent hit me hard — heat, smoke, that burnt sugar edge laced with clean skin and citrus shampoo. Fresh. Sharp.

He really did shower for this.

Something twisted in my chest. Tight. Primal.

He hadn’t brought me here to talk.

He’d brought me here to see what I’d do.

His voice cut through the air — low, even. No bite. Just steel-wrapped truth.

“No signal. No people. No crowd,” he said. His voice didn’t rise — it didn’t need to. The way it carried in the clearing, low and grounded, made the words land heavier. “No one watching. No one judging.”

The wind cut through the ruin again. Cold and sharp. It tugged at my jacket like it was trying to pull me back.

“You don’t have to hold it in out here.”

I didn’t answer. My hands flexed at my sides, fingers curling once, then settling. A flicker of tension in my spine.

He’s been watching me.

Just like I’ve been watching him.

Only difference is… he’s saying it out loud.

“What do you mean?” I asked. My voice came out steady, but it didn’t feel steady. Panic pressed tight behind my ribs — coiled, warning.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tilt his head. Just stared at me, like I was a question he already knew the answer to.

“What are you so afraid of?”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit like a shot to the gut. No anger. No mockery. Just a strike straight through.

I squared my shoulders out of habit — defensive, automatic.

“I told you,” I said, sharper now. “I don’t want to lose control. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He stepped forward. One slow, deliberate pace — not threatening, but unrelenting. Like gravity. Like he wouldn’t stop unless I made him.

“That’s not it.”

There was no hesitation in his voice — just razor certainty.

“You’re not afraid of losing control. You’re afraid of what’s underneath it.”

Another step. His eyes locked on mine, the scowl fading into something colder. Focused. Surgical.

“What happens when the leash snaps. When you stop holding back. When you stop pretending you don’t care.”

The air thinned around us.

“That’s what’s got you scared shitless.”

I didn’t move. My eyes narrowed, but not in confusion. Defense. The kind that cuts deeper the closer it hits.

“You don’t know anything about me.” My voice had bite now — not loud, but precise. Measured. “You think just because you glare at me in class, you’ve got me figured out?”

He let out a laugh — short and sharp, like flint on stone. The kind of sound that didn’t carry humor, only heat.

“I’ve been watching you since day one.”

His voice rose — not yelling, but fierce. Tight with something he hadn’t been able to say until now.

“Didn’t know what the hell it was at first — just something off about the way you move. The way you hold back. Always holding back.”

His shoulders were squared, posture hard as concrete. Like he was holding himself back now, too — but not out of fear.

“But after USJ? That’s when I got it.”

He pointed slightly, not quite gesturing — more like accusing the space between us.

“You’re scared of it.”

The words sliced through the space.

“Not of hurting people. Not of losing your shit.”

He stepped in again — not close enough to crowd me, but just enough to fill the silence with presence.

“You’re scared of yourself.”

I felt it before I reacted — a flicker of something across my face, a breath I didn’t mean to catch.

He saw it.

And that was blood in the water.

“That’s not strength,” he said. The words low and sharp like a blade being drawn. “That’s fear.”

His voice was steadier now — like the deeper he cut, the clearer he saw.

“You keep that quirk caged like it’s something separate from you. Like it’s gonna take over if you breathe too deep.”

“You don’t use it. You suppress it.”

“You’ve built your whole life around not being what you are.”

My pulse hit harder — not faster, just louder. Like it was trying to push something out of me I wasn’t ready to face.

He took one more step, his shadow brushing mine. His voice dropped — but it didn’t soften.

“You wanna talk about control? Fine.”

“But don’t pretend you’ve got it mastered just ‘cause you’ve got a straight face.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine, not for a second.

“Control isn’t about chaining yourself down until you snap. It’s about owning every fucking part of you — even the shit that scares you.”

Then, quieter — low and brutal, with no smirk behind it. Just a truth he was daring me to deny.

“So go ahead.”

“Tell me again how you’re not afraid.”

I took a step back.

Didn’t stumble. Didn’t flinch. But something in me curled inward like a fist. Tight. Wound. Threatening to break skin.

He wasn’t wrong.

And that was the problem.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you.” My voice came out quiet, but firm — like a door closing.

I turned.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

Because his voice exploded behind me like a live wire.

“You can’t run from it forever, damn it!”

The fury in it cracked across the clearing.

“You think ignoring it makes it go away? It just makes you weak!”

The ground trembled — a blast detonating behind me. Gravel kicked up like shrapnel, and I spun just in time to see him flying straight at me, palms lit, eyes sharp.

I moved. Fast.

Ducked under the first swing, the blast grazing where my shoulder had been.

He wasn’t aiming to kill.

He was aiming to corner.

“Stop holding back!” he roared, another blast lighting the air as I dodged left. “Fight me, damn it!”

“Show me what’s under all that control!”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t rise to it. My body did what it knew — evade, deflect, retreat.

No claws. No shift. Not yet.

But he kept coming. Each blast tighter. Closer. Designed to press. To crowd. To force a reaction.

Then he faked.

A sharp feint to the side — right hand cocked like he’d go wide.

But the real hit came straight on.

He surged forward, caught me mid-shift, and slammed me down.

My back hit the earth hard, dust erupting around us like smoke. His palm was on my shoulder, the other crushing my wrist into the dirt.

His face hovered just above mine — breath heaving, scowl carved into fire and grit.

“What are you so fucking scared of?” he growled, voice hoarse with effort.

I didn’t answer.

Just glared up at him — breath ragged, pulse wild — and let it slip.

The control.

The fear.

My pupils snapped into slits.

The wind shifted.

I felt my body coil — not to run.

To strike.

His eyes locked on mine. And that grin — that feral, sharp-edged grin — spread slow across his face.

“There she is,” he breathed.

The moment he pushed off me, I moved.

No thought. No breath. Just instinct snapping like a trigger.

I twisted up and around in one fluid motion, shadows rippling beneath me as my nails elongated — sleek, black, glinting like obsidian in the early light.

I slashed.

Not to maim.

To hit. To prove.

“You wanted it?” My voice cracked sharp through the clearing. “Fine. Let’s see if you can take it.”

Bakugou barely dodged — his body twisting mid-blast, dust kicking up behind him. His eyes widened for a split second — then he grinned.

Wide. Wild. Proud.

That grin. The one that meant you’d just become his favorite opponent.

“That’s more like it, Scales!” he yelled, palms sparking as he launched forward again.

I didn’t wait.

I met him head-on.

We collided in a blur — claws against detonation, grit against grit.

My pupils were slitted, breath coming fast, sharper than before. Even my teeth felt wrong — lengthened, on the edge of a shift.

I raked his arm — not deep, but enough to make him feel it.

He blasted me sideways — a concussive hit to the ribs, sharp and deliberate. Not enough to burn, but enough to throw me off-balance.

I staggered — two steps, three — and he was already closing the gap, relentless.

Then he slammed into me, shoulder first, and the momentum cracked through both of us.

We hit the dirt in a tangle — hard, messy, limbs locked and breath knocked out.

Rolled once, twice. Gravel scraped skin. Air tore past.

He pushed up, I twisted under — both of us lunging for footing, refusing to give ground.

Up again. Closer. Rougher.

No words now — just instinct and adrenaline.

No space for hesitation.

We barely got upright before he came at me again — fast, direct, like he meant to drive through me.

But his angle was off — too aggressive, too soon.

I saw the opening and took it.

Dropped low, twisted beneath his swing, and slammed my elbow into his side — just enough to knock him off-center.

Then I swept his leg out from under him, caught his wrist mid-fall, and turned his momentum against him.

He hit the ground hard.

I followed — knee to his ribs, wrist pinned to the earth, my free hand fisted in his collar.

Pinned him.

Locked. Breathless. Burning.

I leaned in — voice low, breath hot.

“You don’t get to pull me apart and walk away.”

His chest heaved under mine. That grin never left his face.

“Not planning to.”

The final hit never landed. We just hit the edge of ourselves instead — too breathless, too bruised, too human to keep going.

We dropped — side by side — into the dirt, limbs tangled, chests heaving. Sweat stuck our shirts to our skin. Dust clung to everything.

The wind cut through the clearing like a blade, tugging at broken leaves and swirling grit. Stone ruins loomed around us, sharp and ancient — watching.

And then—

I laughed.

It came up from somewhere deep — tight, rasped, and real. At first just a breath, then a sudden bark, sharp and raw.

And then I couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t polite. It was too loud, a little cracked. But it was real — the first sound I’d made in weeks that wasn’t caged.

I curled one arm over my eyes, still laughing as my lungs tried to catch up. Dirt pressed into my back. My side ached. My heartbeat wouldn’t slow.

To my left, I heard him shift.

Bakugou turned his head toward me, propping himself on one elbow, dirt smeared across his jaw.

He stared.

Eyes narrow. Scowl still glued in place. But there was something else under it now — something unreadable. Almost… confused.

His voice came out low, rough from yelling, but not angry this time. Just tired. Tense. Still catching his breath.

“The hell are you laughing at?”

I dropped my arm, still grinning, even if it hurt.

Turned my head toward him.

“This.”
I let the grin hang there. Sharp, wild. Unapologetic.
“You starting a forest brawl just to poke the monster.””
“It’s insane.”
I paused. Let the air settle.

“And it’s the most fun I’ve had since I got to UA.”

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

Didn’t speak.

Just kept watching me like I’d flipped upside down and started speaking a language he didn’t know.

His brow twitched. His mouth opened — then closed again, like he was choosing.

Finally, he looked away. Just enough to break the moment.

Ran a hand back through his hair, left dust in the strands.

Then he muttered, voice gruff, almost reluctant:

“…You’re even weirder when you smile.”

We were halfway down the mountain when my phone buzzed to life in my pocket.
One ping. Then two. Then a full-on avalanche.

A moment passed before I pulled it out. The screen lit up like a goddamn emergency beacon.

1 New Notification.
2.
6.
11.

I didn’t even unlock it — the lockscreen was already drowning.

I didn’t even unlock it — the lockscreen was already drowning.

Aizawa:
Status.
Report.
You have five minutes before I call the police.

Present Mic:
YO SLEEPING BEAUTY YOU ALIVE??

Aizawa:
I will initiate a search if you do not reply in the next sixty seconds.

Present Mic:
I’VE GOT SNACKS FOR THE RESCUE MISSION!!

I stopped walking. Just stood there for a second, staring at it.
Then exhaled through my nose.

Of course.

I’d forgotten to check in.
Aizawa told me to keep in touch. And I didn’t.
Too busy getting thrown around by Bakugou and throwing him right back.

For hours.

The weight of it settled — not panic. Not guilt.
Just a cold pinch of realization behind my ribs.

I should’ve known better.

The call came in next — a standard ring, cutting clean through the rural silence.
No fancy ringtone. Just one word across the top of the screen:

“Dadzawa.”

I tapped accept and lifted the phone — and immediately yanked it away from my ear as Present Mic’s voice exploded through the speaker.

“—I TOLD YOU SHE’S FINE, SHOUTA, SHE’S JUST GHOSTING YOU—”

I winced, holding the phone at arm’s length.

“Still alive,” I said dryly, voice sharp in the quiet. “Nobody’s dead. Just no reception.”

There was a pause — not silent, exactly. I could still hear Present Mic ranting in the background — something about flare guns and heroic speeches. But then Aizawa’s voice cut through, calm but edged.

“You disappeared for hours.”
“That’s a problem.”

“Noted,” I muttered. “We were in the mountains. Training. Off-grid.”

Present Mic again, still dramatic as hell even with distance between us:
“I WAS MIDWAY THROUGH MY HEROIC RESCUE MONOLOGUE—DON’T DO THIS TO ME!”

“Come back. Now.” Aizawa’s voice again — flat. Final.

I hung up.

Slipped the phone back into my pocket. Kept walking.

Beside me, Bakugou slowed. He didn’t say anything right away.

Just stared at the trail, then turned that scowl on me — narrowed, calculating.

“Was that… Present Mic?”

“Yeah.”

“And Aizawa?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. The look on my face said enough.

He blinked. Brow furrowed deeper.

“Why the fuck do you have Aizawa’s number?”
“Why the hell is Mic yelling like you’re his niece?”
“What kind of search party were they about to—”

“He’s my caretaker,” I said — quiet, even. Like tossing a stone into still water.

And Bakugou stopped. Completely. Like I’d knocked the air out of him.

One foot still raised, mid-step — frozen, caught between motion and shock. His brow twitched. His jaw didn’t drop — Bakugou doesn’t do dropped jaws — but his whole face locked like a system crash.

“…What the fuck.”

No bark. No snap. Just honest disbelief, low and confused. Like he’d looked into the wrong end of a grenade.

He blinked once. Processing.

I shrugged.

Turned away.

Kept walking.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back.

Behind me, I heard him fall into step again — a beat too late. His footsteps heavier now. Like the ground under him had shifted.

Then, muttered under his breath:

“The hell is with this girl…”

Chapter Text

Coffee with Aizawa and Present Mic had become routine.

Not that anyone ever said it out loud. It just happened — the three of us sitting in silence like a half-functional family, mugs in hand, sunlight creeping through the blinds like it was trying not to wake the place up.

No one said anything when I walked into the living room.

The couch groaned under Present Mic as he flopped into it, legs kicked up like he paid rent here.

He’d brewed something loud and overly complicated — cinnamon, foam, maybe a hint of chaos. Mine was plain with a dash of milk. Aizawa’s was black. Some things didn’t need sugar.

I took my usual spot on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled up, fingers curled around the warmth of my mug.

Present Mic stretched out somewhere behind me, probably hogging two cushions minimum.

At one point, his arm reached casually over my shoulder to grab his cup from the table, fingers brushing past me like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I didn’t flinch.

Just leaned slightly out of his way and kept sipping.

The light through the blinds was soft and sleepy, casting stripes across the table. For a few minutes, none of us said anything.

Then, without warning, Aizawa — still bandaged and half-slouched in a chair — spoke.
“Do you still want me to bring it up?”

I blinked at him. “Bring what up?”

“The Sports Festival. Your withdrawal.”

Before I could get the chance to answer, Present Mic shot upright so fast his coffee sloshed.

“Wait—what?! You’re not doing the Sports Festival? Since when? Kid, that’s huge! You gotta go! That’s the whole thing! You step in, make your mark, boom—scouts, spotlight, bam—recognition—”

“Hizashi,” Aizawa cut in, voice flat. “Shut up.”

Silence dropped. Not awkward. Just familiar.

I waited a moment for the air to still, then answered calmly. “Yes. I still want you to ask.”

A pause. I took a sip of my coffee. “Why?”

Present Mic leaned forward behind me, voice softer now, a little steadier.
“Because it matters. You think it’s just a show, but it’s not. You go out there and you don’t just prove something to everyone else. You prove it to yourself. That you’re more than what they said. That you’re not what they made you into.”

That one hit something low in my chest
— I didn’t show it.

But Aizawa didn’t let it hang and cut in before it could land too deep.

“I thought you might’ve changed your mind after yesterday.”

I glanced at him. “Because I trained with Bakugou?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His expression hadn’t shifted, but I knew that kind of silence — the kind that waits for you to do the math yourself.

I looked back down at my coffee. The heat wasn’t helping.

Sure, I’d trained with Bakugou. And sure, it hadn’t ended in disaster. But that wasn’t control. That was isolation. One person, no audience, no pressure. Just instinct and terrain. I didn’t trust what happened on that mountain. I barely trusted what happened inside my own skull.

“Just because I trained with Bakugou once,” I said quietly, “doesn’t mean I have enough control over my quirk to contain it in front of thousands of people.”

They didn’t argue.

They just looked at each other — one glance, not even a full second long.

But I caught it.

Aizawa’s posture stayed the same, arms folded loosely, face like stone. But there was a shift behind his eyes — subtle, calculated, the kind of stillness that always came right before he said something inconvenient.
Present Mic was easier to read. His grin didn’t waver, but his scent sharpened. Something electric threaded into the caffeine and citrus — mischief, satisfaction, anticipation.

I frowned into my mug.

That wasn’t just a glance.
That was coordination — the kind that only exists between people who’ve known each other for years. People who didn’t need to speak out loud to be understood.

Whatever this was… it had already been discussed.

Aizawa finally spoke, tone even. “We’ll bring it up at the meeting.”

Too easy. Too smooth. My spine prickled.
I heard the unspoken “but” hanging in the air like a hook.

Present Mic leaned forward, all casual brightness. “On one condition.”

There it was. The trapdoor opening under the calm.

They were setting me up.

I looked at them both — eyes flat, tone flatter. “Of course.”

Aizawa shifted then, only slightly, but enough. He folded his arms like a verdict.

“You train,” he said. “No slacking. No excuses.”

I caught the change in his scent, too — something grounded and clipped. The scent of a line being drawn.

Present Mic picked up right after, voice lighter but no less serious underneath.
“You’ve got two weekends,” he said, still smiling like this was a game show. “Plus all in-class hero training. You give it everything. No half-efforts. Then, the day before the Festival, we call for an evaluation.”

His foot tapped once against the floor behind me, bouncing. His scent said he was enjoying this — like he already saw me agreeing.
“If it’s not safe,” he added, “you’re out. But until then? You work.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Instead, I studied both of them. The way Aizawa didn’t blink. The way Present Mic’s knee still bounced behind me, radiating a kind of chaotic encouragement. I listened to their breathing, their stillness. Their confidence.

This wasn’t an offer. This was a corner.

I blinked once, slow. “…Seriously?”

Aizawa’s reply was instant. “Yes.”

“Seriously!!!” Present Mic echoed at the same time, too loud, too fast, cheerful as ever — like this wasn’t the first time they’d tag-teamed people into submission. They probably pulled the same stunt enough times for it to be second nature.

I stared at them — unimpressed — like they’d just handed me a shovel and pointed at my own grave.

I lifted the mug, took a sip of coffee I no longer wanted and let it burn on the way down.

Perfect. Just perfect.

A sleep-deprived executioner and caffeine personified — what a team.

They weren’t asking. That much was obvious.
So I didn’t answer. I nodded. Or maybe I didn’t.

It didn’t matter. The walls were already closing in — let the silence cover the fact that I’d already lost.

Two weeks. No mistakes. No excuses.
Right. Easy.
Not like I’ve ever spiraled before.

That’s how I ended up in the classroom, staring down at my notebook and questioning every life decision that brought me here.

I’d written a paragraph. Maybe two. No idea what they said.

The words blurred at the edges. Notes I didn’t remember taking. Instructions I didn’t fully hear. Around me, the classroom buzzed — voices rising and falling between classes, most of them about the Sports Festival.

Hype. Strategy. Ego.

The occasional sideways glance at me.

I stayed still, pen in hand, like pretending to concentrate might make the thoughts shut up. It didn’t.

I wasn’t in the classroom. Not really.

My mind was still stuck in that apartment — still stuck on that conversation — that morning ambush dressed up in caffeine and quiet.

They hadn’t asked. They’d maneuvered.

A deal wrapped in routine. A condition slid into the steam of my cup.
And I’d nodded — or maybe I hadn’t. Either way, it counted.

Two weeks. No mistakes.
Train. Perform. Don’t slip. Don’t lose control.
Or else.

The words hadn’t been sharp, but the shape of them still cut. Soft pressure dressed up as support.

And the worst part?
They didn’t say it to be cruel. They said it like they believed I could do it — that I wouldn’t fall apart in front of a stadium full of strangers.

I hadn’t agreed so much as been herded. And now I had to talk to Aizawa again at lunch — just to find out how bad it really was.

My fingers tapped twice against the edge of the desk. Just once. Just to ground myself.

It didn’t help.

And Bakugou was watching me.

I didn’t need to look to know it. I felt it — like heat. Static. Pressure.
The same weight as always, but this time… different.

His expression didn’t change. Still that permanent scowl, jaw tight, arms crossed like he might explode if someone breathed wrong.

But the way he shifted in his seat — the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly against the desk — it wasn’t boredom.
It wasn’t restlessness.

It was focus.

A predator narrowing in on movement.

And then his scent hit me. Late, but sharp — like it had been waiting for me to notice.
Still caramel with a hint of smoke.

But underneath that—
Something new. Something worse.
Something I hadn’t smelled on him before. Not once in the last two weeks.

Curiosity.

Not passive. Not harmless.
This wasn’t the scent of someone casually wondering what my deal was.

It was pointed. Deliberate.
Like pressure on a bruise — slow, patient, impossible to ignore.

Sharpened by suspicion.
Edged with calculation.

It wrapped around me like smoke under a door — quiet, searching, impossible to keep out.

He wasn’t just watching anymore.
He was tracking.
Focused. Intent.

An itch to know more.

And the worst part?

It didn’t smell manipulative. Or cruel.
It smelled honest. Direct. Real.

He wanted to understand.

And that made it worse.

Because people didn’t try to understand things they were willing to leave alone.

Something cold curled low in my chest.

He knew.

Maybe not the details. Maybe not the why. But he’d latched onto something I hadn’t offered — hadn’t meant to offer — and was holding it in his teeth like prey that hadn’t stopped twitching yet.

I hadn’t told him anything.

But he had enough to look.

And that wasn’t just information.
That was leverage.

Especially from someone who’d already marked me a rival — a challenge.

He’d stepped over a boundary I hadn’t drawn, but still expected to be respected.

A line he crossed without asking. The kind of line that separated watching from knowing.
And the moment someone started to know me?

That was when it stopped being safe.
Because now?
Now I was exposed.
Like a perimeter breached without warning — not loud, not violent. Just silent. Precise.
A quiet pressure building behind my ribs.

I sat straighter, jaw tightening. The back of my neck prickled.

It wasn’t panic. Not exactly.
But it lived in the same house.
A gnawing awareness. A dull ache of distrust. The shifting feeling of something slipping out of my hands just out of reach — slow and inevitable.

I started cataloging the new data with what he already knew.

My instincts. My silence. My reactions. My lack of control.

And now — the most recent addition:

He knows Aizawa is my caretaker.

The thought sliced clean through the noise. Not a scream, not even a whisper — just a weight dropping in my chest, undeniable and sharp.

Not fear. Not yet. But something close to it.
Something gnawing and cold, pressing right behind my teeth.

Not a secret I meant to give.
And not one I could take back.

And if he already had that much… what else was he going to dig out next?
What else was he trying to find?

Before my thoughts could spiral any further, the lunch bell rang.

Sharp. Inevitable.

I blinked down at my notebook like it had betrayed me — half a page of mindless scribbles, zero retention.

I closed it.

“Coming to lunch?” Mina leaned across her desk, already halfway standing. Her tone was bright, casual — but I caught the flicker of concern behind it.

I stood, gathering my things with practiced ease. No rush, no delay — just enough movement to signal I was leaving.

“Go on. I’ll join you later.” I said simply, already sliding my notebook into my bag.

No one needed to know where I was going.

Not again.

I didn’t offer more than that. She didn’t ask.

Mina pouted, one hand on her hip. “Hurry up then, babes. The sooner you go, the faster you can come back.”

I stared at her.
Babes?

Before I could even process the sudden shift to nicknames, Mina spun me by the shoulders, steering me toward the classroom door like I’d just been volunteered.

“Go go go,” she sang. “We’ll save you a seat!”

Behind us, the Bakusquad gathered — Kirishima, Sero, Kaminari — all loud, all laughing, all effortless. I didn’t look back.

But I could feel it.
Bakugou’s eyes.

Locked on me like a loaded trigger.
Not just watching — assessing. Burning like a match held too close to dry skin.

Heavy. Constant. Pressing against the back of my neck like a warning I couldn’t shake.

I didn’t acknowledge it.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t meet it. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Just kept walking, steady and uninterested — like I hadn’t felt it at all.

But I had.

And that heat was still crawling up my spine.

In the hallway, we split off. They turned toward the cafeteria. I turned toward the teacher’s office.

I walked normally. Casual pace. No rush. Just a girl going to ask her homeroom teacher a question.

But the weight in my gut didn’t shift.

It stayed there — low, dense, like a storm building under my ribs.

And then came the pressure.

Subtle at first. Just a prickling at the back of my neck.
Like a breath I hadn’t heard. Like heat I hadn’t invited.

Someone was following me.

Not by sound — there were no footsteps, no scuff of shoes, no echo down the hallway.
Just a presence. Close. Careful. Deliberate.

I inhaled once, slowly.

Burned sugar.

I didn’t have to turn around.

Of course.

A breath pushed out of me, quiet and tight. Half a sigh, half a curse.

Should’ve known he wouldn’t stay in his lane. Some part of me expected this. The louder part hoped I was wrong.

Bakugou didn’t do distance.
Didn’t do patience.

And he wasn’t walking behind me — he was tracking.
Like he thought I wouldn’t notice if he stayed quiet enough.
Like I didn’t know how to smell a fuse before it lit.

He kept his distance. Just far enough to avoid my peripheral vision.
But his scent moved with me, constant and steady — curling through the air like smoke through a crack.

Close. Watching. Waiting.

By the time I reached the teacher’s office, my pulse had settled somewhere in my throat.

The hallway was too quiet. The air too still.

And his scent hadn’t faded.

Burned sugar. Smoke. Pressure.

Not charging in. Not close enough to confront.

But still there — pacing me, like a presence I couldn’t shake.
Like a shadow I hadn’t cast.

I didn’t look. I didn’t need to.

He was behind me.
Around the corner.
Not close enough to speak.
But close enough to hear everything.

He wouldn’t interrupt — not with Aizawa there. But that wasn’t the point.

He was listening.

That knowledge — his presence at my back, the memory of his stare in the classroom, the weight of everything I hadn’t said — all of it stacked in my chest like bricks.

I was about to knock on a door that could decide the rest of my time at U.A.

And I had an audience.

Uninvited. Silent. Too close.

I exhaled slowly, then knocked twice — sharp, measured, like I could still pretend I had control over something today.

From inside, I caught the shift — quiet footsteps, a subtle change in scent.
Familiar. Low-energy. Steady.
Aizawa.

I hadn’t expected him to be awake.
Last time, Present Mic had opened the door and called him out — Aizawa groaning from somewhere inside, half-asleep, barely audible.

But this time?

The footsteps came closer.
Intentional. No hesitation.

His scent sharpened behind the barrier — still calm, still muted, but present. Alert.

He was already on his feet.

Still bandaged. Still too pale. But upright. Moving like he had something to finish before he let himself fall apart.

The door opened. No warning. No buildup.

And there he was — not slouched on the couch, not draped in a blanket like a man playing dead.
Standing. Awake. Present.

He looked at me like I was late — didn’t even blink.

“Deal’s made.” he said, voice flat and final.
Then, as if that settled everything:

“Don’t knock again. I’m not answering twice.”

And just like that, the door closed again.

Sharp. Decisive. No pause. No room for response. Just like that.

I stared at the wood for a beat, unmoving. Blinking once.
Stared at the door like maybe it would open again and let me speak this time. It didn’t.

Didn’t even pause to let me talk to him properly.

A breath slipped through my nose — not quite a sigh, not quite anything.
Just air escaping through clenched control.

Classic Aizawa. Sleep-deprived, to-the-point, and somehow always one step ahead.

Still… it was enough.
A wordless answer I could carry like proof.

Deal.

He hadn’t said too much. Just enough.
Didn’t hand anything over. Didn’t expose anything.
Didn’t say “yes, she asked for exemption,” or “we talked this morning.”

That one word told me enough to confirm what I needed — they’d agreed to the terms — and vague enough that the person standing just around the corner wouldn’t be able to parse any of it.

Because that was the next problem.

The scent still behind me — just out of sight.
Unmoving.
Too quiet.
Too close.

Bakugou.

I stepped away from the door, turning slowly. The hallway behind me was still empty — visually, at least.

But I could feel it.

The scent hadn’t moved.
Still there. Still trailing me. Still just around the corner.

I walked toward it — silently, no sound from my steps, no shift in the air that might give me away.
It was instinct. Precision. Control.

Predator, not prey.

The moment I rounded the corner, I saw him — just where I knew he’d be.

Leaning casually against the wall like he hadn’t been eavesdropping, like he hadn’t followed me from the classroom with the subtlety of a fuse about to blow.

I stopped a pace away, tilted my head slightly, and said — calm, flat:

“Why are you following me?”

He jolted. Just slightly.

The flicker of shock that snapped through him — shoulders stiffening, chin lifting, eyes widening a fraction before he forced them back into that usual glare.

He recovered fast. Anyone else might’ve missed it.

But I caught it.

The way his body tensed for a breath — the realization that I’d gotten the drop on him.
Like a shadow crossing overhead. Quiet. Unseen.

No fear in his scent.

But surprise?

Definitely. Sharp and fleeting — like static crackling off a live wire. It hit fast, snapped through him, then vanished beneath sheer force of will.

He masked it well.
Better than most.

But not well enough.

He scoffed like the sound could cover the pause. His voice came rough, clipped, defensive:
“Wasn’t.”

Just that. A flat, useless denial.
Classic Bakugou.

I raised a brow — not buying it, not even pretending to. “Right.”

A beat. Then, deadpan — but with a flicker of dry amusement I didn’t bother hiding — curled behind the words:
“You forgot I can smell you.”

That did it.

The pink rose up immediately — just at the tips of his ears, betraying what his mouth hadn’t.

And his scent?
It twisted.

Still smoke, still scorched sugar, but now laced with something new — heat, frustration, a flash of embarrassment burning underneath the surface.

Not shame. Bakugou didn’t do shame.

But the sharp irritation of being caught off-guard?

That, he carried like flint behind his teeth.

He barked back a second later — too loud for the hallway, too sharp for the moment:

“Shut your fucking trap, Scales!”

There it was. The snapback.

Not just volume — volume as a weapon.

Louder than necessary. Meaner than it needed to be.
A smoke bomb meant to cover the crack I’d just exposed.

The space between us hummed with heat now — not just from his voice, but from the way he was trying to reassert control.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t snap back. Didn’t even blink.

Just looked up at him — expression flat, unimpressed — and waited.

Let him burn a little in it.

Let him realize noise wouldn’t drown out the fact that I’d seen him slip.

He moved before I saw it coming.

A sudden, explosive step — and his hand slammed against my shoulder, shoving me hard into the wall.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to make sure I knew I wasn’t walking away.

My spine hit the concrete with a dull thud, and a second later, he was there — Close.
Too close.

One hand slammed against the wall beside my head. The other hung at his side, clenched tight, sparks licking at his knuckles like they were tasting the air.

He’d never cornered me before.
Not like this.

Not with his whole body.
Not with this much heat.

He wasn’t leaving room for negotiation.
Not even air.

He didn’t just close the space —
He took it.

Not because he had to.
Because he couldn’t stand not knowing.

Heat rolled off him — smoke, fire, frustration wrapped tight in a body that didn’t understand restraint.

His eyes were molten, locked onto mine — heat and fury barely contained.

The hallway, the walls, the light — it all narrowed.
Boiled down to fire, pressure, and him.

Close. Caging. Unyielding.

But I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t give him the movement he wanted.

I stared up at him in silence — calculated, cold — measuring the distance, the burn, the tremor in his jaw that told me he was closer to losing control than he wanted to admit.

His voice dropped — low, tight, and dangerous.
Like every word was being held back by sheer force of will.
Like if he didn’t choke it down, it would come out as a roar.

Then he spoke —
each syllable shaped more by tension than thought.

“Why were you talking to your ‘caretaker’ again?”

Each word hit like shrapnel.
Accusation, not curiosity.

“What’s that about, huh?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t move.

His hand curled tighter against the wall.

“You really think I wouldn’t catch that? What ‘deal,’ Scales?”

His voice climbed, slowly but steadily — heat building, fire pressing against my skin.

His jaw flexed. His breath hissed out.

“You zone out all morning, sneak off during lunch—what the hell are you hiding?”

Still, I said nothing.

“You wall up the second someone starts asking real questions.”
“Doesn’t matter what it is — you act like it’s classified.”
“You think shutting down makes you untouchable?”

Then, quieter — no less sharp:

“You hide everything like it’s a damn mission file. Don’t expect me to sit quiet about it.”

The hallway pulsed with heat. The space between us was thick with it — sweat, smoke, and unsaid things.

My pulse didn’t spike. My eyes didn’t narrow.
But my fingers curled in response — slow, restrained.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Then I pushed my palm flat against his chest — deliberate, steady.

I looked up, meeting his stare. My pupils narrowed to slits. Warning.

“You always get this close when you can’t wring it out of someone?”

His eyes flared — wide, wild, furious. Not surprise. Just fire.

The kind that didn’t wait. Didn’t ask. Just burned.

I didn’t flinch.

There was no room to back off — not with the wall behind me, and him blazing in front of me like a lit fuse.

So I pushed forward. Leaned in — just enough to make it clear.

“That your thing, Bakugou?” I said, voice cool. “Push until someone flinches?”

“Newsflash — it won’t work on me.”

My hand stayed firm on his chest, heat rolling beneath it like pressure in a pipe.

“You think standing close is going to rattle something loose?”

My voice dropped — cold, steady, sharpened like a blade drawn slow.

“Try again.”

He said nothing.

Neither did I.

The air between us was tight — face to face, breath scraping breath.

He radiated heat. I didn’t give an inch.
The space between us was gone. In its place: pressure. Dense. Pressing. Unavoidable.

I didn’t blink.
Didn’t soften.

His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed — that same crimson heat I’d come to recognize flashing like firelight behind his scowl.

I looked up at him — calm, unbothered.

Let him feel the full weight of my stillness.

I wanted the next words to land exactly where they’d hurt most.

Not loud. Just lethal.

“Back off, Katsuki.”

The silence that followed wasn’t still.

It was ticking.

Like something waiting to blow.

Like I’d just pulled the pin and left it in his hands.

“What the hell did you just say to me?”

The space between us was gone. In its place: pressure. Dense. Pressing. Unavoidable.

Sparks burst from his palms.

“You don’t call me that!”

His fist slammed into the wall beside my head — a sharp, controlled crack of heat and warning — like he needed somewhere to put the rest of his fury.

“You don’t get to use my name!”

I’d touched something sacred.
I hadn’t earned it.
I’d used it anyway.

And that? That was unforgivable.

His fists clenched, his shoulders drawn back like he was holding himself together with nothing but will.

“That’s not yours to say, Scales!”

Smoke and sugar, scorched to the edge.
Nothing soft. Nothing unsure. Just rage, burning clean through.

“You think you can say my name like we’re close?”
“Like you’ve earned that shit?”

His posture shifted — not intimidation now, just pure offense.

It was war.

“You don’t know me.”
“You don’t get to act like you do.”
“Don’t say that again.”

His teeth bared like a warning. Like if I pushed, he’d stop holding back.

I didn’t flinch.

Let the fire crawl across my skin. Let the smoke settle in my throat.

Then I spoke — cold, even, quiet enough to kill.

“Yeah?”
“Well, you don’t know me either.”

His mouth opened, but I didn’t wait.

“And stalking me down the hallway because you can’t squeeze answers out of me—”
“—doesn’t mean you get to decide what comes out of my mouth.”

He flinched — barely. But I felt it.

A twitch in his jaw. A flicker of hesitation behind the heat.
He wasn’t expecting to be seen through. Not like that.

“You throw nicknames like grenades every time you open your mouth.”
“But I use your actual name, and suddenly it’s a war crime?”

His jaw clenched hard. Sparks flared again.

I met his burning gaze with a cold, steady one.

“You can throw tantrums about it all you want.”
“I’m still not taking it back.”

The silence after that was brutal.
It was static. Pressurized.
A fuse still burning, slow and deliberate.

But I didn’t break it.

I just stared up at him — calm, unflinching — while the name I’d used still burned between us like a fuse waiting for someone to light it again.

He didn’t move.

Not at first.

The air between us stayed tight, tension strung so taut I could feel it vibrating against my skin. His jaw was locked, lips pressed into a razor-thin line. Eyes sharp, steady — that searing, bloody red locked on mine like a threat he hadn’t decided whether to voice or act on.

I didn’t drop my gaze.

Didn’t twitch. Didn’t breathe too deep.

Just stood there, spine straight, eyes slitted, pulse steady beneath the storm he was throwing at me.

He hated it.

I saw it in the flicker — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for an impact that never came. I didn’t need enhanced senses to feel that frustration. But I had them anyway — and what they gave me hit sharper than anything else.

His scent was thick in the air. Still scorched sugar and smoke — but layered now with something heavier. Less volatile. More controlled.

Burned sugar cooling. Steam rolling low across a battlefield, not a wildfire.

Still dangerous. Still alive.

But restrained.

He exhaled sharply through his nose — controlled, clipped. I watched the movement of his chest, the tight coil in his fists, the calculation behind the heat in his eyes.

Then — finally — he stepped back.

Just a little.

Half a step, if that. Enough to uncage me. Enough to breathe.

Not enough to defuse the tension.

His hands dropped to his sides, but they didn’t unclench. Sparks didn’t fly, but they were still there — quiet, resting under his skin like they were waiting to be called.

He didn’t leave.

Didn’t turn his back.

Didn’t even blink.

His voice came next — low, rough, grated out like it had to be sanded down just to get through his teeth.

“Fine. You got your space.”

A beat.

“But I’m not dropping this.”

His eyes stayed locked on mine — burning. Not like fire anymore, not chaotic. Controlled heat. A dare, a line drawn in flame.

He was watching me like I was going to bolt. Like if I so much as shifted wrong, he’d be on me again — not physically, maybe not even verbally, but still there, relentless in the way only Bakugou could be.

Then another pause. Long. Deliberate.

And he added, quieter — but no less intense:

“You owe me more than silence, Scales.”

He turned just slightly — enough to break eye contact, but not enough to walk away.

I watched him.

Carefully.

The set of his jaw. The lines of his back. The angle of his shoulders — still square, still high, still armed like he was expecting to be hit from behind.

He wasn’t retreating.

He was waiting.

For what, I wasn’t sure. An answer? An apology? An explosion?

None of those were coming.

I blinked up at him slowly, still standing where he’d cornered me, spine against concrete, pulse quiet in my throat.

Thinking. Calculating.

I didn’t know what he was really after. What part of me he was trying to reach, or expose, or drag out into the open.

But he wasn’t leaving.

And that mattered more than I wanted it to.

Not because I needed him to stay.

But because people like him didn’t stay unless they had a reason.

And that meant whatever he thought I was hiding — he wasn’t letting it go.

Not yet.

Not unless I gave him something.

And I wasn’t sure what I was willing to give.

Not yet.

He stayed rooted.

Didn’t leave.

Just stood there — silent, heat still rolling off him in quiet waves.

I watched him a moment longer. Let the silence stretch, thin and sharp between us.

Then I stepped forward — slow, measured — until I stood beside him.

Not past him. Not away.

Close enough that my voice didn’t have to rise.

I kept it low. Even. Barely more than a breath.

“You waiting for something?”

His jaw twitched.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t press.

Just let the quiet do the work.

“If you want something,” I said, voice flat, “ask.”

Then I looked straight ahead — not at him.

And waited.
He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move.

I felt the hesitation coil in him — a flicker of resistance winding the air tight. His pride itched to walk away. But something else held him there.
Instinct.

He shifted — just barely — and I caught it from the corner of my eye.

The war in his shoulders. In his jaw.

It only took a second for him to do exactly what he didn’t want to.

“You trained with me yesterday.”

His voice came out rough — tension curling behind every word. Tight in the throat, like he had to force it past teeth he’d rather keep clenched.
There was no softness in it. Just control. Just heat being funneled into shape before it could explode.

“You were fine. I saw it.”

I didn’t look at him. But I felt the heat of his stare against my cheek — burning, insistent, impossible to ignore.

“So don’t act like this came outta nowhere.”

He wasn’t softening. But his voice dropped a notch — not gentle, just more raw. More real.

“You held your ground. You didn’t hide. And now you’re running again.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t flinch.

But the words landed anyway — not loud, not cruel, just too close to the truth.

They settled beneath my skin like grit. Scraping. Irritating.

I kept my face still. Kept my breathing even.

Let the silence stretch between us, a sharp thread pulling tighter with every second.

Let it press against my ribs like weight I couldn’t shake.

I hated that he’d noticed.

Hated more that he wasn’t wrong.

He exhaled through his nose — sharp, frustrated — and I felt it brush past me like a warning.

“Say whatever you want.”

A shift. His weight moved. Jaw clenched.

“But don’t pretend yesterday didn’t happen.”
“You didn’t flinch. You fought like you meant it.”

A pause.
The air felt heavier now — wound tight between us, stretched like a wire.

His stare didn’t let up. If anything, it sharpened.

“I was there,” he said — low, pointed, like a blow he meant to land.

“I was the one fighting you.”

Another breath dragged between us — charged and waiting.

Then his voice snapped through the tension, harsher:

“So why the hell are you acting like it was nothing?”

My eyes didn’t leave the hallway ahead.
I focused on the end of it — on the empty stretch of wall that gave me nothing back.
Anywhere but him.

The heat of his stare still pressed against me — like a hand without weight, but impossible to ignore.

I stayed silent.

Tried to stay still.

But something had already shifted.
A splinter under the skin. A weight behind my ribs.

I didn’t want to say it.
Didn’t want to hear myself say it.
Not out loud. Not to him.

Because truth, once spoken, had teeth.

I swallowed once — quiet. Steady.
And when I finally spoke, my voice came cold. Flat.

But honest.

“Because if I let it mean something,” I said, “I start hoping it’ll last.”

Silence hit like a wave.

Not soft. Not still.
Just impact — sudden and final.

Clean. Brutal.

I didn’t blink.
But something in me leaned inward, like the quiet itself had claws.

I could feel it — the weight of my own words settling in the space between us, too loud in the absence of anything else.

A breath passed. Or maybe more.
I couldn’t tell.

There was something brittle in the stillness now.
Not a crack. Not yet.

But pressure.
Like the air between us had been pulled too tight to breathe.

And then —
He stepped forward.

Not fast. Not threatening.

Just enough to remind me he’d heard every syllable.
And he wasn’t about to let it slide past like it didn’t matter.

Not this time

“You really didn’t hear a damn word I said yesterday, did you?”

Nothing moved. Not my hands. Not my eyes. Just silence wrapped tight around my spine.

“You’re not scared of hurting someone,” he said, voice sharp, clipped, like he was carving truth into stone.

“You’re scared of yourself.”

He shifted, just slightly — jaw tight, hands still clenched.
His gaze stayed locked on mine. No heat this time. Just conviction.

“That’s why I brought you there. No eyes. No pressure.”

His voice dropped lower.

“Just you. Facing it.”

My eyes flicked — not much. Just enough for him to catch it.

A crack in the cold.

He saw it.

He didn’t move at first. Not really.
Just a breath. A recalibration.
Then he leaned in — not enough to cage, but enough to narrow the space.

Close. Focused. Intent.

His shoulders were rigid with restraint. Not aggression — not now. But something hotter.
Sharper.
Like he needed the words to land the way fists couldn’t.

His jaw ticked once — a flash of tension.
His voice dropped — low, rough, a controlled burn under every syllable:

“Stop running from what you are.”

My breath caught in my throat — not from fear. From recognition.
Because he meant it.
Because I felt it.

Then his eyes sharpened — something flaring hot behind them.

“And if you keep trying—”
He straightened just a fraction, breath heavier now, but steady.
“I’ll punch it into your skull one weekend at a time.”

Another silence.

It didn’t feel like stillness.
It felt like restraint — sharp and hot, stretched thin between us.

He didn’t blink.
Didn’t ease up.
Just held the moment like he was daring me to flinch again.

Then — finally — he stepped back.

Just one step.
Just enough for breath to move between us again.
Not enough to ease the tension.

His jaw clenched as he exhaled — sharp and quiet, like the pressure had to go somewhere or he’d ignite.

“Tch. Stupid fucking Scales.”
His voice was rough. But lower now. Less of a weapon, more of a shield.

A pause.

He didn’t look away.

“Fix your shit before the weekend.”

And then — he turned.

Shoved his hands into his pockets like the conversation had cost him more than he’d admit.
Like if he didn’t bury the sparks now, he’d leave scorch marks on the walls.

Not storming off.
Not exploding.

Just leaving me with the weight of it.

I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

Just stared after him.

My pulse was thunder in my ears — not from fear. Not from anger.

From impact.
Like something had cracked and didn’t know how to close again.

He hadn’t just pushed.
He’d seen.

And not just the surface — not the scowl, not the silence.

He’d looked past it.

And somewhere in that firepit of a stare, he wasn’t searching anymore.

He was waiting.

Because he’d already seen it.

Said it yesterday. Said it again just now.
And still — I hadn’t admitted it.

But he wasn’t backing down.

Not until I stopped pretending there was nothing to see.

I was still standing.
Still breathing.

But something inside me had shifted.

A fault line pulled too tight.
And now it wasn’t just about hiding.
Not anymore.

Because he was watching.

Really watching.

And that?
That was more dangerous than anything I was trying to outrun.

I knew what he wanted from me.
He’d already said it.
Twice.

To stop running.
To stop hiding.
To fight.

And he wasn’t walking away until I did.

He was getting too close—
and I was running out of ways to stop him.
The walls I’d built weren’t holding.

Not with him on the other side.

Chapter Text

Bakugou POV

The ceiling’s nothing but a white blur.

I’ve been staring at it for so long I’m starting to see shapes in the plaster — cracks that aren’t there, shadows that don’t move.

My body’s dead still, muscles tight under the sheets like coiled wires.

I should be asleep.
Hell, I need to be asleep.
But my brain won’t shut the fuck up.

It’s been like this all week.

A little more than one week until the damn Sports Festival — the one thing that should have every single one of my brain cells firing — and what the fuck am I doing? Lying here thinking about her.

Tch. Pathetic.

I grit my teeth and drag one hand over my face, trying to wipe the static out of my skull.

Doesn’t work.
Just spreads it around.

It’s not even about what she said.
Or didn’t say.

It’s her silence that’s driving me nuts.

The way she moves like she’s not really here, like she’s walking through some other version of the day that no one else can see.

She’s quiet, yeah — but it’s not calm. It’s not peaceful. It’s the kind of quiet that comes before the storm.

And I don’t trust it.

I’ve been watching her all week.
Not on purpose. Not at first.

But once you notice it — that stillness — it’s impossible to unsee.

She’s off. Not just closed-off — I’ve seen people like that.
Seen kids with walls and shields and all that extra drama.

But this is different.

She’s not building walls. She is one.

I scowl into the dark. My pillow’s already a mess from the way I keep flipping it over. Doesn’t help.

The room’s too warm. Or maybe I am.

Heat’s building in my chest again. That itchy, crawling heat that comes when something doesn’t make sense — when I can’t punch a target because I don’t know where it is.

Why the fuck do I care?

I roll over onto my side and glare at the red light on my alarm clock. 01:42.

Tch. Figures.

All week, she’s been acting like nothing’s wrong.
Like Monday never happened.
Like I didn’t corner her, demand answers, dig at her until her voice cracked.

And now she’s just… floating through the week like a ghost no one invited.

And somehow I’m the one haunted.

My fingers twitch against the edge of my blanket.
I want to train.
I want to move.
I want something to break just so I can hear the sound.

But instead I’m stuck here. Thinking about her.

And I hate it.

I keep going back to it.

That hallway. Her face. The way she looked at me like I was just background noise.

It was right after class — tension still clinging to the walls from that whole damn morning. I’d had enough.

She’d been dancing around it, dodging with that flat voice and cold stare, like none of this mattered. Like I didn’t matter.

So I said what I had to say.

Didn’t throw a punch.
Didn’t blow anything up.

Just leaned in, stared her dead in the eye, and told her what everyone else was too chicken-shit to admit — that she’s holding back, and it’s gonna get someone hurt.
Maybe even herself.

Yeah, I did snap at her. Sharp. Loud.
Echoed down the empty hallway before I reeled it back in.

But the rest? That was me holding back — tight, low, growling like I was daring her to bite.

I don’t regret a single fucking word.

She needed to hear it.

But what’s pissing me off now—four days later—is how she took it.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t push back. Didn’t react like she was supposed to.

I expected heat. Fire. A spark of anger. But at first? Nothing.

She just stood there — still, shoulders squared, not even blinking. Like she was waiting for me to finish. Like none of it touched her.

And then she opened her mouth.
That’s when it shifted.

Her eyes — slitted, sharp — not just looking at me anymore, but through me. Like a goddamn apex predator sizing up a threat.

And even then, she didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t snarl or explode.
She kept it calm.

That was the worst part.

It did something to me.

Not just the words — but the way she said them.
With those reptile eyes staring me down, steady as hell, like she wasn’t the least bit threatened — but maybe I should be.

It lit something. A fuse I haven’t been able to put out since.

Because I’m good at reading people. I know fear. I know when someone’s faking strength. I can smell lies from the other end of the building. I know how to break through all that noise.

But with her?

She looked me dead in the eye with those slitted pupils — all sharp focus and cold control — and still never broke.

She’s not faking.
She’s not even guarding.

She’s watching. Calculating. Measuring.
Choosing what to show — and what to keep locked down.

Choosing every word. Choosing every second of silence between them. Choosing to show just enough to keep me guessing — like she knew exactly how much to reveal without giving anything away.

And somehow, that feels worse.

I roll onto my back again, jaw tight, pulse hot behind my eyes.

She didn’t just take my words — she filed them. Like she was storing the whole moment away for later. Like she plans her reactions like moves on a fucking chessboard.

I should’ve felt victorious. Like I’d gotten under her skin. But all I felt when I walked away was—

No.
Not nothing.
I felt seen.

And it still makes my blood itch.

But what pisses me off the most?
It’s what happened after that hallway standoff.

She got quieter. Tighter. Like she was crawling further back into whatever locked-up space she hides in.

Like she’d already decided that talking to me—facing me—was a mistake.

Tch.

The final bell had just rung. Everyone started moving—chairs scraping, bags rustling, voices rising like they were being let off a leash. I shoved my notebook into my bag, ready to get the hell out.

Then the door slid open.

And suddenly there was a crowd.

Not just students passing by. No, this was a wall of bodies, all bunched up outside our classroom like they were waiting to get a look at us. The ones who’d “survived” the villain attack. Like we were some kind of freak show.

Front and center: purple-haired freak.

Said he was from General Studies. Like half of them.

Guess they all wanted to size us up before the Sports Festival.

Tch.

Extras think they’ve got a shot against me? Tch. As if.

Didn’t matter what came out of his mouth. Something smug. Something that was supposed to sound clever.
All I saw was a guy trying to stir the pot.

I stepped forward.

Made it clear exactly where I stood. Loud. Unbothered. Didn’t need to blow anything up—my voice did the job.

Then I turned to leave. Didn’t even wait for a response.

But just before stepping out, I glanced back.

She was still at her desk.

Didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.

Just sat there, hands folded, eyes low, like the whole scene hadn’t even registered.

Like I was just fucking background noise.

And that?

That got under my skin more than the damn purple freak ever could.

For the rest of the damn week, it didn’t get any better.

It was like she slammed the door shut and welded it shut from the inside.

No talking. No flinching. Just floating around like some ghost with a god complex. Too damn perfect. Too damn still. Like she thinks if she keeps it all locked down, no one’ll notice she’s falling apart underneath.

Tch.

Stupid fucking lizard.

I don’t stop watching her. I can’t.

Tuesday.

Hero training. Hand-to-hand drills.

Everyone else is treating it like warm-up for a game. Deku’s mumbling his way through forms, Shitty Hair’s trying to hype up the rest of the idiots, and I’m this close to blowing something up just to get it over with.

She’s different.

Moves clean as hell. No wasted motion. Efficient. Cold. Not fighting — executing. Like someone programmed it into her.

And yet… it’s not everything.

When it’s quirk work, she holds back. Keeps it tucked away. Not a snarl, not a claw, not even a hiss. Just enough to tick the box. Not enough to show.

I know what she’s capable of. I’ve seen it.

Tch. She’s not cautious. She’s caged.

Wednesday.

Dead silence in class.

Aizawa’s droning on about battlefield strategy or some shit, and everyone’s either zoning out or scribbling half-assed notes.

I glance over.

She’s got her pen out. Tapping. Same rhythm over and over. Not fidgeting — calculated. Like she needs the pattern to stay anchored.

Then something crashes.

Dunce Face, of course. Drops his textbook like a moron and jolts half the room.

So does she — but not visibly. Not loud. Just… tightens. Her whole body freezes for a split second, and her fingers go white around the pen. Any tighter and she’d have snapped it in two.

And then? Nothing. Keeps writing. Keeps tapping.

But I caught it.

Thursday.

Cafeteria’s a warzone of noise.

Deku’s mumbling something to Four-Eyes two tables down, Raccoon Eyes is leaning halfway across the table to grab Shitty Hair’s rice, and Dunce Face is trying to balance his chopsticks in his nose again.

I should be annoyed.

But I’m not even paying attention to them.

Because she’s sitting right next to me. Part of the group. Same tray. Same table.

And somehow, she still might as well be on the other side of the damn school.

She hasn’t said a word since we sat down. Barely touched her food. Just sits there, back straight, eyes tracking every movement in the room like she’s waiting for something to go wrong.

Not jumpy. Not twitchy. Just… ready.

Like she’s in a combat zone and we’re the collateral.

And I know the signs now. The way her hand hovers just a second too long over her chopsticks. The way her gaze flicks to the door every time it opens. The way she doesn’t laugh, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t join in — even when Raccoon Eyes bumps her arm or Shitty Hair tries to loop her in.

She’s not avoiding them. Not even avoiding me.

She’s avoiding herself.

Like something inside her’s wound so damn tight, it’ll snap the second she forgets to hold it down.

I don’t say anything.

But I observe.

And all I can think is:

She’s scared of something.

Or maybe…

She’s scared of what she’ll do if she stops pretending she’s not.

And just when I think I’ve got her nailed down—cold, quiet, coiled like a goddamn trap—something shifts.

Not big. Not loud. Just enough to throw me off.

This week, it wasn’t just the silence. Wasn’t just the way she acted like a landmine in the middle of a picnic.

It was the way she kept looking at him.

Aizawa.

More than usual. Not constantly. Just… in flashes — Quick. Quiet.

Controlled. Too controlled.

Thought she was being subtle. She wasn’t. I fucking noticed.

And it wasn’t the kind of look you give a teacher.
Wasn’t respect. Wasn’t fear.
It was like… like she was waiting on him.

For what, I don’t know.

A cue? A signal? Permission?

Tch.

She only ever looks at him like that.

Like he’s some anchor. Like if she loses her grip, he’ll be the one to pull her back from the edge.

Not a teacher. Not a hero.

Something else.

Her caretaker.

There it is again.

The goddamn word won’t leave me the hell alone. It’s been rattling around in my skull since the second she said it.
Like a loose screw in a machine that’s supposed to run clean.

She said it so casually. Like it was just a line in her file. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it does. It means a lot.

Students don’t get caretakers. We get homeroom teachers. Dorm heads. Staff who check the boxes, keep us in line, send us to training, give us grades.
They guide. Supervise. Stand at a distance.

But a caretaker?

That’s something else entirely.

It’s not about teaching. It’s not even about watching. It’s about being assigned to someone.
Like a handler. A guard. A shadow stitched into your life whether you want it there or not.

A caretaker isn’t just someone who looks out for you — they’re someone who knows you. Knows the stuff no one else is allowed to see. The stuff you don’t show anyone.

Someone who gets let in when the rest of us get shut out.

And the more I think about it, the more it all starts falling into place.

The way she walks like she’s measuring each step. Like she’s trained herself to be small. Efficient. Controlled. Not weak — never weak — but contained.
Like she’s got layers and layers of instincts wrapped up tight inside her, and she’s holding them down with both hands.

Always checking the exits. Always too aware. Always a beat ahead of the room. Like she’s not part of it — just temporarily passing through.

She doesn’t react to threats — not real ones. Doesn’t flinch when someone’s in her face. Doesn’t show fear when shit gets loud.

No — she only reacts when something breaks the pattern. When something slips past her control. A loud noise. A sudden move. A cracked moment of unpredictability.

Because it’s not the world outside that sets her off.
It’s what’s already inside her.

And Aizawa? He’s the only one she ever looks to.
Not for answers — for containment.

The one person she lets close enough to see it.

Caretaker.

Yeah. That word’s still rattling around.

And it’s only getting louder.

Aizawa’s different with her. Always has been.

He doesn’t treat her like the rest of us.

Doesn’t bark at her. Doesn’t snap when she zones out or keeps quiet or skips the extra reps.

Doesn’t test her.

He just watches. Always with that same blank face, like he already knows what she’s going to do before she moves. Like he’s tracking her temperature, waiting for something the rest of us can’t even see.

He doesn’t look at her like a student. He looks at her like a responsibility.

Like he’s been assigned to her.

Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

Or maybe for something to happen.

And she lets him. Doesn’t avoid his gaze. Doesn’t challenge it. Just accepts it like it’s part of the deal.

That thought won’t let go.

I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, fingers curled into the blanket like it’s someone I want to shake.

What kind of student needs a fucking caretaker?

Not a mentor. Not a teacher. Not someone who believes in you.

A caretaker.

I hate that I keep thinking about it. But I do. Something about it feels… fucking wrong. Like there’s a piece missing I’m not being told.

What the hell happened to her that made someone think she needed one?

That thought?

Scratches at my brain like a splinter I can’t dig out.

The room’s dead quiet. Lights off. Door shut.

It’s so still, it’s fucking deafening — like my brain won’t shut up.

I should be asleep. I should’ve passed out hours ago.
Instead I’m lying here, stuck replaying every second she didn’t say a damn word.
Every time I breathe, she’s there — in the background, in the fucking way.

Fucking Scales.

It’s not what she said. Hell, she barely says anything. It’s the space around her silence that’s messing with me. The shit she’s not doing. Not showing.

I can’t read her. Can’t map her out. Can’t figure out the angles like I do with everyone else.

And that—

That drives me up the fucking wall.

She’s a puzzle that knows it’s being solved — and hides the pieces on purpose.

She’s scared. That much I know. But it’s not of me. Not of the class. Not of anyone outside.

It’s something inside.

Something she’s keeping chained up, locked down with every ounce of strength she’s got.

And Aizawa? He’s not watching out for her. He’s guarding the door.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars spark in the dark.

I need to know what the hell is going on with you, Scales.

Because whatever it is—

If you don’t break soon…

I might.

I’m still lying there, staring at the ceiling like it’s got answers carved into it, when the sharp ping of my phone cuts through the dark.

I don’t move at first.

Just let my eyes slide toward the screen, half-expecting it to be Dunce Face sending some dumb meme or Raccoon Eyes asking for notes again.

But it’s not.

[1 New Message – Scales]

That gets me sitting up.

Thumb taps the screen. Opens the message.
I stare at the screen.
Still. Silent. The kind of silence that hums.

Tomorrow 9 a.m.?

That’s it. No explanation. No follow-up. Just a question mark sitting there like a challenge.

That’s all she gave me.

But it’s enough.

My fingers tighten around the phone, and something in my chest shifts — not calmer, just… clearer.
Like all that tension from the week finally found a target.

I don’t even type back.

Don’t need to.

She texted me.
She made the first move.

And that?

That’s what I’ve been waiting for.

The grin comes slow — steady, sharp, all teeth.
The kind I only wear when something’s finally starting to break open.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I toss the phone onto the bed.

But I don’t lie back down.

No.

My mind’s already moving — fast, precise — locking into what tomorrow means.

She reached out. No explanation. Just a time. That’s all she gave me.

I don’t need more.

Whatever she thinks she’s ready for?
I’ll be there. And I’ll drag it out of her, layer by fucking layer.

She cracked the door open.

And I’m not walking through it.

I’m blowing it off its fucking hinges.

Let’s see what you do when there’s nowhere left to hide.

Tomorrow, Scales.
No more games.

Chapter Text

The minute hand clicks forward. A clean, precise motion on the round station clock mounted above the gate — black hands against a white face, perfectly silent.

9:00 a.m. sharp.

Sunlight cuts between buildings in thin, surgical lines — painting the pavement in gold like it’s trying too hard to be gentle.
Too bright. Too clean.
I squint against it, but only for a second.

A morning that amplifies the hush — every pause feels sharp.

The concrete under my feet holds a faint chill. The kind that soaks through shoes if you stand still too long.

I adjust my stance — heel to toe, weight shifting just enough to ease the pressure building under my ribs.

Not impatience. Not nerves.

Just instinct clawing for motion.

Black leggings. Zip-up jacket. Sneakers too breathable for weather like this. Bag over one shoulder, water bottle clipped to the strap — ticking softly every time it sways.

To anyone watching, this probably looks like waiting. Casual. Calm. I’m not.

It’s not patience. It’s restraint.

The message was mine. My fingers, my phone. But the choice? Not really.

The memory still lingers — steam curling from coffee mugs, lamplight too soft to cut through the pressure, Aizawa’s voice flat and final: You made a commitment.

Present Mic had smiled like it was a joke: Boom Boy’s already worked with you once. Why not ask him again?

Like it was a suggestion.
It wasn’t.

I said yes. Because saying no would’ve taken more energy than I had. Because pretending it didn’t matter was easier than admitting it did.

And now I’m here.

Morning air too crisp. The weight of the city pressing in — distant car engines, far-off laughter, the faint clatter of a train arriving on one of the platforms.

No threats. No excuses. Just the scent of cold concrete, burnt oil, and the sweetness of something fried drifting from the station kiosk. Too ordinary. Too clean.

Just time stretching thinner with every breath.

Cool air bleeding into my sleeves. Concrete pressing up through the soles of my shoes like warning.

Waiting for the one person least likely to make this easy.

Didn’t want this.
Just ran out of ways to say no.

Still, that weight presses in. Not fear. Not anger. Just pressure.

Jaw tightens. Spine straightens. Cold doesn’t bite. It hasn’t in a long time. I stopped noticing things like that — long before I ever stepped outside. Long before the facility doors opened.

I glance at the clock again.

9:07 a.m.

Of course he’s late. Not enough to be rude — Bakugou isn’t careless. But enough to make a point.

Just a few minutes past the mark. Just enough to remind me who texted first. That I asked. That he’s doing me a favor.

Classic.
Calculated.
And annoyingly effective.

So now, he gets to show up when it suits him.
It’s a power play.

I exhale through my nose. Slow. Even. Let it hang in the cold air like I’ve got time to waste.

Aizawa’s words echo again — “You made a commitment.”
Present Mic’s smile when he said it. Too easy. Too practiced.

Like he and Aizawa had already worked it out before I even walked into the room. And they probably had. The two of them play the long game. Always have.

This morning, I’m just the piece on the board they nudged into position.

The bag shifts against my back again. Click.
I don’t move. Just listen. Just breathe.

And then — something slices through the air. Familiar. Too familiar.

Smoke. Burnt sugar. Sweetness burned too long — laced with a hint of bitterness. The kind of scent that thinks it’s already won. Pride worn loud. Heat that dares you to flinch.

Then come the footsteps — loud. Deliberate. Each one spaced like it matters. He doesn’t walk like most people. He doesn’t approach. He arrives. Every time.

I don’t turn.

My body already knows him — the way everything tightens as he draws closer. The way my heartbeat doesn’t spike, doesn’t stutter. It locks in.

Not fear. Not threat.
Recognition.
Familiar weight. Familiar heat. Patterns already mapped and memorized.

That low flicker of awareness. Like a second predator stepping into range.

He’s not late. He’s timed. On purpose. He wouldn’t waste a moment if it didn’t serve a point. He’d make it count.

The air shifts as he nears — steady, measured. Not casual. Not rushed. Every step lands with purpose. Intentional.

I roll my shoulders back once — subtle. Controlled. Just enough to shift the weight before it lands.

Regret’s already here. Like it knew he’d win the second he decided to show up. Doesn’t need to.

The board’s already shifted. I just felt it move.

His steps stop in front of me — deliberate.

I don’t move. Just lift my gaze.

His is already there, locked on — sharp, unflinching, like he’s reading every shift in my shoulders and waiting for one to twitch. A silent dare. One second. Then another. The air between us doesn’t move.

His face is unreadable.
Mine is colder.

“The hell are you waiting for? Move it, Scales.”

No greeting. No warning. Just a double-barreled hit — insult and command, back to back.

I don’t roll my eyes — but the urge flickers, quick and mechanical. A reflex I’ve trained out of my body but not my thoughts. I almost answer. Almost.

Instead, I shift my weight and walk past him.
Heel to toe. Quiet. Controlled.

Not submission. Not provocation.
Just disinterest.

He falls into step beside me without hesitation.

Not behind. Not ahead.
Beside.

And somehow, that grates more than it should. He matches pace like he belongs here — like I invited him to walk in sync.

We don’t speak.

The station hums in the distance — the low shuffle of other commuters, the faint metallic buzz of overhead lights, the occasional rattle of a snack bag opening somewhere down the line. None of it touches the space between us.

We reach the edge of the platform.

No train yet. Just wind slipping under my collar, and that metallic scent of brake dust coiling in the cold.

Bakugou slows. Barely. Not enough for anyone to notice — except me.
His gaze cuts sideways — a split-second scan, sharp and surgical. Like he’s making sure what he suspects is already true.

Like he’s checking for confirmation. Looking for proof.

I feel it. Catch it. And choose not to react.

Still, something sharp flickers under my ribs — irritation, maybe. Reflexive. Gone before it fully settles.

I step forward, stop at the exact place I meant to, and wait.
No hesitation. No glance back.

But it’s enough.

He sees it — the way I stand. The angle of my stance. The direction of my gaze.

I don’t tell him where we’re going.
I don’t have to.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. The look he gives me confirms it — he already knows.

The train rocks in rhythm — slow, metallic, steady.
Steel on steel.
A child cries two cars down. Someone coughs behind us. The rest is motion and silence.

We sit across from each other. Not diagonally. Not beside each other. Direct.
Divided by a table bolted to the floor.
His legs stretched out. Mine drawn back.
No words. No eye contact.

I watch the trees blur past.
Lines of green. Brown. A flicker of something gold in the underbrush — gone before I can name it.
I don’t move.

He watches the glass like it’s a threat. Not the scenery — the reflection.
His own stare meeting itself, jaw set like he’s bracing to hit back if it blinks first.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s not even quiet.
It’s pressure. Loaded. Held between us like a fuse nobody wants to touch yet.

No one speaks.

The rhythm keeps time.
Click. Click. Click.
It fills the silence — steady, predictable.
I don’t check the time. I already know how long the ride takes.
Close enough.

When the train finally slows, neither of us shifts until it stops completely.

We step off together.
No hesitation. No words. Just the cold platform under our shoes and a breeze cutting between us.

The station’s quiet — outskirts of the city, past the reach of crowds.
The air’s sharper out here. Cleaner. Wind through trees, not traffic.
Even the quiet feels cleaner.

I don’t look back.
Neither does he.

We fall into step without needing to speak.
Not side by side. Not in line. Just… together.
No one leads. No one follows.

From the station, the pavement gives out fast — gravel takes over, then disappears beneath weeds and roots.

The trail that picks up from here isn’t marked. Not really. Just a split in the treeline and the faint memory of footsteps worn into the earth.

It narrows as we move.

Moss creeps up broken stone.
The air thickens — damp, still, shadowed.

We don’t speak.

Just breathing. Just the soft shift of gravel and dirt under our steps.
Birdsong flickers in and out — never near, always distant.

I climb like I’ve done it before. Because once was enough.
Every twist in the path locked itself into memory the first time. I don’t have to think about it now. I just move.

Bakugou doesn’t speak. Doesn’t break pace.
But the tension in him rises — quiet, coiled. Shoulders squared. Gaze locked forward like he’s already chasing the next fight.
His scent sharpens with the climb — smoke, heat, the faint bite of something electric. Charged. Focused.

Anticipation, carried in the air like a current.

There’s a pause near the summit — a place where the trees part and light cuts through.
I don’t stop. He doesn’t either.

The path bends. The stone changes underfoot — flattened, cracked, laced with roots.

Then we reach it.

I step forward like I’m stepping into a memory.
Because I am.

The ruin is still there.
Half-collapsed walls. Weathered stone. A jagged outcrop beyond it, swallowing the view with mist and distance.

Nothing’s changed.

And that’s what unsettles me most.

The quiet here is older than I am.
It doesn’t welcome.
It remembers.

I hate how well it fits.

The stone beneath my feet is uneven — ancient, ground down by years of motion and weight.

We stand in the middle of it. No markers. No rules.
Just open space and silence.

I keep my arms loose at my sides.

Bakugou doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift.
But I feel his stare settle on me like a fuse waiting for the flame.

I look up.

His eyes lock with mine — sharp, burning. Focused.
There’s no smirk. No taunt. But the challenge is there — unmistakable.

He’s not impatient.
He’s primed. Expecting. Already wound tight with the outcome.
Like he knows what’s coming and wants to meet it head-on.

I hold his gaze. Say nothing. Let the moment settle like weight in my chest.
I’m not ready. But I’m here.
Not because I want to — but because I have to.

The wind moves — soft at first, then sharper.
It slips through the clearing, lifts strands of hair from my face.
Bakugou doesn’t blink.

I don’t adjust. Don’t flinch.
Just exhale, slow and steady, letting the tension settle under my ribs.

The space between us hums with something unspoken — pressure coiled so tight it feels like a shared breath we haven’t taken yet.

No signal.

No warning.

But the break is coming.

The silence holds for a moment longer.
Then it fractures — not with a word, but with motion.

He moves first. No shift in stance. Just a step — fast, explosive, deliberate.
The space between us disappears in a blink.

I dodge. Barely.
His palm cracks out with a blast that hits wide — intentional.
Close enough to feel the heat graze my side.

Not a miss.
A warning.

He’s not starting small. Not going easy.
Sharp bursts. Tight control. Every step forward punctuated by force.

I block. Step. Redirect.
Never strike first. Never burn.

Not yet.

“You’re wasting both our time.”

His voice cracks through the clearing — loud, unfiltered.
Another burst. Tighter. Lower. Aimed at my feet this time.
I jump clear. Land steady.

He keeps coming. Fast. Clean. Controlled.

“Why bring me out here if you’re just gonna hold back again?”

His voice hits hard — tight, clipped. A blast follows. Controlled. Pushing.

I stay quiet.
Arms loose. Shoulders braced. Still holding back.

“Tch. What — figured I’d drag it out of you again?”

His explosions get closer. Cleaner.
I don’t respond. Just move.

“I told you to get your act together by the weekend.”

But he closes the gap anyway. The next hit forces me back half a step.

My foot catches the edge of a stone. A breath stumbles in my throat.
I mask it with movement. Quick shift. Reset.

He doesn’t miss it.
Of course he doesn’t.

“Doesn’t fucking look like it to me.”

It’s not loud.
But it hits harder than the blast.

Still, I say nothing.
Because silence is easier than explaining why I’m afraid to be louder.

The tension turns inward.
Not panic. Not yet.
Just stress. Rising slowly. Settling in the base of my spine like something waking up.

Bakugou doesn’t slow.

He presses in harder — steps tighter, moves sharper. His fists don’t land, but they don’t have to. They drive me back. A steady rhythm of motion meant to box me in.

Blast. Step. Feint. Shift.
He’s not fighting. He’s dissecting.

“You’re scared. I get it.”

His voice is colder now — flat, even. That’s how you know he’s serious.
Not yelling. Not laughing. Just cutting.

I keep my guard tight, feet light, chest locked.
He’s not trying to knock me down.

He’s trying to see what breaks first.

“But that’s not all, is it?”

He pivots. Sharp. A controlled burst forces me to dodge — too close. My pulse spikes.

His scent shifts — sharper now. Burnt sugar and ash, but more volatile.
A heat that vibrates like anger held in the mouth too long.

“You flinch at alarms. But not fists.”

My jaw locks. I don’t answer.
I don’t need to. He’s not asking.

“You don’t fight to win.”
“You fight to contain yourself.”

The words land harder than his blows.

And I feel it — the unravel starting. A flicker of heat in my throat. The tightness behind my ribs pulling taut like wire.

I don’t lash out. Don’t shift.
But something inside me is pacing.

Then he goes for it.

His next strike clips past my shoulder — a calculated miss. A shove into deeper waters.

“So why him?”
“Why the hell is Aizawa your caretaker?”
“What kind of student needs one of those?”

My spine snaps straight. I don’t blink. I can’t.
But my breath stumbles — caught and gone before I can steady it.

“You obey him like it’s survival.”
“You don’t talk back. You don’t hesitate.”
“That’s not how a student acts. That’s how someone acts when they’re being managed.”

I move. Reflex. Not strategy.
Not because of the blast — because of him.
The questions. The closeness. Like my body’s trying to pull away before I even realize I need space.

A step sideways to create distance that doesn’t last.

Because he doesn’t give it.

Instead he reduces the space between us. Too close.
Not just physically. Psychologically.

His gaze doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. It drills straight through.

“You track his every move.”
“You stand straighter when he’s near.”
“You look at him like he’s got the power to decide what happens to you.”

My fingers twitch.

My breath shortens.

The world tilts. Not visually — internally. Like something beneath my ribs just slipped its hold.
Everything gets too loud. Too close.
My body tightens before I can think. Before I can stop it.

Fight or flight — I feel both crawl up my spine at once.

And then it starts — the spiral. The voice. The panic dressed up as logic.

Stop it. Stop showing it. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

He’s just guessing. He’s just—

Why is he so close?
Why is he right?

Don’t react. Don’t breathe. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. Stop.

He’s wrong. He’s right. He’s too close.

Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him—

I don’t move. Can’t. My thoughts are looping too fast to catch.

The air shifts.

Hotter. Closer. Like clawed fingers wrapping tighter around my throat.

Bakugou doesn’t let up.

His presence sharpens — heat coiled behind his movements, restrained but explosive.
His scent spikes — bitter caramel, smoke curling like it’s ready to choke.

It doesn’t hit like fire.
It hits like a fuse that’s already been lit.

He doesn’t realize how close he’s getting.
Or he does. Just doesn’t care.

But I do.

Every step he takes feels louder. Every word cuts closer.
The space between us is gone, and I can’t breathe around it.

My body’s braced like I’m cornered. Like the next word will rip something open.
My pulse is too fast. My thoughts too loud.
He’s not just close — he’s inside everything I’ve tried to keep buried.

And it’s too much.

I flinch — not at his words.
At the truth inside them.

And he sees it.

All of it.

“You’re not scared of me.”
“You’re scared of what I’ll figure out.”

My body moves before I do.

Claws tear out — fast, instinctive, wrong.
Not an attack. Not a warning.

A reflex. A loss of control dressed up as defense.

Like something ancient just uncurled its fingers.

My breath stumbles. Then again. Then again.

Too short.
Too shallow.
Too fast.

I try to lock it down, but my chest won’t listen — it tightens, panics, heaves.

I can’t pull in enough air.
I can’t slow anything down.

My vision narrows. My pulse howls.

My muscles seize, every instinct screaming retreat, retreat, get out—

My hands come up. Not to strike —
To push him away.

I try to step back, but he’s there.
He blocks me. Again.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t budge.
Just keeps pushing, like none of this scares him. Like I don’t scare him.

“What happened to you?”
“Why won’t you just say it?”

My hands hit his chest — not claws, just fists.
Useless. Shaking.

I try to shove him off. He doesn’t move.

My voice tears out — brittle, desperate:
“Stop— shut up—”

But he doesn’t.

“That’s right. Tell me.”
“Come on, Scales. What are you so scared I’ll find?”

My body jerks like it’s trying to crawl out of itself.

“You don’t understand.”
“You don’t—”

His hands clamp down — one on each arm.
Not hard.
Just enough to hold.

He leans in. His eyes cut straight through mine.

His grip tightens — not painful, just certain.
His voice cuts clean between breaths:
“Then make me.”

That’s it.
The thread snaps — not with anger. Not with choice.
It just gives out. Like something inside me was dragged too far and finally tore.
Helpless. Pressured. Cornered. No way out but this.

“I can’t!”
The words rip out of me — loud, raw, broken.
I didn’t choose them.
They just tore loose. Like everything I’ve been trying to hold in finally found the fastest way out.

“I’m scared, okay?!”

“I’m scared of what happens if I let go!”

“I’m scared of hurting someone — of giving them a reason.”

“I can’t go back.”

“I won’t.”

My claws are out.
My eyes are slitted.

I’m shaking — not with anger. With panic.
Every breath scrapes in wrong. Too shallow. Too fast.
Like my lungs are folding in on themselves.

My chest won’t open. My muscles won’t listen.
It’s like I’m trapped inside myself — and the walls are shrinking.

I feel like I might come apart.

But my quirk hasn’t taken over — not fully.
It’s waiting. Just like he is.

Bakugou says nothing.

He doesn’t stop me.
Doesn’t interrupt.
He just holds me there.
Lets it happen.

“I’m dangerous!”

“And if I lose it, they’ll lock me up again!”

The scream tears loose from somewhere deeper than my throat.
It echoes off the stone, off the trees, off the quiet.

Like a gunshot in an empty field.

Then.
Silence.

Everything stops.
The world has gone quiet.
Too quiet.

No wind. No birds. No sound except the rasp of my own breath.

I’m still standing.
But barely.

Everything inside me feels scraped raw — like I peeled myself open and left it exposed to the air.
Like I just handed him the one thing I swore I’d never say out loud.

My breath won’t settle.
It scrapes in too fast, too loud.
My chest feels hollow and tight at the same time — like I’m full of nothing but the echo of my own voice.

I’m shaking. Hard.
Not from effort. From aftershock.

I didn’t lose control of my quirk.
I lost control of myself.

Not the claws.
Not the shift.
Not the slitted eyes.

The words.

What I said.
What I can’t take back.

And now it’s out there — real, and alive, and dangerous in a different way.

My eyes dart — not at him.
Around.
Scanning. Searching. Like maybe there’s still time to run.

There isn’t.

My breath won’t even try to steady. It rasps out in broken stabs — too loud in the stillness.
My fingers twitch. My whole body vibrates — like I might bolt. Or detonate. Or both.

Bakugou doesn’t move.
But something in him shifts.

The heat is still there — but now it’s held.
Controlled. Coiled. Watching me like I’m made of something unstable.
Not afraid. Just ready.

I try to speak.
My voice stumbles — cracked, barely there.
Just the pieces that break loose first — low, shaking, too fast:

“I didn’t mean—”
“I didn’t mean to say that—”
“I didn’t— it’s not—”

The words fall apart in my mouth. I stumble a step back.
Then freeze. Again.

My hands are still raised.
Claws trembling.

He stares at me. Not cold. Just… sharp.
Focused. Like he’s listening.

His voice breaks the silence — low, steady.

“Shit…”
“That’s the truth, isn’t it.”

He doesn’t move — just stays where he is. Close. Unflinching.
Like he knows that backing off now would be worse than pressing in.

“That’s what you’ve been hiding this whole damn time.”
“You think if you hold it in, it’ll stay dead?”
“It won’t.”

I jerk my head like the words hit something exposed.
My voice cracks, brittle and high:

“Shut up—”
“You don’t know what that means— you don’t get it!”

It comes out louder than I mean.
Wilder.

There’s something in my throat I don’t recognize.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause.
His grip holds. Just enough to steady, not enough to hurt.
His voice cuts lower:

“Then explain it.”
“Because you’re not hiding shit — you’re rotting in it.”
“Keep that bottled up — it’ll kill you faster than I ever could.”

I don’t move. Can’t.
My legs are locked. My arms are shaking.

My claws haven’t retracted.

My breath is still broken — jagged, irregular.
Each inhale thinner than the last.

My vision whites out at the edges. Blurring.
Like my mind is trying to shut it all down to survive.

He doesn’t let me.

“Spit it out, Scales.”
“You can’t keep running from this — it’s eating you alive.”

I flinch. Not from him.
From the truth.
From the part of me that knows he’s right and wants to run anyway.

My shoulders draw tight. My head drops.

The world is too loud. Too close. Too much.

But he doesn’t step back.
Doesn’t let me escape.
He just holds the space. Stays where I can’t ignore him.

My body won’t listen. Breath still ragged.
Shoulders locked, legs unsteady.
No words left — just air and adrenaline grinding against bone.

Bakugou’s voice still echoes.

He hasn’t moved.
He’s just there. Solid. Still.
Watching me fall apart like it’s not new. Like it’s not surprising.

And maybe it isn’t.

He sees it.
He sees too much.

I thought I could bury it.
Thought I could outlast it.
But it’s bleeding through everything.

My claws twitch.

Not retracting.
Just lowering.
Not out of peace — out of exhaustion.

My arms sag. Hands shake. A tremor flickers down my spine and doesn’t stop.

I don’t meet his eyes.

My voice is wrecked. Barely there.

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

It slips out.

Soft. Too soft.

A breath — shallow, cracked.
But I force the next part through it:

“I finally have something real…”
“And it could all disappear.”

He’s going to laugh.

Of course he is.

I said too much. Sounded pathetic. Weak.

He’s going to use it.
Tell someone.
Twist it.
Throw it back at me the next time we fight.

Because that’s what people do with the truth — they use it.

But he doesn’t say a word.
Doesn’t mock.
Doesn’t let go.

Just stands there. Still holding me — not tightly, not gently. Just… firm.

And even in the panic — through the noise in my chest — I catch it:

Smoke. Burnt sugar. And just beneath it — the scent of confusion rising off him in waves.

Still sharp. Still Bakugou.
But different now.
Confused. Focused. Listening.

He’s not pulling away.
Not reacting.
Not throwing it back at me like I thought he would.

But he doesn’t understand it yet, either.
Not fully.
I can smell it on him — that crackle of surprise under the heat.
Like his brain’s still trying to match the pieces to what I just said.

Locked up.

He doesn’t get it.
He hears the words — but not what’s buried underneath them.

But he doesn’t step back.
Doesn’t challenge it.
Just stays still. Holding me like I’m shaking glass.

I hate that I notice all of it.
And I hate that I’m still waiting for it.

For the snap.
For the insult.
For the shift in his voice that turns everything I just said into a weapon.

But it doesn’t come.

He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.

Silence stretches. Not empty — loaded. Waiting. Pressing. Expectant.
He doesn’t ask again — just leaves the space open like he knows I’ll cave.
And I hate that he’s right.

Deep down, I know.
He’s right.
I know he’s right.

I can’t keep running from this.
Can’t keep running from myself.

I’ve been pretending it’s under control — but it’s not. Never was.
I think I’ve always known that. I just didn’t want it to be true.

The air between us hums — thick with truth, panic, and silence.

I’m not okay.
Not calm.
Not safe.

But for the first time…

I didn’t run.
That matters more than I want to admit.

I stayed.
And he saw all of it.

A breeze cuts through the clearing.
Cold. Clean.
It doesn’t clear the air.
It just proves I’m still here…

Chapter Text

The wind doesn’t move. Not anymore. It’s like the clearing has forgotten how to breathe.

Silence presses in thick and solid, heavier than the air.

And somewhere in that stillness — just beyond the edge of my hearing — I can feel the echo of my own voice still caught in the rocks.

The panic is gone.
But it took everything with it.

The moment my chest stops clenching, the rest of me gives in. My knees dip without warning — too fast. Too loose. Like something inside just got unplugged.

The crash is brutal.

Adrenaline leaves fast when it knows it overstayed. It drains from my arms in a sharp, sinking pull, like blood from a vein.

My legs lock and then shake. Not visibly, not yet. But I feel it. A hollow ache opening behind my knees, an exhausted hum spreading down to my ankles.

I sway where I’m standing — no momentum, no anchor. Just tilt. Just the raw gravity of a body that’s held too much for too long.

And I would’ve dropped. Not all at once. Not clean. Not quietly.

But his hands are still on my arms. Solid. Too real.

I feel the pull of my own weight lurch forward — but he catches it, steady without tightening, like he already knew I’d start to fold.

It’s not graceful. It’s not conscious. My knees buckle, and I shift like I meant to. Like I’m grounding myself. Like I’m in control.

But I’m not.

My heel slips on a loose stone. The tremble in my legs spikes — and my hand doesn’t even lift to catch the stumble.

His grip holds firm. Just enough to slow the drop. Not stop it.

I sink.

Down into the dirt, into the cold. One leg folding under, the other bracing awkwardly in front.
A crouch at first — but my muscles twitch again, harder this time. My balance fails a second time before I can fake control.

He lets go.

Not abruptly. Not like he’s done.
It’s quiet — like he’s stepping back without taking his weight with him.

I drop the rest of the way.

Seated now. Spine upright out of habit more than strength. The sharp edge of a stone presses into the base of my spine through my leggings — cold, biting, but I don’t adjust.

I stay still. Not because it’s comfortable. Not because I’m calm.

Because it’s the only thing that doesn’t take effort. Pretending I meant to. Pretending the stillness is mine.

That it’s a choice.

But I know better.
I can feel it.

My body gave up before I did.

My hands settle in my lap, fingers half-curled and twitching.
My breath tries to find rhythm again, but it’s off. Too shallow. Too quick.

My claws are still out. I can see the curve of them, sharp and wrong against the fabric stretched over my knees.

They’re trembling.

The shaking isn’t violent. Not the kind that reads as panic. It’s smaller than that. Finer. The kind of tremor that lives under the skin — residual, uncontrollable. Like my nerves haven’t caught up to the moment ending.

I don’t try to retract them.
Not yet.

Instead, I lift both hands and press them hard into my eyes.
Palms flush. Claws curve in, not quite digging — but close.

The pressure is meant to ground me.
It doesn’t.

All it does is smear heat across my eyelids. It makes the dark brighter somehow — reds and golds pulsing behind my shut eyes, beating like a second pulse in my skull.

My breath won’t slow. Too fast. Too light. The kind of breathing that never makes it far enough to feel real.

I press harder. My elbows dig into my knees. My spine curls forward slightly, like that might steady me. Like curling around the noise in my chest will quiet it.

But it’s not just the breath.

The silence stretches out in front of me — huge, heavy, untouched.
Like it wants something. Like it’s waiting for me to fill it.

And I can’t.

My thoughts are fogged. Not spinning. Not sharp. Just slow — like moving through smoke.

Like my own mind is crouched somewhere low, refusing to surface.

I lower my hands. Slowly.
And even though I’m not looking at him — I can feel him.

Bakugou.

Not just presence. Not just the sound of breath, steady and close.
It’s his heat.
The low, charged hum of leftover energy still suspended in the air between us.
The weight of his stare — unseen but undeniable.

He saw all of it. The whole spiral. Every crack I tried to keep sealed.

The ground under me doesn’t feel steady anymore.
Even so, I don’t move.

And he doesn’t either.

But then something shifts. Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough for the air to change.

Footsteps.

He moves away. Not far. Just a few paces — enough to break the space between us.
I don’t know where exactly. Don’t ask. Don’t guess.

The noise is soft. The faint crunch of boot soles over gravel, the drag of cloth, the air adjusting around absence.

I keep my eyes on the ground.
A rock near my foot. The fine cracks etched through it. Anything but him.

Then — a pause. A shuffle. A low creak of nylon.

My jaw tightens.

He picked up my bag.

I don’t need to look. The rustle of fabric is too specific — never sits right when it’s half-zipped and overstuffed. I know it.
I’ve carried it. I’ve thrown it across the room more times than I’d like to admit.

He doesn’t speak.
No comment. No snort. No insult.

A few seconds pass. Maybe more before
I hear him again. His footsteps are slower now. Measured. Clean.
Crossing the clearing without hesitation. Not fast. Not cautious.

Just steady.
Coming back.

He stops a few feet away. Not close. Not distant. Just far enough for me to breathe.

I keep my gaze low — still fixed on that rock near my foot, the cracks and dust and everything that isn’t him.

Then I hear it.

A soft metal clink — one she knows too well. Subtle. Specific.

The water bottle.

Another shift — fabric dragging, a strap loosening.
It extends into view, held out by the cap.
Arm extended. Not forcefully. Not like a demand. Just… offered.

No remark. No snort. No grunt of effort.
He doesn’t even look at me.

The bottle glints faintly in the light — dulled aluminum, scratched at the bottom, chipped paint along one side.

It shouldn’t mean anything.
But it does.
Because it’s his.

Aizawa handed it to me that morning. The first time I went out with Bakugou.
He’d caught me at the door — still tying my shoes, still pretending I wasn’t on edge.

“Take it,” he’d said. “Stay hydrated. And answer your phone.” Flat voice. As always.

But underneath it —
I’m trusting you.
Don’t make me regret it.

And now it’s back.
After this. After everything I just lost hold of.
Something about that hits harder than the fight.
Harder than the panic.

I reach for it anyway. Slow. Measured.

Fingers curling tight around the bottle, claws still out — still trembling, still betraying me in small ways.

The metal touches my palm. Cool. Solid.
Not cold enough to sting.
But real. It grounds me.

Not because I’m thirsty.
Not because it’s practical.

Because it came from someone who knew exactly what I was — and still handed it over.

First Aizawa.
Now him.

Bakugou lets go the moment I have it. No hesitation. No resistance.
Just release.

And then — one step back. Not far.
Just enough to leave space again.

Held open like he already knew I’d need it.

He stays there for a breath. Maybe two.
In the gap between us — unspoken, deliberate, held like a choice.

After another beat, he lowers himself into it.

No sharp motion. No stomp of boots.
Just a shift in weight. The quiet press of gravel shifting under him.

He sits — not beside me, not behind.

Just close. Close enough I can feel the shape of him in the clearing.
Not intrusive. Not removed.

Present.

Forearms resting on his knees. Back slightly hunched forward. Still. Not looking at me. But not looking away.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. No mocking. No expectation.
Just sits there — like that’s enough.
And maybe… it is.

I lift the bottle. Slow. Careful. Deliberate.

The metal is warm where my fingers wrapped around it, cool at the rim where it was exposed to the air.

I twist the cap off. The sound is dull — a soft scrape of threads loosening.

Then tilt it back. Just enough.

The water tastes like aluminum and old air — sharp, metallic, a little stale from sitting too long.

My throat burns. Not from the water. From the screaming. The sip scrapes down dry. Rough. Like trying to swallow gravel with nothing behind it.

But it helps. Just enough.

My breath hitches in places, still not right.
Except something begins to shift.
Not smooth. Not steady.
Just… less wrong.

I don’t say anything. No thank you. No nod.
But I don’t let go of the bottle either. My fingers stay locked around it — claws still half-extended, knuckles tight. Like it might tether me to the ground.
In case the world decides to tilt again.

Bakugou hasn’t moved.
Not since the bottle.

Still sits a few feet away — steady, grounded, deliberately silent.
Not watching for a reaction. Not pushing for more. But not backing off either. There’s no comfort in it.
No soothing tone. No careful questions.

Just… the weight of him, holding. Still and heavy. Like something that won’t shift. A presence holding the ground unless I speak.

I don’t look at him. But I feel it. Not visually — not yet.

His scent’s the same as always — smoke. Heat. Burnt sugar. Still clinging to him. Still sharp in the air.

What unsettles me most is what’s beneath it — still there now.
Even like this. Quiet. Still. Saying nothing. Faint. Sharp-edged. Not aggressive.

Just focused. Controlled.
Confusion. Curiosity. Intent.

He’s not avoiding it. Just waiting. Like he already knows the question — and he’s just waiting for me to admit the answer.

And somehow, that rattles me more than anything he said earlier. Because I know what that kind of silence means.

It means the next move is mine.

My gaze drifts to the ruin. The treeline. And farther still — where the trees begin to thin, where the mountain falls away.

Like distance might help me sort it out.

I don’t move. Don’t speak.
Still thinking. Not about what to say.
Just… how.

Because how do you explain a thing you’ve only ever survived by not explaining it?
How do you take something you’ve buried for years and hold it out without it shaking in your hand?

I’ve spent too long sealing everything in.
Wrapping it in silence. Instinct. Claws.
I’ve never known how to offer truth freely. Not without blood. Not without making it cost something.

Everything inside me is coiled too tight — Too much. Too sharp. Too dangerous.
And now something’s cracking. Not loud. Not broken. Just a line, running straight through everything I’ve kept under control.

The question’s there now.
Not fully formed. Not ready.
But it still comes —

If I told him…
Where would I even start?

My body shifts. Barely. A subtle lean forward — tension coiled in my spine, breath catching in my throat like it wants to shape itself into words.
The words almost make it out — almost. But I hold. And what comes out isn’t the thing I meant to say.

It’s something sharper. Quiet. Flat. Pressed into the quiet like a knife that’s lost its edge.

“Have you ever lost control?”

No warning. No context.
Just the question.

Another follows before I can stop it — lower this time. Cleaner. Delivered straight. Without apology.

“Do you know what it’s like to scare yourself?”
“To want something dead and not know why?”

I still don’t look at him. I don’t fill the silence.
Just let it stretch — sharp, quiet. A line pulled tight between us. Part of me wants him to test it. Push back. Force a reaction.
But he doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t snap back.
And somehow, that restraint cuts deeper than shouting ever would.

So I speak again — on a breath that shakes just slightly before it settles into sound. Voice low. Too tired to hold it in any longer.

“What are you even doing here, Bakugou?”
“If this is just about beating me — fine. Take your shot. Get it over with.”

My voice doesn’t rise. But something breaks the surface. A shift. A ripple moves through me — not loud, just enough to reach the edges.

My posture tightens — shoulders rigid, chin tilted just enough to keep my eyes on the treeline. Because if I look at him, I might break my own rules. Might give too much away.

These aren’t real questions.
Not all of them.

They’re deflection.
Pressure points. Bait.

If he flinches or lies — if he throws something hollow back at me, I’ll shut it down. Close the door. Lock it behind me.

Or if he answers…
If he gives me something real…

Maybe — just maybe I can say the thing I’ve never said out loud. Not because I’m ready. Not because it’s safe.

Because this time…
Someone’s still here. Still watching.
Not like Aizawa — quiet because he respected the silence.

This is different.

Bakugou waits like he’s listening to what I haven’t said yet. Not walking past it. Not pretending it didn’t happen.
Like he expects an answer.

Waiting in a way that says he’s not going anywhere. Still watching. Not with kindness. Not with pity. With intent.
Like he wants to know, like he wants to understand, like he’s going to wait me out. Until I say it. And maybe not even then.

I’ve never had that before. And it’s terrifying.
Because it means I can’t disappear — not this time.

The silence stretches — too long.
Long enough that the question dulls in my chest. Unanswered. Settled like stone.
So I stop holding my breath.

The air shifts — sharp, charged, no warning. I catch it instantly.

The way his scent changes — subtle, but precise. Not the smoke. Not the burn. Those stay. But beneath them, something locks into place. Not anger. No heat spike. Not adrenaline.
Just focus. Cold. Clean. Like the edge of a decision already made.

Then he exhales — sharp, through his nose. Not a scoff. Just breath, pushed out hard enough to carry weight.

“Sure.”

He lets the word hang — like it came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach.

“Preschool.”

He doesn’t look at me.

Just keeps staring ahead — jaw shifting like he’s chewing something down to its bone. A memory, maybe. One that never sat right.

“Was pissed off. Couldn’t control it. Blew out the windows. Scared the teachers shitless.”

His voice is level. Clipped. Not distant — just exact. Sharp at the edges.
He glances over — not to check my reaction, but to dare me to miss the point.

“Started training the next day.”

It doesn’t sound proud. It sounds practiced — like pressure worn into muscle memory, honed and carried.

His jaw flexes. A dry breath presses out.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t try to land the line. But his next words still hit like weight dropped into water.

“You think I got this far by holding back? By ever being weak?”

There’s no heat in it. No bite. Just the hard shape of truth — stripped down and worn smooth from how long he’s carried it.

“I didn’t start strong. I trained harder. Pushed farther. Got better than every extra who couldn’t keep up.”

He shrugs. A single, sharp motion — like a blade shifting beneath the skin. Not casual. Not careless. Controlled.

“So yeah. I’ve lost control.”

Another breath — not a pause. More like a shift in weight before the next strike.

“Doesn’t mean it gets to win.”

His words land in my chest — not loud, not sharp. Just heavy. Like something meant to stay there. A stone caught behind bone — unmoving.

The last part lodges deeper — heavier than the rest. It wasn’t a confession. Wasn’t a challenge. Wasn’t even meant for me.

But I can’t unhear it. And somehow, it changes something anyway. Not relief. Not understanding. Something smaller. Tighter. Like the low groan of metal under strain — quiet, but loaded.

My gaze lifts. Finds his. And for a moment, I don’t move. Don’t blink.

I let it happen — steady, deliberate — like contact might make it real. Like something in me uncoiled, just enough to stop bracing for the worst. Enough to see him clearly.
Still seated. Still steady. Not smug. Not soft.

Certain.

He doesn’t ask for anything back. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. Just leaves it there — like it should be obvious. Like I’m the one who has to choose whether to ignore it.
A truth that doesn’t soften when I don’t answer. Doesn’t care if I take it.

I could walk away.
Let the moment pass. Let it sink and disappear like it never happened.

But the pressure inside me doesn’t stop building. It’s not panic. Not rage. Not fear. Not the clawing heat I’ve spent years trying to hold back. It’s quieter than that.

Heavier.

Like pressure building behind something sealed too long — ready to break. And before I can decide what to do with it, my mouth opens. The sound comes out before the thought does — low, dry. Like they’ve been waiting too long to surface. Unshaped. Uninvited.

Not a story. Just a fracture. Just the first break.

“I was four.”

It lands flat. Voice low, almost monotone. But something inside the sound drags — raw at the edges.

I don’t hold his gaze. I can’t.

My eyes drop — to my hands, my knees, the dirt. Anything closer. Anything safer.
Like if I look down, I can keep the words from unraveling too fast. Like eye contact might crack something open that I’m not ready to spill.

“I don’t remember what set it off.”

My throat tightens. I push through it.

“I just… woke up screaming.”
“Everything hurt — my chest, my bones. I couldn’t move.”

There’s a pause — I don’t plan it. It just takes that long to get the next part loose.
The stone presses cold into my skin.
It should anchor me. But it doesn’t. Not really. Not through everything else.

“The next thing I remember was her.”

The image is already there — lodged behind my eyes. Burned in too deep to need words.

“My mother. Screaming.”

The tension winds down my neck, through my arms. My fingers press into my lap — curled tight, one breath from a fist.

“My father tried to hold her back.”
“Tried to shield her.”

Another breath works its way out — sharp, low. Controlled.

“I didn’t understand what was happening.”

The next line drags the deepest — heavy, inevitable. I feel it hit before it leaves my mouth.

“Just that something was wrong.”
“That I was wrong.”

I let the words hang. Let them settle where they land. Not because there’s nothing left. Just to breathe — because the next part leans too close to the edge.

I don’t lift my head. But I can feel him.
Solid. Unmoving. Still there. And beneath the quiet — a thread of something sharp. Not judgment. Not recoil.
Anticipation, laced through the smoke.

I wait for something else — a flinch, a twitch of discomfort. Anything I can take and use to shut this back down.

But it never comes. And somehow, that’s what lets me keep going. Even if it hurts.

“They came fast,” I say — voice low, steady, like I’m reciting someone else’s memory.
“Men in suits. Quiet voices. Cold hands.”

My fingers stay locked in place. Not trembling. Just braced — like tension alone might keep me from breaking.

“Said it was for my safety.”

I don’t blink. Don’t move.

“I don’t know who called them.”
“Could’ve been her. A neighbor. Someone else.”

I let out a slow sigh. Not defeat. Not acceptance. Just release.

“Doesn’t matter.”

It never did. Not to them. Not in the end. It only mattered enough to take me.
And that was the last thing anyone explained. Because they were always coming. And no one tried to stop them. No hesitation. No questions.

Just removal.

I still haven’t looked at him. Still haven’t said where they took me. But this is the beginning. And I feel the next fracture already rising behind my ribs. Not done. Not even close.

Every second after that moment stripped something away — carved out whatever name I used to have and etched something colder in its place.

The silence folds around it, tight. Cold. The words come quieter now. Sharper. Like glass cutting through still water.

“They didn’t take me to a hospital.”
“Or a school.”

I pause. A flicker of stillness — enough to let it hold, not fade. But long enough it might sound like the end.

“Do you know what they call the place they send kids like me?”

I don’t wait for an answer.

“Tokui-sha Antei Shien-in.”
“The Stabilization Support Institute for Anomalous Cases.”

The words come flat. Institutional. Like I’ve said them too many times — or tried too hard to forget them.

“TASI, for short.”

A faint shrug — barely there. Just a twitch of my shoulder. A breath that doesn’t carry.
Silence settles in again. When I speak next, my voice is cooler — trimmed of anything soft.

“Sounds like a care facility.”

And then, lower — the truth that slips past the edge.

“Feels like a cage.”

I don’t say what happened there. Don’t want to.The name is enough. Let it fall. See what he does with it.

The words don’t stop. They stagger. Caught behind something I hadn’t noticed until now — the shape of a wait. For him. For anything.

Or maybe just… whatever comes next.

I keep still. Eyes down. But every sense stays tuned to him. I don’t have to look to know.
I can feel it — the change in the air. The scent shifting. Something tilts in the burn. Nitroglycerin pulled taut—like friction before fire.

He’s going to speak.

I feel it in the pressure. The stillness before detonation. So I shift—just slightly. My gaze ticks sideways. Not a full turn. Not an invitation. Just… ready.

A flick of green meets the corner of red.
No expression. But I’m already braced. For anger. Disbelief. The flinch I thought might come earlier. The one I swore I could handle.

When he finally speaks — it’s not sharp, not cruel. Just… off. Low voice, slight frown. A tone that doesn’t match the weight of what I gave him. Like he’s trying to puzzle it out loud, not realizing how it lands.

“Tch. Sounds like one of those government rehab centers.”
“Health support. Mental checkups. Stabilization shit.”

He’s not mocking. Theres just confusion — wrapped in assumption. Like he thinks he knows what that kind of place is. Like he thinks that’s all it ever was.

“So what — you went through the system and came out the other side. Big deal.”

There was no side to come out on.
Nothing waiting. No life to return to.
Home never existed.

It didn’t.

But he keeps going — voice rougher, more pointed. Frustration behind every word, like he’s trying to carve logic out of something that won’t break open.
Not to understand. Just to break it down into something he can handle.

“Then why the hell do you need someone like Aizawa breathing down your neck?”
“They that scared of you losing it again?”

The heat under his scent frays — not rage, not calm. Just something raw and unresolved, coiling too tight. Sharp with something that doesn’t know where to land.

He’s not aiming to hurt. Just trying to make sense of it. But every word misses the mark — and cuts anyway.

He’s reaching blind. And hitting everything I didn’t say.

I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t have the words. But because I’m still watching him fumble through the wrong version of my life — the one where I got better. Got out. Lived.
Where I was released because I was safe. Because someone decided I deserved to leave.

He still doesn’t understand — I didn’t leave. Not really. Didn’t walk out healed or changed or whole.

I was let out. Not because I was safe. Not because I was done. Because Nezu stepped in. Because the people who kept me locked up… couldn’t justify it anymore.

No freedom. No clean bill of health. It wasn’t release. It was rerouting. They didn’t choose to let me go. They just lost the power to stop it.

The quiet folds around us — tight, expectant. Close enough to snap.

The decision to speak builds. Quiet. Inevitable. I don’t want to say it. But I will.
Because he’s wrong. And letting him stay wrong feels heavier than the truth.

So the words rise — clear, cold, necessary.
Even if I’m already tired of carrying them.

My eyes stay fixed on the treeline — sharp edges softened by distance, by stillness. But my voice cuts through the quiet anyway. Low. Not angry. Just… controlled.

“You don’t get it, Bakugou.”

I feel the shift before he moves. The flare in the air. The spike in heat. His scent changes instantly — irritation singed with offense. Static. Burnt sugar. The first bite of something volatile.

Of course he bristles. Of course he reacts.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Classic Bakugou — sharp tone, louder now, already halfway to pissed.

This is the version I understand — all teeth, no masks. It’s loud, but it makes sense. Predictable. Manageable. The kind of fury that leaves no room for doubt.

“You think I’m some idiot who can’t figure out your shit?”

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t have to. His voice sharpens — like he’s leaning in without moving at all.

“You gonna sit there and act like no one could ever understand you?”

A pause — thin as wire. Held breath.
Then the snap, fast and clean, like a trigger pulled. All that heat, finally breaking through the silence.

“Spit it out, Scales.”

My breath punches out — sharp through my nose. Not a sigh. A decision.

I turn my head. Slowly. Deliberately.
Meet his eyes — and for once, I don’t guard the edges.
I don’t look away. Don’t look past.
I let him see what silence hasn’t said.
My expression holds — not hard, not blank. Just steady. Just enough.

“Class 1-A wasn’t a school placement.”
“It was a condition of release.”

I watch it hit. The flicker in his face.

The shift in his eyes — not shock. Not pity. Something sharper. Like the moment a match burns too close to your fingers.

His scent drops — heat smothered by cold air, like something volatile suddenly contained.

It finally lands. Not the version he assumed.
Not the story he built.
But the weight behind the word — worn smooth from how many times I’ve had to carry it alone.
Not recovery. Not return.

Release.

First time outside.
First time unchained.
First time allowed in daylight.
Measured. Monitored. Never mine — not really.

But still, it was freedom. The first taste.
Real enough to ache for. Fragile enough to lose through the barest touch.

It doesn’t need repeating. The weight of it speaks louder than I ever could.

I just hold his gaze a second longer — long enough to make sure it sticks. Then look away. Back to the treeline.

One truth — heavy, settled, undeniable. Enough to shake the shape of everything he assumed.

The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels full — stretched tight around the truth, heavy enough to reshape the air.

I don’t press it. Don’t speak again.
Some truths don’t need echo.
They just need time to land.

To settle. And stay.

Chapter Text

Bakugou POV

Like a bomb going off in my skull.

“Class 1-A wasn’t a placement. It was a condition of release.”

Stops me cold. Cuts the fucking wires. Nothing moves.

Feels like taking a blast straight to the chest just without the heat — no warning, no way to brace.

Everything just halts. Static in my head, white and sharp, like somebody hit the kill switch and left me standing in the wreckage.

Condition of release.

The words won’t shut up. Keep hammering, harder every time.

Didn’t see it coming. Didn’t even fucking consider it.

Every read I thought I had on her. Every reaction I thought I nailed. Every smug little conclusion I stacked together like I had her figured out.

All of it — trash.

Like I’ve been building on the wrong foundation the whole damn time. Wrong picture. Wrong puzzle. And I was too damn proud of myself to notice.

Her silence.
The way she never gives more than the bare minimum — not a thought, not a feeling — just enough to pass, never enough to know.

Thought it was just walls. Thought she was choosing to keep her distance.

But now?

Now it feels like a fucking muzzle. Locked tight. Not by choice — by design.

Her stare.
Those eyes — the moment they shifted, pupils gone sharp, reptile-slit and locked on me.

I thought it was control. That cold, calculated calm that made my blood itch.

But no.

It wasn’t calm. It was containment. Chains rattling behind her pupils in the half-second they weren’t human.

The way she fought.
Efficient. Precise. Execution instead of warm-up.

I thought she was holding back because she didn’t want to show off.

Bullshit.

She wasn’t allowed to. Every step, every strike, cut down to the bare minimum just so she didn’t break through whatever leash she’s on.

Her reactions.
That split-second freeze when the noise cracked the pattern. The pen nearly snapping in her hand.

I thought I caught her slipping. Proof she was still human under all that stone.

But maybe that wasn’t a slip.

Maybe that was the whole fucking point — her body remembering a cage I didn’t even know existed.

Her seat at the table.
Right next to me, same tray, same group.
And yet she still felt miles away.

I told myself she was just being a ghost. Just another quiet freak in the crowd.

But ghosts don’t get chained to classrooms. Ghosts don’t get “released.”

Condition of release.

The words echo harder. Louder. Tearing through every memory I thought I understood.

With every hit, something shifts. Old reads snapping apart. Assumptions cracking down the middle. Pride splintering like glass.

The puzzle I built — the one I thought was solid — was fucked from the start. Wrong edges, wrong picture. Because I was missing the piece at the center.

Condition of release.

Now it’s there. And every time it slams into me, the picture twists — pieces snapping into place, sharper, uglier.

And the more it sharpens, the worse it looks. Every piece that locks in shows me what’s been missing — what she’s been missing.

She’s never been outside. Not really. No streets, no crowds, no walking home after class.

Over a decade gone. Locked away while the rest of us lived like kids.

And that’s where it claws deeper. The split between us.

I was four when my quirk showed. Sparks cracking in my palms, bright enough to blind. The teachers at preschool lost their shit — clapping, cheering, calling me a prodigy. The other kids swarmed closer, wide-eyed, like I’d just turned into a hero overnight.

That was my start. A celebration. A crowd around me, chanting my name before I even knew what to do with it.

For her?

Four years old was the end. Quirk shows up, and instead of celebration, they slammed the door on her life before it ever had the chance to start.

No friends.
No schoolyard noise.
No summer festivals.
No birthdays with cakes and candles.

Nothing.

I can’t even fucking picture it.

My old hag would’ve burned the world down before she let anyone take me away.

That thought slams the brakes. Hard. Leaves me staring at nothing — at the trees swaying in front of me, at the blur of green that doesn’t mean shit compared to the picture forming in my head.

And before I can stop it, my body moves first.

Head turns. Eyes lock on her. Just a flicker — pupils wide, breath catching for half a second. Too fucking slow to school it back down.

The words leave before I can choke them off.

“…your parents…”

Flat. Barely more than a rasp. But out there anyway.

I fucking hate it.

And now that I’m looking at her — staring straight into her — I catch it.

The shift. Small — so subtle anyone else would miss it. The way her breath pulls in, the faint flare at the edge of her nose.

It slams into me all over again. That thing she said after USJ. That she doesn’t see us the way we think.

She smells us. Reads us. Closer. Deeper. More intimate.

And now I know what that means. Because right here, right now, she’s doing it to me. Studying me. Picking me apart while I sit here like a fucking idiot.

She’s stripping me down — scent, heat, every twitch under my skin. Every thought I just spiraled through, every crack I didn’t say out loud — she’s catching it anyway.

Live. Unfiltered.

The raw shit in my chest laid out like I put it there myself.

I slipped. I fucked up. I gave her too much without even realizing it. And I can’t take it back.

My jaw locks. Fingers twitch against my leg, itching to clench, to burn, to do something just to drown out the feeling.

But I don’t move. Can’t. Stuck there, staring — and hating every second of it. Her for seeing it. Myself for letting it fucking happen.

And she doesn’t look away. Not once.

Her gaze stays locked on mine, steady, unflinching. Like she’s got all the answers and I’m the idiot still figuring out the question.

Then the smallest ripple of movement — her posture tightening, a breath drawn steady and deep.

“As far as I know… they never came back.”

No anger. No grief. Just the kind of emptiness that says it’s already been lived through.

“I stopped waiting for them a long time ago.”

The words land sharp — not loud, not heavy — but sharp. Like glass splintering under the skin, quiet but impossible to pull out.

And I hate how it hits. Because I’ve been sitting here tearing myself apart, spiraling like a dumbass, and she drops it clean. Flat. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not supposed to matter anymore.

But it does. It fucking does.

My chest tightens. Heat spikes under my skin. I want to argue, to snap, to demand how the hell she can say it like that — like parents are something you can just stop waiting for.

Because mine were always there. Loud. Breathing down my neck. Shoving me forward whether I wanted it or not.

And the idea of them never coming back —

Tch. It doesn’t fit. Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t belong in a world I know.

But for her? That’s her normal. That’s her life. And I don’t have a single word to throw back.

The silence stretches, her face giving me nothing back, and it grates too hard. I look away first, teeth grinding, gaze dropping to the ground.

Doesn’t help. Just leaves me alone with her voice in my head — every word sharper, louder, until it twists into the only question that matters.

If her parents never came back… then where the hell has she even been staying? Not just now. Not just this week. From the second she got out and walked into U.A.?

She said it herself. Class 1-A wasn’t a placement. It was a condition of release.

So who the hell signed off on that release? Who’s been holding the key ever since?

The answer hits before I can shove it down. A rough breath slips out — almost a groan, low and sharp in my throat. Because how the fuck didn’t I see it?

It’s so obvious. Every damn sign pointing the same way. Like there was ever another option.

I can hear it in her voice again, that offhand way she said it, like it was nothing, like it was just a line in her file.

He’s my caretaker.

And now every moment I’ve watched between them slams into place.

The way he tracks her, quiet, constant, like he’s measuring every step she takes. The way she glances back at him, quick, precise, too controlled to be habit. The way he never tests her, never snaps at her, never treats her like the rest of us.

Not a teacher. Not a mentor. A guard.

Her guard.

The words grind in my head, heat crawling through my chest, restless, ugly. It won’t sit still. None of it will.

And before I can stop myself, I’m looking at her again.

She hasn’t moved. Still steady. Still watching. Like she knew exactly where this spiral would land.

Her breath draws in, slow, deliberate — the kind that feels less like breathing and more like choosing.

Then she speaks.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”

Not smug. Not mocking. Just level. Like she’s stating the obvious. Like she’s been waiting for me to drag myself here, letting me spin in circles until I finally caught up.

The heat spikes in my chest all over again.

“Like hell I didn’t,” I bite back, teeth gritted. “You think I’m that fucking dense?”

The words come out harsher than I planned, too raw, too close to the truth I can’t stand — that she read me like a book, and I hate it.

Her eyes hold mine, steady.

“You weren’t blind. You just didn’t bother to look past what you wanted to see.”

The words stick under my skin like glass. I try to shove them down, but they won’t move. Heat’s climbing, crawling through my chest, sweat pricking at my palms. I can feel the sparks starting to spit between my fingers, itching for a target.

“You don’t know what the hell I bothered with!” I snap, voice too loud, too raw. I’m on my feet before I even realize it, fists tight, heat crackling at the edges. “I watched you, I read you, I—”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Just sits there, calm, back straight, gaze locked on me like she’s anchored to the ground.

“No,” she says, flat. “You assumed. You decided what I was without ever asking who I am.”

My teeth grit, jaw aching. The sparks bite hotter. “Tch—don’t you fucking twist it—”

Still steady. Still unflinching. She doesn’t even raise her voice.

“You didn’t get to know me. You built an answer you liked and called it the truth.”

Her words slice clean, and it makes the heat crawl higher, burning in my throat.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, but it comes out too thin, too close to the bone.

She doesn’t stop.

“You thought you understood. You didn’t. You never looked past what was easy.”

My fists twitch. Sparks spit against my palms, bright and angry. My legs move before I can tell them not to, dragging me closer.

“And now that you see more?” Her tone doesn’t shift. “You hate it. Not because I lied. Because you were wrong.”

“Shut UP!”

I’m right in front of her now, heat crackling between us. She hasn’t flinched once. Not a blink. Not a shift. Just sitting there, staring straight through me.

And it makes something snap.

My hand shoots out, fisting into the fabric at her collar, yanking her half forward. My other hand lifts, sparks spitting off my palm, itching for release.

Her expression doesn’t change. Like even this — my hands on her shirt, fire crackling between us — was just another move she already saw coming. Calm. Unshaken. The same goddamn stillness that’s been driving me insane since the second she walked into this class.

And the longer she holds it, the worse it gets — the heat in my chest climbing, the sparks biting hotter against my skin, the fury burning louder because she won’t give me anything back.

But I’m wrong.

She moves in a blink — her hand snapping around my wrist, twisting. Her weight shifts, hip turning, and before I can brace she’s dragging me forward and flipping me clean over her shoulder.

The ground slams into my back, breath punching out of me. My fist opens on impact, sparks scattering useless across the floor.

By the time I blink the spots out of my vision, I’m staring up — only to see her standing over me. Feet planted, shoulders squared, steady as stone. Not gloating. Not even breathing hard. Just set above me like this is where she was always meant to be.

And then I see her eyes — green, slitted, locked on me.

The sight claws under my skin, makes the heat in my chest spike higher. Because I know. I fucking know she’s right. Every word she threw at me, every cut — dead on. I built my version of her, wrapped it up neat, called it truth, and she just ripped it apart in seconds.

Fine. She’s right.

But that doesn’t give her the right to stand there and act like it’s enough. To keep hiding behind silence and muzzles and cages long after the lock’s been broken.

“You think being right means you get to waste it?” The words tear out of me, low and rough, as I push myself up on my elbows. “All that time locked up — and you’re still sitting here throwing it away.”

The sparks bite hotter across my palms as I shove myself to my feet.

“You’ve got freedom now, Scales. Start acting like it.”

I square my shoulders, fire snarling alive in my hands.

“Because I’m not fighting you half-caged at the Festival. I’m fighting you at your best.”

And then I’m moving — blasting forward, explosions spitting under my palms as I launch myself straight at her.

She braces, fast, but I’m already on her — fist swinging, heat tearing through the air. She slips back, pivots, her movements clean as always, but I don’t let up. I won’t.

“You’re scared of it, aren’t you?” My voice rips out between blasts, sharp and raw. “Scared of your own fucking quirk.”

Another strike, another flare of heat. She dodges — fast, efficient — but I see the hesitation, the way she reins it in.

“Stop choking it down!” I snarl, driving another blast at her feet, forcing her to move. “Stop acting like you’re gonna break the world every time you breathe!”

She slips to the side, counter fast as hell, but I catch the edge of her movement, the instinct she keeps shoving down. And it only pisses me off more.

“You think hiding makes you stronger?!”

I slam another explosion into the ground, propelling forward, close enough to see the edge of her slitted gaze again.

“Bullshit! It just makes you weaker. It makes you a fucking coward.”

I push harder, faster, every strike meant to drag it out of her.

“You don’t get to waste your freedom, Scales. Not after what it cost you. Not after what you survived.”

I bare my teeth, heat crawling up under my skin, sparking louder with every word.

“You’re gonna fight with everything you’ve got at the Sports Festival. You’re gonna prove every single one of those bastards wrong for ever caging you in.”

The words burn in my throat, tearing out like fire.

“And we’re starting right here. Right now.”

My palm ignites, blast kicking me forward, straight at her.

And that’s when it happens.

Her body shifts before her mind does — claws flashing out, stance dropping low, shoulders coiled like a predator ready to spring. No hesitation. No calculation. Just raw instinct snapping to the surface.

For the first time, she’s not holding it back. She’s meeting me head-on.

We collide mid-charge, the impact rattling up my arms, her claws dragging hot across my sleeve. She doesn’t stop — she drives forward, slips under my shoulder in a flash of motion, twisting around my side. Her hip slams into mine, her leg hooking sharp. My balance is gone before I can catch it.

The ground slams up. My back cracks against concrete and she’s already rolling with me, weight snapping down across my chest. One arm pinned beneath her claws, her knee braced against my ribs. Her face is a snarl, eyes cut to slits, teeth flashing like she’s two breaths from tearing me open.

A growl tears out of my throat. I fire my free hand into the floor, the explosion ripping us sideways. Smoke and grit sear my lungs as we skid across the arena, spinning through the dust.

I come up on a knee, coughing, sparks already building. She’s there, crouched low in the haze, claws flexing, chest heaving, every line of her body tuned to strike again.

She lunges.

I catch her wrist, sparks spitting between our grips, but she twists — fast, brutal. Her elbow slams into my ribs, knocking the air out of me. Before I can reset, she spins behind me, my arm wrenched into a lock. Her knee jams the back of mine, forcing me down, teeth grinding as I fight the leverage.

Instinct. Every damn move of hers is instinct. No wasted motion. No second-guess. Just that predator drive, faster than I can burn through.

I snarl and blast wild, recoil tearing me free. The detonation spins us both, ripping us off balance.

We hit the floor again, bodies tangling, rolling hard across the concrete until momentum drags us flat.

She lands half across me, weight slanted over my ribs, her arm hooked near my shoulder, claws dug into the ground for balance. Lungs burning, every nerve sparking raw. My chest heaves against the ache, ribs protesting from the impact.

The dust hasn’t even settled. It hangs in the air, clinging to sweat, scratching in my throat. Strands of her hair fall loose across my face, sticking to skin damp with heat and grit. I can feel the dull, uneven thud of her heartbeat through the press against my side, heavy and relentless like my own.

Neither of us moves. Not yet. The silence is carved out only by the ragged pull of our breathing, the raw weight of exhaustion holding us down as surely as any pin.

I drag in air, sharp and broken, chest straining against hers. “… that’s how you fight.” Another breath, teeth grit against the burn. “That’s how you’re gonna fight in the damn Sports Festival.”

A few more gasps tear out of me, throat raw, body still buzzing like live wire. I lift a hand, weak but stubborn, and shove it against her head, pushing her hair back out of my face with a rough growl.

“Now get the hell off me.” My voice scrapes harsh, half-breath, half-snarl. “Move it, Scales.”

She lets out a low groan, then shifts with the smallest motion possible — half controlled, half collapse — like her body refuses to waste more energy.

Through grit-stained teeth comes a rasped, “Shut up,” before she lets herself drop beside me on the floor.

The dust swirls back down around us, settling into the cracks of the concrete, while our breaths tear ragged into the quiet.

Slowly, my breathing starts to even out, but the adrenaline won’t let my body settle. The haze in my head sharpens into one thought — she’s gonna fight like that.

Every damn time.

A grin spreads, raw and jagged, carved straight out of the fight still buzzing in my veins. She’s strong when she stops holding back. I’ll make her bring it to the Sports Festival — every last bit. Make her show them all she was never meant to be chained.

And when I take first place, it’ll shut every one of those extras up.

I’m the best. End of fucking story.

Chapter Text

The room is quiet, wrapped in the soft, amber glow of the lamp on my bedside table. The light is weak, just enough to push back the dark, shadows stretched long across the walls. Outside, the city hums low through the glass.

Friday night. Two days until the Sports Festival. By Monday morning, I’ll be standing in front of more people than I can picture. Noise, eyes, judgment pressing in from every side.

The thought should lock my chest. It should send my hands shaking like it did last week.

But I’m not trembling. Not tonight.

It startles me when I notice it — how steady my breathing is, how still my body feels under the thin blanket. A week ago, the idea of that arena would have hollowed me out, frozen me before I could take a step.

Now it doesn’t. The fear is still there, buried under my skin, but it doesn’t drown me anymore.

Who would have thought one week could change so much?

My fear, my hesitation, the way I carry myself — shifted, reshaped, unsettled in ways I didn’t expect. Even the way I think about myself feels different, like something sharp has been forced into the cracks I tried so hard to keep sealed.

And it started with him.

Bakugou’s unrelenting drive. His refusal to let me hide. Every time I tried to pull away, he dragged me forward again, like his existence alone refuses to let me stop moving. His presence is a constant strike against stone — loud, sharp, impossible to ignore. And his words… they still burn in my chest, heavier than I want to admit.

That I will prove all those bastards wrong.
That I was not meant to be caged.

The memory presses against my ribs, coils tight in my lungs, refuses to fade. For the first time in years, I don’t know if what lingers is anger or something else entirely. All I know is that it’s changed me.

Even now, the echo of his words doesn’t leave me. It carries me back to last Sunday — the very next day, when he pushed me again.

The ground is rough beneath me, gravel biting through the fabric of my gym pants as I drop down hard, lungs burning from the last exchange. My bottle is cold in my hand, the water sharp down my throat.

Beside me, Bakugou slams down just as hard, sweat running hot down his face, his breath tearing in and out like he’s ready to start the next round before this one’s even finished.

“You’re still not going all out,” he growls, voice low, cutting through the silence.

I keep my eyes on the dirt, the rim of the bottle pressed against my lip. Doesn’t matter. I can still feel his stare burning through me.

He doesn’t stop. “Why the hell aren’t you using your scales? You could block half my hits with those. They’re hard as shit — I saw them take bullets.”

The words sink sharp. My fingers tighten around the plastic. My chest tightens harder with the memory — that sting, the crack of impact, scales tearing out under my skin without warning.

“I can’t,” I say, the words quieter than I mean them. Thin. “I don’t know how.”

His stare sharpens.

“They only show up when… when it’s too much,” I force out. “I can’t summon them without shifting completely. And that —” My jaw locks. “That’s worse.”

Bakugou exhales rough, sharp with frustration.

“Tch. So you’ve got armor under your skin and don’t even know how to use it.”

I don’t answer. His glare presses harder, heavy as stone, but silence is safer.

The frustration lingers. His. Mine. Coiling low, lodged deep, the kind that won’t shake loose overnight.

By the time Monday comes, it’s still there, sharp in my chest, when he cuts through the hallway noise and corners me.

Students blur around us, voices spilling loud across the corridor, footsteps clattering past. But Bakugou’s glare pins me in place like the rest of it doesn’t exist.

“You’re not just sparring with me anymore.” His voice is low, blunt, like it’s already decided. “You’re gonna start taking on the others.”

I shift my weight, the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder. “No.”

He takes a step closer, heat rolling off him, sharp enough to bite. “Tch. Don’t give me that shit.”

“I’ll hurt them,” I say, steady as I can. My jaw locks. “You know I will.”

His teeth bare, frustration snapping hard across his face. “You think they’re that weak? Or you that out of control?”

The words cut deeper than I want them to. My throat tightens, but I don’t give him an answer.

He doesn’t wait for one. He just exhales hard through his nose, scoffing, like my silence proves him right. Then he shoulders past me, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The crowd parts for him without a word, like it always does.

But the sting doesn’t leave when he does. It follows, burning in my ribs, threaded through every breath I drag in.

By the next day, it hasn’t dulled. If anything, it grates harder, turning the cafeteria noise into something jagged, every laugh and clatter digging under my skin.

I take my usual spot at the Bakusquad’s table — Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina, Sero, and Bakugou with his scowl set like always. The noise is loud, their voices rising above the rest, easy in a way I can’t quite mimic, but it doesn’t feel strange to sit here anymore.

They’re hyped about the Festival, all of them. Kirishima’s grin is sharp, eyes bright. Mina’s laugh cuts above the din, Kaminari chiming in, Sero throwing his arms wide like the cafeteria itself is the stage.

Then Mina leans across, pink hair bouncing, eyes bright on me.

“You excited for it, Hibari?”

The question catches me mid-breath. My throat locks. The tray feels heavier. The truth slips before I can stop it.

“I’m not,” I say, flat. “The noise. The people. All of it.”

It drops like a stone into the chatter. For a beat, none of them speak. Even the background noise of the cafeteria feels sharper, pressing closer.

Then Sero recovers first, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh — hey, you should watch some of the old footage. Like, past years’ Sports Festivals. Helps to know what you’re walking into, y’know?”

Kirishima nods quick, grin steady. “Yeah, man, it’s actually good prep. You’ll see the layout, the events, even how the crowd reacts. Makes it easier when it’s not all hitting you fresh.”

Mina leans back, her smile softer this time. “It’s way less scary when you know what to expect.”

I don’t answer, but I file it away. The suggestion settles heavy in my chest, threading itself into the back of my thoughts.

Wednesday, change has its hold on me whether I want it or not.

Aizawa calls for sparring drills. Students scatter across the training grounds, voices carrying sharp through the open air as they call for partners.

I freeze.

My claws ache at the thought of it, pulse running faster with every second that passes. The idea of choosing someone — of closing distance, of striking — turns sharp in my chest.

Before I can move, before the panic roots too deep, Kirishima grins and nudges my arm.

“Hey, Hibari. You in?”

His tone is light, steady, the kind that doesn’t leave room for refusal. My throat tightens, but I nod once.

We square off across the mat. He braces immediately, skin hardening with a sound like stone grinding together. “Don’t hold back,” he calls, sharp grin cutting across his face. “I can take it.”

My stance lowers before I realize it. Claws slip free with a quiet scrape, catching the light. I move first — quick, testing. A slash meant for his shoulder.

It lands with a dull crack against his hardened skin. No give. He just laughs, unshaken. “Not bad! Again!”

I push harder. Claws flash, feet striking quick against the floor, every motion sharp, precise. He takes each hit without flinching, like I’m throwing pebbles at concrete. His laugh stays steady, voice cutting through the clash. “C’mon, Hibari — you’re faster than that!”

Something loosens. For once, the risk of hurting someone doesn’t clamp down on me. I don’t have to hold back — not against him. Instinct edges sharper, breath pulling quicker, each strike closer to the way my body wants to move.

Through it all, I feel it — that stare. Bakugou’s. Heavy, sharp, unblinking. It burns against my back, every slash and strike drawn tighter under the weight of his silence.

When I chance a glance, he doesn’t say a word. He just gives me a single nod, short and clipped.

The realization cuts quick — Kirishima didn’t ask by chance. Bakugou had a hand in this, one way or another.

And the thought doesn’t close my chest the way it used to. It settles differently.

Because he was right.

Sparring with others doesn’t mean breaking them. They’re not weak. And I can still let go without losing everything.

The feeling stays with me into Thursday, low but steady, like a rhythm I can’t shake. Training runs again, this time to work on individual skills.

Most pair off, voices carrying across the open grounds. I keep to myself, claws sliding free with barely a sound, the dirt beneath my shoes grinding as I move. Strikes carve through the air, faster each time — slashes, pivots, the low coil of my stance sinking deeper into instinct.

It builds sharper, heavier, the rush rising in my chest until I almost lose the thread of it.

My movements come too quick, claws cutting close enough that the air itself feels like it might split. For a breath, control slips, instinct pulling harder than I mean it to.

But I catch it. Rein it back in before it runs loose. My stance tightens, breath tearing rough through my lungs, claws flexing once before easing back.

And that’s when I feel it.

A presence at the edge of the field. Quiet. Watchful.

Aizawa.

He doesn’t move to stop me. Doesn’t call me out. Just stands there, still as stone, eyes on me.

For a second, I catch the faintest trace of him in the air — coffee, cloth, something else beneath it. And my instincts twist it into something more.

Pride.

It settles different than Bakugou’s push. Quieter, heavier. Silent approval in the fact that he does nothing at all.

The echoes thin, but never disappear. They never do. They leave their weight behind, threaded into me — Bakugou’s fire, Aizawa’s silence, every shift of the week pressed sharp against my ribs.

When I blink back, I’m here again. The room is still, wrapped in the amber glow of the bedside lamp, the hum of the city bleeding faint through the glass. Friday night. Two days left.

I push up from the bed and cross to my desk. The lamp there throws a smaller circle of light, catching on the paper I’ve left waiting.

My hero costume. The design finished, every line deliberate, every mark cut into place.

For once, I let myself look at it without tearing it apart. The shape of it, the intention behind it, the fact that it exists at all.

Pride stirs low in my chest — sharp, unfamiliar, but steady. It feels earned. Like proof that I’ve taken steps forward, that I’ve claimed something that belongs to me.

But the longer I look, the more my expression hardens. The lines blur under the weight of it.

It isn’t enough. Not yet. Because there’s one thing missing.

The most essential piece — the one thing that will decide whether the costume holds together or fails when I need it most. Without it, the rest is just fabric and theory.

Until I have it, it can’t be finished.

The train shudders to life at 5:37 a.m., pulling slow from the platform. The car is nearly empty, just a handful of figures scattered down the rows, faces hidden in scarves or pressed to the glass in sleep.

Outside, the city is still caught between night and morning, streets washed pale in the first gray light. Shuttered shopfronts drift past, neon signs flickering tired against the dawn.

The world feels half-asleep. But I’m not.

My pulse has been awake since long before the sun broke the horizon, steady and restless, carrying me here. The hum of the train settles under my skin like static.

The bag rests heavy across my lap, straps digging into my thighs with every sway of the car. It’s fuller than usual — food tucked inside, enough to last through the day, and Aizawa’s water bottle clipped to the side. My hands stay on it without meaning to, fingers tightening against the fabric like I need to anchor myself.

My phone sits in my hand, screen dim but alive with the last message I sent.

I’ll meet you there.

No reply yet. Maybe he’s still asleep. Maybe he saw it and didn’t care to answer.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there first. There’s something I need to do before he shows up.

The trail gives way to open stone, and the ruins rise ahead — the plateau stretched wide beneath the pale wash of morning.

The air is clean and clear, stripped of every sound but the wind. Weathered walls break the horizon, jagged silhouettes half-swallowed by moss and shadow. Shattered columns lean against the sky, the skeletal remains of something long abandoned.

My pulse steadies the moment I step onto the clearing. The shift is immediate, almost unnatural — like the air itself recognizes me, catching hold of my rhythm and slowing it down.

The silence here isn’t empty. It breathes. It waits.

Stone and shadow gather close, not suffocating but deliberate, as if the plateau itself is leaning in to listen. Each wall, each moss-swallowed column is less a ruin than a witness.

It’s different than before. Different than when I climbed this trail with Bakugou at my side. Now, standing here alone, the weight of it wraps around me — steady, patient, inevitable.

It feels less like I’ve arrived and more like the place has been keeping itself for this moment. For me. For now.

As if it already knows what I’ve come here to do.

The stillness settles deeper the longer I stand in it, wrapping itself into my lungs until every breath feels anchored, deliberate.

So, I move. Slow, steady. Toward the edge of the ruins where stone breaks into shadow.

My bag comes off my shoulder with a dull thud, Aizawa’s water bottle clinking soft against the ground. I push it back into a corner where the moss creeps high, half-hidden, out of sight.

For a moment, I just stand there.

The clearing stretches wide, quiet, the air waiting. My eyes trace over the broken columns, the walls leaning against the pale sky. Nothing stirs. No one’s here. Just me. Just this place.

I let the weight of it settle once more before I move again.

Shoes first, the laces tugged loose, fabric scraping against stone as I step free. Then the jacket. The rest follows, layer by layer, folded down into nothing but skin and air. No rush, no hesitation. Every motion measured. Chosen.

The stone beneath my feet is cold, rough, pressing sharp into my skin. The air folds over my shoulders, cool and clean, every shift of it alive against me. My body tightens, but it doesn’t tremble.

This isn’t retreat. It isn’t fear clawing its way out the way it used to.

This is choice.

I stand still, bare against the ruins, nothing between me and the silence but skin and resolve. No fabric to rip, no barrier to hide behind, no one here to take the fallout if I lose control. Just me.

That’s the point.

I’ve hidden this part of myself too long, shoved it down until it broke loose on its own terms. Not this time. If it’s going to surface, it’ll be because I let it. Because I called it.

The plateau waits with me, stone and shadow gathered close, patient, listening. My breath evens, my pulse slows, and for the first time it doesn’t feel like I’m being cornered.

It feels like I’m stepping forward. Deliberate. Decided.

My body knows where I need to be, pulling me toward the center of the clearing. Step by step, I return to the middle, where there’s enough space for what has to come next.

The ground beneath me is cold as I sink to my knees, rough edges biting through my skin. One hand braces against the ground, the other pressed to my chest as if I can steady the rhythm inside it. The air is sharp in my lungs, my pulse loud against my palm.

I draw in a breath and let it hold there, heavy, before the first crack runs through me.

It starts deep in the bones — a shift beneath the skin, sudden and brutal, like my body is trying to force itself open from within. The sound is muffled but sharp, joints grinding, muscles twisting against themselves. My teeth clench, breath breaking rough through the cage of my ribs.

I could stop. I always have — pulling back before it dragged me too far, before it broke loose.

Not this time.

The pain surges, carving through my spine, raw and brutal. My hands slam harder into stone as my frame stretches, bends, reshapes. The world narrows to the sound of my own body ripping loose from itself.

Push through.

The thought is jagged, ragged, loud enough to drown the fear.

Push through.

I grit my teeth until my jaw aches, until the ground blurs beneath me. Pain sears white behind my eyes, running across every limb, down into the marrow itself. It wracks through me in waves, tearing me open from the inside, dragging my body closer to what it’s meant to become.

Push through.

And then it hits — the sudden rupture, the tearing release as the shift completes. My breath rips free in a sound more growl than gasp, heat burning through every vein.

Scales tear across my skin in black ridges, gleaming sharp under the pale light. They spread like fire, crawling over my arms, across my chest, down the length of me until I’m no longer bare.

It steadies me. Because this is what I came here for.

The scales.

The only piece that can bind everything together. Without them, my costume is nothing but fabric — fragile, temporary, destined to tear the moment my body gives way to what lies beneath. No stitch, no weave could ever hold against the force of it.

But with them, it’s different.

My scales are born from me, forged from DNA, threads of design laid deep in blood, built to endure what nothing else can. If they’re woven into the costume, then every fracture, every surge, every break becomes something it can withstand.

With them, it won’t fall apart.
With them, it can hold.

Darkness lingers a breath too long, and then my eyes snap open.

The world isn’t the same. The edges cut sharper, shadows fall deeper, every movement pulls my gaze like it’s already mapped before I can think. Light bends strange, catching on stone and moss in ways my human eyes could never follow.

I’m not standing anymore. My weight drops low, balanced on all fours, claws sunk into gravel. The ground holds me steady, every muscle taut, braced.

Behind me, my tail drags heavy against the air, pulling at my spine — strange, but right. A counterweight. A tether. Balance I never had before.

Breath tears in deeper, chest expanding wider than it should. The air floods me, sharp with moss, earth, stone, traces of old water sunk into the cracks. Every scent strikes clear, layered and distinct, the kind of detail that used to blur together. Now it’s impossible to miss.

Sound cuts clearer now — the whisper of wind across broken walls, the hollow drip of water seeping stone, the steady thrum of my own pulse.

My body moves before thought does, shoulders shifting, claws flexing against the ground like I’ve done this a thousand times. The instinct is louder than language, carrying me into a rhythm my human skin could never find.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like losing control.

It feels like recognition.

Like this shape has always been waiting for me to step into it.

The ground holds steady under me, every crack in the stone mapped through the weight of my claws. My tail shifts slow behind me, heavy but precise, swaying with the smallest adjustment like it knows the balance better than I ever could.

I drag a breath deeper. The air floods too much, sharp and layered, but I let it settle, force myself to sift through it. Moss. Stone. My own heat burning against the cold.

Then my gaze drops to my arms where black ridges cut sharp across the skin, ridged and gleaming under the pale light. They catch every shift of motion, hard and certain, fused to me like they’ve always been waiting beneath the surface.

How do I take one? How do I pull a piece of myself free?

The thought twists strange in my chest. If I need them for the costume, if this is the only way to make it hold, then it has to be done. But I don’t know if they’ll come willingly, or if I’ll have to tear them loose.

Will it hurt?

Maybe. Probably. But pain is nothing new. My body has carried worse. My bones already split themselves open to bring me here.

And if this is the price — to shed pieces of myself, to give shape to what I’m meant to be — then so be it.

Slitted eyes sweep the clearing, sharp and searching. Stone, moss, broken walls. None of it is stable enough, none of it sharp enough to help me strip a scale clean. Even the trees at the edge would splinter before they’d cut deep.

Which leaves only one option.

I’ll have to tear them out myself.

The thought sticks hard, heavier than I want to admit. Blood will come with it. And if Bakugou finds it pooled here in the middle…

Yeah, that’s not happening.

I move off the plateau, slipping into the shadow of the trees. The air shifts cooler, filtered through branches, earth damp under my claws. The silence changes too — closer, heavier, the kind that presses against my ribs.

Instinct pushes before thought can catch up. My weight shifts higher, spine pulling straight as I rise up. The motion is awkward at first, strange in its stretch, but my body knows what to do. My tail rises as my front does, counterbalancing, steadying, until I’m standing on hind legs alone.

The ground feels different like this. Further away. Narrower beneath me. My pulse trips fast.

And then it breaks. My muscles snap forward before I can stop them, claws tearing the dirt, tail whipping to keep pace as I run.

It’s chaos at first — breath tearing too sharp, speed pulling me faster than I can steer. Panic claws higher, threatening to topple me.

But the ground holds. My balance holds. My body knows the rhythm even when my mind doesn’t.

Step by step, the panic dulls, swallowed by something else. Heat. Rush. Instinct that floods so clean it silences every thought.

The trees blur, air slicing cold against my ridges, and a sound rips free from me — not fear, not pain.

Something closer to exhilaration.

Then instinct takes hold. The forest doesn’t smear past anymore — every line stays sharp. My body runs wild, but my focus holds steady — the stillness of a predator in motion. The ground shifts beneath me, but my head doesn’t waver.

Obstacles come fast — trunks split across the path, stones jagged through moss — but I vault, twist, land without breaking stride. My tail lashes wide, balancing every shift of weight, keeping the rhythm clean.

The wild itself thrums alive around me.

A fox bolts from the underbrush, musk sharp in my nose. A crow bursts upward, wings rattling air. Farther off, the heavy scatter of deer hooves echoes, fleeing before they can be seen. Even insects hum louder, a thin tremor carried on the damp air.

Scents pour in, each one distinct against the rush. Sap bleeding fresh from torn bark, rot clinging thick to fallen leaves, cold stone leeching damp into the soil.

Each breath floods me with more — prey, earth, rain held deep in the roots. My lungs burn with it, but I don’t stop.

I want more.

The rhythm is perfect. Claws dig, legs coil, muscles drive me forward faster than thought can catch. My stride falls into place as if it always belonged — instinct taut, every movement effortless.

Everything falls away before me because it has to. Nothing can hold me back.

As the terrain breaks open before me, a sound builds before I even realize it, gathering in my chest, dragging raw from deeper than breath or bone. When it tears loose, it shatters through the trees — not a cry, not a scream.

A roar. Primal, uncontained. Loud enough to shake air and fracture the silence in every direction.

Not fear. Not rage.

Freedom.

And in the silence that follows, I know I’ll never let it go again.

Chapter Text

The world narrowed to rhythm — claws tearing dirt, breath flooding sharp, the forest rushing past in streaks of green and shadow. Instinct kept pushing me forward long after thought gave way.

By the time my stride falters, my chest heaves raw, lungs burning from the cold air. The momentum still surges through me, screaming to keep moving, but I force it down, drag my body into stillness against every pull of muscle and bone.

I slow, claws digging deep into the earth, tail dragging heavy behind me. The quiet that follows is thick, broken only by the rasp of my breathing. I don’t know where I’ve stopped. Not exactly. The ruins are somewhere behind me, but I’ve lost track of how far, how deep into the trees I’ve gone.

It doesn’t matter. I could keep running. I want to keep running.

Instinct still pulls at me, sharp and relentless — urging me to move, to chase, to tear the calm apart until nothing’s left. For a moment, I almost let it take me again. My muscles coil, claws scrape, breath steadies for another break forward.

But I catch myself. Clamp down on every motion, even as every nerve fights against it. Because I didn’t come here just to lose myself.

The thought is jagged, unwelcome, dragging against the rush like stone under skin.

As much as this feels like freedom, I came here with a purpose. And if I walk away without it, all of this means nothing.

My eyes drop to the black ridges cutting across my arms, gleaming dark where they catch the weak light. This was the point. Not the run. Not the roar.

The scales.

I need one.

The hush presses in heavier, as if the woods themselves resent the shift. My claws flex against my side, bracing. My body wants to lunge forward, to run wild again, but I hold it back, one breath at a time.

Back to business.

I rake across the ridges, slow at first. The sound is harsh, grating low like stone dragged over stone. But nothing. No pain. No give. The scales don’t shift under the pressure — they might as well be welded into me.

I press harder, dragging down the length of my arm until sparks scrape from the edges. Still nothing. I can’t even feel it.

A low growl builds in my chest, sharp with frustration.

So I change my angle. Curl my hand, drive the point of one claw toward the base of a scale at my side. It catches there, just barely, wedged between ridge and skin.

And then I feel it.

The pain is instant, sharp and white, tearing down my ribs. My breath stutters, muscles jerking tight around it. The scale holds fast, fused deeper than I thought, like it’s a part of the bone itself.

I grit my teeth and push harder, claw digging deeper into the seam, skin splitting wet around it. Blood beads fast, running hot down my side.

The forest is quiet but for my breath — ragged, uneven — and the scrape of claw against scale.

Not enough. I’ll have to pull.

The thought lodges deep, heavy as stone. My chest tightens around it. I know pain. I’ve lived it since the first time my body broke itself open. I’ve carried it like bone, worn it like skin. But this — this is different.

This is chosen.

My claws flex, pressing harder into the seam until the nerves scream sharp. Blood spills faster now, sliding hot down my side, sticky against my ribs. Every instinct in me wants to recoil, to shove the claw out and close the wound.

I force myself still.

The air thickens close, like even the trees are holding their breath, waiting for me to break. My pulse slams hard against my palm where it braces my ribs, too loud, too fast.

I grit my teeth until my jaw aches, drag air into my lungs slow, deliberate. If I hesitate, I won’t do it. If I flinch, I’ll stop.

So I don’t.

With one brutal wrench, I rip the scale upward — out and away from my side, tearing it raw from the socket it anchors into.

It feels wrong, like ripping out a piece of bone — more body than armor, too deep to ever come free clean.

The first thing that hits is the noise inside me — a wet, splitting crack, nerves lighting fire across my ribs. My vision blanks white, breath breaking in a screech I can’t swallow back. It tears sharp from my throat, rough and strained, but not the full force of a roar. The sound shreds the air close around me, then dies fast, swallowed by the trees.

The scale comes free in a rush. It strikes stone with a sharp clatter before rolling into the dirt, sinking dark into the moss and wet earth.

All strength leaves me with it. My limbs buckle underneath, all four giving way at once. I crash to the earth like a creature brought down, stone and soil biting into my scales. The impact jars through me, rattling the ground, scattering leaves into the air. Birds break loose from the branches overhead, wings beating frantic into the distance.

Afterward, silence folds tight around me, as if the world itself is recoiling from the sound I just made. My chest heaves, lungs raw, throat torn. Blood burns hot down my side, the raw edge of pain thrumming through every nerve.

Through the haze, my gaze finds it again — the scale on the ground, black and gleaming where it rests in the moss.

Proof that I did it.

My breath shudders, slowing, the edges of my vision sinking darker with every blink. The weight of exhaustion drags heavy through my limbs, pulling me down until even the ache fades thin.

I hold on to the sight of the scale as long as I can.

But then the dark takes me.

I don’t know how long it lasts. Only that something pulls me back.

The air feels different than before — heavier, louder with insects and distant wings, as if the forest kept moving while I lay still.

Heat presses against my face, sharp through the blur, until I force my eyes open. Light cuts through the canopy above, a single ray burning straight across my vision. The shapes of the woods lean strange at first, too bright, too sharp, until the haze thins and I know — the sun has climbed higher. Not noon yet, but later than it should be.

The ground is cold beneath me, damp earth clinging to my scales. My chest heaves once, dragging air too deep, and the scent hits first — iron, dried and sharp. Blood.

My head lifts slow, heavy, and my gaze drops to my side. The ridges there are dark, crusted, sealed where the bleeding stopped. The wound still throbs, raw with every shift, but no fresh warmth seeps through.

Each breath drags rough, every muscle heavy, as if the weight of the forest pressed down while I was gone.

Claws shift against the soil. My tail drags behind me. My chest expands wider than it should.

The truth settles sharp in my gut.

I never shifted back.

For a breath, I wait for it — the jolt of fear, the clawing panic that always followed when instinct dragged me too far. The thought of being trapped in this form used to hollow me out, freeze me in place until I could force myself back into skin that felt safer, smaller, human.

But it doesn’t come.

My chest doesn’t lock. My breath doesn’t stutter. What I feel instead is heavier, quieter — not panic, not dread. A somber weight, steady as stone. And beneath it, the faintest trace of something else.

Relief.

It startles me more than fear ever could. The absence of it, the way I can lie here in claws and scales and tail without my mind tearing itself apart — it shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel right. But it does.

Maybe that’s a good sign.

I drag in a breath and brace against the soil. Claws scrape through moss and dirt as I push. My side protests immediately — pain sparking sharp from the wound, flashing through my ribs until a hiss rips out of me, low and rough. My muscles strain, trembling, but I don’t stop.

I push through the ache. Slow. Deliberate.

My limbs take weight again, shaky at first, then steadier as I lock each one into place. Step by step, the ground rises beneath me until I stand on all fours once more.

Everything feels quieter now.

The forest isn’t rushing at me the way it did before — it isn’t overwhelming. The scents still come sharp, layered one over the next, but they settle instead of tearing through me. The ground holds steady under my claws, firm, familiar.

My tail sways with each shift of weight, not wild or uncertain, but measured — like the movement is mine as much as the instinct behind it.

It isn’t discovery anymore.

It’s endurance.

Proof that I can stand here in this form, with blood still drying on my side, and not be undone by it.

A breath pulls calmer through my chest, steadier than before, and something twists in it — faint, but real.

Triumph.

Not loud, not blinding. Quiet, but steady, pulsing low in my ribs. Recognition that this body is mine — claws, scales, tail, all of it — and I can bear its weight. I test it, dragging one step forward through the soil, claws carving deep. The ground holds.

And when the air drifts around me, brushing cool through the canopy, it almost feels like the wild recognizes it too.

I should have known better than to settle into it. To let myself sink into the quiet like it would hold, like the world around me had accepted me. For a moment, I believed it — the stillness, the rhythm, the way the air cooled through the trees. I let myself think it was recognition. That it was safe.

But comfort is always the first mistake.

My next breath proves it.

The wind veers, dragging something new through the air. Faint at first, but wrong — threading sharp against the damp weight of moss and dirt. Sweet. Smoky. Heavy enough to cling in my chest, sharp enough to sting as I pull it deeper.

It doesn’t belong here.

My head lifts slow, muzzle tilted, jaws parting slightly to sift through every layer. The scents strike hard, one over the next — earth, sap, rot — but that trace cuts through all of it, steady, undeniable.

Human.

For a moment I think I’m wrong, that the woods are playing tricks, that the run and the blood left me disoriented. But it doesn’t fade. It threads heavier the longer I breathe.

Familiar.

My body coils low, scales bristling tight, the air burning in my lungs. Every nerve strains toward the same point, the same trace — his scent threading through the damp earth and moss until it drowns everything else out. Swallows every thought, every tether, until all I can feel is him.

And I don’t know what it means.

Prey. Pack. Something in between. My instincts don’t tell me — they just fix on him, relentless, like nothing else in the world exists.

The not knowing twists worse than the pull itself. My chest tightens, heat crawling under my skin, shame sharp on its heels.

Because this is my fault.

I lost track of time. I let instinct take the reins too long. Let it carry me past the time I had.

The thought barely lands before my body moves. Muscles snap tight, claws tear into soil, and instinct drags me forward whether I choose it or not.

The ground blurs under me, speed ripping through my frame, every sense locked on that single thread in the air.

On him.

__________

Bakugou POV

9:52 a.m.

The numbers glare up at me from the screen before I shove the phone back into my pocket, jaw tight, teeth grinding.

I’ll meet you there.

That was her last message. No excuse, no detail. Just that. If she had the energy to send it, then she was already up, already moving. Which means she’s got no reason to be late.

So what the hell could she possibly be doing that’s more important than meeting me here?

I’ve been standing here almost thirty minutes, waiting for her — a damn courtesy I don’t give anyone. Figured it’d wipe out every excuse, shut down any reason for her to drag her feet.

And yet here I am, stuck on this busted plateau in the middle of nowhere.

My boot lashes out, kicking a loose stone across the clearing. The scrape grinds sharp against the ruins, echoing too loud in the dead quiet. The air’s too still here, pressing down heavy, like it’s holding its breath. Makes my skin itch, makes me want to set off a blast just to hear something break.

I scan the broken walls, the moss-choked corners, just enough to check she’s not lurking in the shadows. If she was here already, I’d know.

My hands curl into fists. She’s wasting my time. My training, my morning, my patience.

“Where the hell are you, Scales?” I mutter, low, heat biting the edge of my voice.

My scowl digs deeper the longer I stand there. The clock in my head ticks louder with every breath. She’s late. Past late.

Every second she’s not here is another second she’s saying I’m not worth showing up for. That something else — anything else — is more important than being here when she said she would.

The thought burns hotter, stoking the fuse already lit under my ribs. I gave her thirty extra minutes. I stood here in this dead-ass silence instead of training, instead of doing anything useful. And for what?

Nothing.

Heat surges sharp in my chest, sparking down my arms, begging to go off. I clench my fists until my nails bite skin, grinding my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

“Fucking waste of time,” I snap, voice rough, too loud against the ruins.

The air doesn’t answer. The silence just presses closer, like it’s daring me to keep standing here like some extra waiting on her.

I’m handing her this on a gold platter — a chance to go head-to-head with me, to sharpen herself against the best, and she’s blowing it. Spitting on it. Like my time doesn’t mean shit.

Ungrateful.

The word claws through me, sharp enough to lock my jaw. Heat spikes, flaring hot through my palms until sparks crackle free. Tiny pops snap against the air, smoke curling off my skin.

“Fuck it,” I snarl, explosions snapping in my hands, the sound breaking the silence wide open.

“I’m leaving.”

I turn on my heel, boot grinding against gravel, ready to storm the hell out of this dead place.

But halfway through the motion, I freeze.

It hits first like weight — not sound, not touch. Just the burn of being seen. A prickle crawling over the back of my neck, sparking down my spine. My gut twists sharp, pulse drumming faster.

My head jerks left. Stone wall. Empty shadow. Nothing.

I force my shoulders to turn with it, scanning every line, every jagged edge. Gravel crunches under my boot as I pivot wider, eyes cutting through moss, broken columns, the open stretch of rock.

Still nothing.

The silence presses harder for it, thick enough to choke. The kind that makes you swear something’s about to move the second you blink.

I drag my gaze back slow, sweeping right this time. The ruins. The treeline. Empty air.

But the feeling doesn’t leave. It clings. Hot, suffocating. Like eyes are nailed into me no matter where I look.

My jaw grinds. Teeth bare.

What the hell’s going on?

The place is empty. I know it is. Just stone, just moss, just the same dead silence I’ve been standing in for half an hour. But it sure as hell doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like eyes. Crawling down my back, pinning from every side at once. Like the whole clearing’s closing in, boxing me tight, no room to move.

The fuck is this?

My fists clench harder, heat snapping through my veins. I hate it — this not knowing, this cornered shit, like I’m being toyed with.

I don’t freeze. I don’t get cornered.

Not me.

The thought’s still burning, hot enough to scorch the back of my throat—

When it hits.

A breath against my neck. Hot. Deliberate. Too close. Not mine. Every hair on my skin spikes upright, pulse hammering sharp in my throat.

It tears through me like live wire to the spine — sudden, merciless, every nerve lit raw. Rage claws up to cover it, but the truth is sharper.

The sparks guttering from my hands feel like they’ll give me away — one crack too loud, one flare too bright, and it’s over. Instinct slams down before thought can catch: kill the heat, kill the noise, move slow.

My fists clench, then loosen. I drag the ignition back, smother it down until the fire dies against my skin. The silence slams in harder for it, heavy, pressing close around me.

Something’s behind me. Close. Close enough that even the air feels caught between us.

Pride screams to spin fast, blast first, but I don’t. Can’t. Not with something right at my back.

My head turns slow, every muscle strung tight like wire. Shoulders follow a beat later, wound tight and cautious, like the wrong twitch might trigger it.

The pull in my gut drags harder with every breath, dark, unrelenting, like it already knows what I’m about to see.

My eyes lock low first — on the ground. Bare earth, gravel scattered sharp across stone.

Then I see them.

Claws. Curved, sickle-shaped, raised just above the rock as if holding the strike back by a thread. For a breath they hover, suspended. Then they drop — scrape, click — deliberate as a trigger being pulled.

The sound slices through me, rattling down my spine. I know it. That rhythm. The same from USJ. The claws that carved through the Nomu like it was paper. My gut seizes cold and tight at the memory, heat draining sharp under my skin.

But I bare my teeth against it, grind the fear down until all that’s left is rage.

Fear won’t own me. Not here. Not in front of her.

I won’t back down.

My gaze drags higher. Up the lean muscle coiled taut beneath black ridges. Past the long muzzle, bristling with teeth sharp enough to cut bone. Sunlight sears over every scale, glinting hard off the edges, until there’s nowhere else to look but the eyes.

Green. Slitted. Locked on me.

They don’t blink. Don’t shift. Just hold me there, like the outcome’s already decided, carved into the air between us.

The weight of it crawls under my skin. Presses harder the longer I stare back. My pulse spikes, pounding sharp in my throat, but I clamp my jaw tight.

Silence holds for a beat too long — before it fractures.

It starts low, dragging out of her throat like gravel pulled across stone. A hiss cuts through after, sharp and searing, coiling around the space between us. The sound deepens, layered with something wet, raw, almost broken — not a growl, not a roar. Something in between. Wrong enough to scrape along my nerves like claws on metal.

It vibrates through the air, rattling in my chest until my ribs feel hollow. The kind of noise that doesn’t just hit your ears — it settles under your skin, digging for a place to root.

My teeth grit harder, fury rising, burying the tremor beneath it, daring it to surface. If it does, it’ll break against the barrier I’ve already built — rage stacked layer over layer, jagged, unrelenting, the only thing keeping me from splitting wide open.

I hate that I need it. Hate that fear presses close enough to make me forge walls just to keep standing. But if I’ve got nothing else, I’ve got this. The burn in my chest, the bite in my jaw, the sheer refusal to give her the satisfaction of watching me crack.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A test. A stare-down with nothing but silence and sound to tip the scale. And if I let the fear through — if I flinch, blink, pull back even an inch — then I’ve already lost.

I won’t.

Not to her. Not to anyone.

The barrier holds, tight as steel, burning hotter the longer her eyes pin me down. My throat is raw, my pulse a hammer under my skin, but I don’t move. I don’t give.

Her head tilts — slow, deliberate — a predator’s question hanging in the air.

Then she moves. A step, smooth and heavy, claws scraping deliberate against stone. The sound grinds sharp, echoing through my chest as her shadow folds over me. She leans closer, and suddenly she’s there — muzzle pressing into my space, hot breath rolling over my jaw.

My pulse spikes brutal. I can feel it pounding against my throat, and I know she can too.

She shifts lower. Closer. Her muzzle drags toward the side of my neck, the place where skin meets shoulder. Close enough that I can feel every exhale burning damp across my skin.

My muscles lock. The urge claws at me, screaming to move, to blast, to shove her back — but the math’s already done in my head. Even with my speed, with my reflexes, I wouldn’t clear it in time. Not from this close.

I know what she can do. I saw it at USJ — the blur of her body, the way she tore through the Nomu before I could even track the motion. Fast enough to rip flesh and bone apart in less than a heartbeat.

I fucking hate it. But I’m not stupid.

If she bites down now, I’m not stopping it.

That’s the fact. Doesn’t matter how much I despise it.

But I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. My jaw locks, teeth grinding, muscles strung tight enough to snap. I stay planted. I won’t back off. She can choke on it before I yield.

Her muzzle splits open.

Teeth bare, curved and predatory, grazing across the place where my neck meets my shoulder. Not a bite — not yet — but enough for the points to catch, to scrape, to remind me how fast it could end if she closed down.

Every nerve flares raw, my pulse hammering straight against them like it’s trying to tear itself free.

That’s when I feel it — the pull of her breath. Slow. Deliberate. Each inhale drags heat off my skin, the air shifting with it. Not biting. Not tearing. Smelling.

What the fuck?

The thought spikes hard, hotter than the scrape of her teeth. She’s not attacking — she’s breathing me in. Like my scent is something worth dragging deeper.

My gut knots tight. I don’t know what the hell this is supposed to mean, but I feel it. Too close. Too deliberate. And I hate it.

Hate that it hits me at all. Hate that my skin feels wired under the drag of her breath. Hate that it’s her — Scales — pressing in like this, crossing into my space, acting like she’s the one with the right to decide where the line is.

The sound starts low, buried deep in her chest, but I hear it through the muzzle pressed to my skin. A rumble — steady, rolling — vibrating against my neck until it crawls down my spine. Not threat. Not warning. Something else.

Then heat drags wet across my skin.

Her tongue.

I go rigid, pulse detonating in my throat. Every nerve spikes white-hot, fury crashing into confusion until it’s too much to hold. What the hell is she doing? Smelling me was bad enough. But this is crossing a line.

I barely get the words out in my head before a shudder rips across her frame, violent, rolling under her skin like a current snapping loose. She jerks back hard, jaws ripping wide as a screech tears out — raw, high, splitting the air like it’s tearing itself open.

It rips through me, rattling my chest like a shockwave. My ears ring, bones vibrating with it, the kind of noise that makes you brace without thinking. Instinct kicks hard — fists clenching, heat snapping back into my hands, every muscle coiled tight, ready for her to lunge.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she pulls back, sudden and sharp, claws screeching across stone as her weight shifts away from me. Her frame trembles with it, a full-body shudder that doesn’t look like control — more like something tearing through her whether she wants it or not.

She doesn’t come at me. Doesn’t even look at me. Her head whips once, then again, side to side, rough, almost desperate. Not a predator’s move. Not measured. Unnatural. Like she’s fighting something I can’t see.

The sight knots tight in my gut, but I don’t let it pull me.

My stance stays locked, shoulders squared, sparks twitching at my palms like they’re begging to go off. Heat seethes under my skin, coiled tight, every nerve braced for the snap. Whatever this is, I’m not dropping my guard. Not for a damn second.

I’ve got the range now. If she lunges in again, I’ll blow those fucking teeth out. No hesitation. No second chance.

So I watch. Every twitch, every ripple of muscle under those scales — I track it. Measure it. She’s fast, sure, but speed doesn’t mean shit if I’ve already read the move before it hits. Out here, in the open, she doesn’t pin me. Not again.

Let her try. I’ll prove it. I’ll put her flat before she even blinks.

The thought’s still burning when the sound registers.

At first it doesn’t make sense — too jagged, too close. Then it hits sharper, louder, echoing through the clearing until it scrapes down my teeth.

Cracks.

Not stone. Not wood. Bone.

It’s wrong. Every part of it is wrong. Like she’s breaking herself apart piece by piece, tearing down her own body just to stand there in that shape.

My hands twitch, my muscles coil, every instinct demanding I move — do something, anything — but I don’t. I just stand there like a fucking idiot, locked in place while that sound keeps ripping through her.

Because this isn’t power. Not control. It’s pain — raw, brutal, tearing her open from the inside every time it drags itself to the surface.

And all I can think is — why the hell is it wrecking her like that?

It pisses me off. More than it should. Because power’s supposed to lift you higher, not grind you down to bone every time it shows up.

Right in front of me, she’s proof of it. Frame buckling under its own weight, scales bleeding back to skin, her form collapsing smaller with every brutal crack. The sound drives jagged through the clearing, bone grinding like it’s forcing itself back into the shape it was meant to be — meant to hold.

Back to human.

Her body’s caught between forms, shrinking in violent lurches that don’t look like strength. Don’t look like choice. Just damage — raw and merciless, like her own quirk’s grinding her down to nothing.

Something twists sharp in my gut. Fury, yeah, but not just that. It lands heavier, coiling into something I can’t shake.

Resolve.

My boots grind against gravel before I even register it, carrying me closer step by step. I don’t stop myself. Won’t. Not while she’s down there, wrecked raw by her own damn quirk like it’s more curse than power.

By the time I reach her, she’s almost through it. The shift’s breaking down in fragments, scales bleeding back into skin, ridges fading until bare flesh takes their place.

The tail’s already vanished, leaving her frame smaller — fragile in a way that feels wrong to even look at. She’s hunched low on her hands and knees, breath tearing ragged out of her lungs, each one sounding like it might be the last.

For a second, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at me. Just stays there, shoulders shuddering, hair falling wild across her face.

Then her head lifts — slow, unsteady, like it takes everything she’s got left. Muscles tremble, her neck straining just to hold the weight.

Her eyes drag up at last, locking onto mine. Green — still slitted, but dim now, glassy through the haze.

Her lips part, breath breaking jagged between her teeth. The sound that comes isn’t strong, isn’t sharp. It’s thin, frayed at the edges — but it cuts through me all the same.

“…Katsuki.”

My chest seizes tight. First name. The one I told her not to use. Not hers to take. Not hers to speak.

And yet hearing it now — broken, grateful, dragged raw from her throat — it lands like a blow I didn’t see coming.

“Thank god… you’re alright…”

The words slur weak, spilling out with the last of her breath. Her gaze flickers, green dimming further, and before I can even snap back, her body gives.

She crumples forward, out cold.

For a second, I just stand there — fists clenched, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants out. That name still echoes in my head, sharp and wrong, and somehow it rattles worse than the screech did.

Heat surges up my throat, but no sound comes with it. Just the grind of my teeth and the burn in my chest, too heavy to spit out, too raw to smother.

I fucking hate it. Hate the way she said it. Hate that it got to me. Hate that part of me can’t shove it away.

My hands curl tighter, sparks biting at my palms — but they don’t blow. They hold, for once. Because even as fury claws up my throat, something else knots low in my gut.

Concern.

The word makes me want to spit, but it’s there anyway, anchoring me in place as I stare down at her — unconscious, fragile, nothing like the monster that stood over me seconds ago.

And for reasons I can’t stand, I don’t turn away.