Chapter Text
When the match ended, Bakugo didn’t bother watching them haul the limp beta away. The musk of tension in the air left a nasty taste in his mouth; too many people, too many scents. Too many jeering laughs with an underlying thrum of fear, anxiety.. Shinso yanked at his sleeve and slipped off toward a side door by the bar, moving too fast for Bakugo to do more than grunt in irritation and follow.
As they slipped through a narrow hallway Bakugo noticed he could barely tell how Shinso was feeling, his scent thoroughly masked by the blockers Bakugo realized he must still be on. All he could smell was the scent of sweat, liquor, and something sour Bakugo didn’t want to name. It was a stark contrast from the polished façade of the main room—just what he’d expected from a seedy underground club. Faded posters of famed fighters lined gray concrete.
Finally, Shinso shoved open a door at the end, and Bakugo squinted against the sudden brightness of an alley floodlight. The back exit spilled them onto wet pavement, the stink of rotting trash mixing with the faint tang of city air. A large figure lurked at the alley’s far end, but Shinso ignored him, pacing erratically before rounding on Bakugo.
“Are you really my partner?” He seemed to look Bakugo over for the first time, really taking him in.
Shinso raked a hand through his hair, then added flatly, “Of course you are. They really didn't tell you shit, huh? You're dressed like someone off the street.”
Bakugo’s anger flared, but before he could get a word out, Shinso laughed. “Still the same hothead. Fuck, man—if you're gonna be working with me, you gotta keep your scent under control. You’ll give us away the way you stink. Oh that’s right, you're never on blockers. Fucking Christ, couldn’t they have given me someone else? I’ve been working this gig for months now and if you fuck it all up—”
“Oh, fuck you. You're lucky they paired you with someone as good as me.”
“Weren't you one of the last to be licensed? Please, be for real.”
Bakugo had no idea what switch flipped, but Shinso was aiming below the fucking belt—and he was not one to take it lying down. Fuck that noise. “At least I wasn’t fucking up so bad they had to call backup! Believe me, I’d rather work with anyone else.”
“Really? ‘Cause you’ve made it real clear in the past you’re more of a solo kinda guy.” Shinso rolled his eyes.
“Yeah? Well, at least then I only have to account for myself. Don’t have to worry about your sorry ass. My first day on the job and you can’t even keep your shit together.”
“Not my fault they gave me you!” Shinso seemed to realize that his voice was rising in volume and he continued in a rough undertone, “Not my fuckin' fault there’s history.”
“History? What fucking history? There’s nothing between us anyway, right? Nothing there. You've shown me that much.” Bakugo spat the words.
The door they’d come through creaked open, and they both whirled to face the omega cowering in the doorway. Their combined rage must be strong enough that he seemed to feel it the way he peeked out of the door.
“Shinso…” He looked between them frantically. “Do you need me to get security?”
“No. This idiot’s with me. What do you want?”
“They need you. Someone won’t go out.”
Bakugo saw his face harden. “I’ll be right there, Mura. Just let me finish.”
“The round’s supposed to start soon…” At a cold look from Shinso, he course-corrected. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll go tell them you’re on your way.”
Shinso nodded and waited for the man to leave before turning back to Bakugo, who had been watching the exchange in tense silence, a little impressed. Shinso was an alpha after-all. Same as him. When he turned it on he was intimidating.
His voice still carried that commanding tone when he spoke again. “Now’s not the time, Bakugo. You have no idea what we’re dealing with here. The magnitude of it.”
“Go do your job then, and let me do mine.” Bakugo bristled. He wasn’t going to back down.
Shino left without a reply. The door slammed hard behind him.
“Asshole.”
Bakugo took a few minutes to clear his head and his scent before going back inside. He made it back to the edge of the pit in time to see another poor bastard get hauled off. Shinso had disappeared down a different hall, leaving Bakugo to watch the fights on his own.
His partner was supposed to give him the rundown—fill him in on everything his agency should’ve told him.
Guess he’d have to figure it out himself.
(•̀o•́)ง (¬_¬)
Shinso pressed his shoulder to the wall. The door’s slam still bounced off the narrow hallway, louder in the stale air. Something behind his ribs burned. He dragged a sleeve across his mouth, found it damp with sweat. The mirror in the hallway caught him — hair crooked, tie half-loose from tugging anxiously. He combed his fingers through the mess, tugged the knot straight, and forced his lungs to move slow.
Past the staging room door, Mura shifted from foot to foot, biting a ragged thumbnail. The girl beside him might’ve been carved out of candle wax — shoulders rounded, hair stuck to the side of her face. A strip of fight tape still dangled from her wrist, half-peeled, gummy with sweat.
Her eyes kept landing on the exit sign. The red letters spilled across her cheekbone. She looked younger than him, barely 20. A pit formed in his stomach.
My first day on the job and you can’t even keep your shit together. He steeled his nerve and tucked it away in a box in his mind. At least I wasn’t fucking up so bad they had to call backup! He tucked Bakugo in there too.
“Name?” Shinso’s mouth felt full of dust.
“K-Kina,” she mumbled. Fingertips squeezed together until her knuckles pinked.
Mura lifted his chin at Shinso. “Won’t go out. Says she’s sick.”
The next match bell clanged down the corridor — a bright, iron clang that scraped the skin behind Shinso’s ears. Kina flinched at the sound. Her knees shifted inward, trying to fold into herself.
He let his shoes scuff the grimy floor, slow, deliberate. Her scent twitched — rank with fear, sour and sweet all at once. He kept his eyes level with hers. Every breath dragged the copper edge of old blood from the pit’s direction.
“Look at me, Kina.” The hallway bulb flickered behind his head. The shadow it cast stretched long enough to swallow her shoes.
Her gaze flicked up once, then fell to his shoes. Sweat pooled at her temple. A bruise under her jaw blossomed purple-yellow, half-hidden by damp hair.
“You’ve been trained. You can do this, and you know what happens if you run, right?” His voice lost its shape, flattened into something sharp. Mura tensed behind her, eyes darting between the door and Shinso’s shoulder.
“Yes–” Kina’s hands went slack at her sides, fight tape curling toward the floor as his quirk took hold. She wavered on her feet like a drunk on a dock.
Shinso let his fingers tap against his leg. Each tap matched the dull thud behind his ribs.
“Eyes up.”
Kina’s lashes fluttered. She blinked, slow, then lifted her chin. Mura drew back a step, mouth pulling into a thin line.
“You’re gonna step into the pit,” Shinso’s tone dropped into the well-worn cadence, the one that left the back of his throat raw. “You’ll keep your guard up. Three rounds, no hero shit. You’ll lose safe. You’ll be back in control at the starting bell. Don’t run, it will only make things bad for you. After the fight you’ll come back here and Mura will take you home.”
“Three rounds. No hero shit.” Shinso repeated for good measure. Something distant looked through her pupils–like a candle flame behind thick glass.
Mura reached for her elbow, flinching when her skin met his like it was contagious or something. He turned her by the shoulder and steered her down the hallway, shoes squeaking in the half-dark.
Shinso leaned into the concrete until the grit bit his cheek. Cool seeped through his suit coat, left the sweat on his spine clammy. A low laugh drifted from the other side of the room, muffled by the lockers.
Shinso stood and put himself back in character as one of the higher ups, Mustard’s voice cut through, smooth as a knife on wet rope. He came around to Shinso’s side. A gas mask hung at his side next to a gun holster. Gray hair peaked out beneath a green helmet, accompanied by a forgettable face. A clipboard dangled from one hand, like an afterthought.
“Good job with her, I was waiting here to see what she’d pick. You saved her from a gristly end.”
“Not why I did it, sir.” He said, cracking his neck and feeling around his pockets for a cigarette in a way that he hoped looked bored.
“Oh? Why then?”
“It’s my job.” He said with a smile, holding the cigs out in case Mustard wanted one.
“That’s my boy.” Mustard replied, clapping Shinso on the shoulder and refusing a smoke. Shinso shrugged and put them back into his inner jacket pocket.
“Where’s that prize pup you promised me?” He added as Shinso lit it and took an easy drag. He was grinning wide enough to show the chip in his incisor, gold glint catching the overheads. “You said you’d bring him for intake tonight, right? Gotta get the forms, the cuts, the purse set. Paperwork, Shinso. Paperwork keeps this place real.”
Shinso’s jaw tensed as the cheers from the pit rose — Kina’s fight. He didn’t let his eyes give him away by glancing toward the screen on the wall.
“He’s not ready. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mustard’s grin curled like burning paper. “Big game, huh? Your golden ticket? Hope he’s worth the trouble. The math’s tight this week.”
Shinso lifted a shoulder. “Six tomorrow. Do your cuts then.”
The clipboard smacked against Mustard’s palm– once, twice, then he shoved it under his arm. “You staying late today? Big night. Might have other fighters try to drop out.”
Shinso's eyes drifted and finally snagged on the video screen on the wall, broadcasting the fight. There was a smear of blood on the canvas where someone’s teeth must have scattered. Kina’s shape blurred between ropes, arms loose, feet dragging back to her corner. She was still moving, that was a good sign.
“Got work to do. Not tonight.”
Mustard’s tongue clicked, half laugh, half snarl. “Don’t get sloppy, Shinso. You’re good with pretty words, but you fuck me on the numbers, you won’t have enough teeth left to talk.”
Shinso’s mouth lazed into an easy smile. “You know me, boss. You’ll never catch me slipping.”
Outside, the air roared up his nose, heavy with street grit and fried oil from the corner stand. His phone practically buzzed between his fingers until the glass turned warm. Reading through old texts and forgotten memories. He did need back up, and Bakugo was who they sent. So he did need Bakugo.
Shinso took a breath, composing a new message.
SH: Tomorrow, same place @6p. Bring your ID. Intake.
BK: Aight
The buzz settled into his palms. The street behind him spat out a horn and a burst of laughter from kids ducking into the convenience store. Shinso faced the alley mouth, where neon signs sputtered and danced like flames on dirty water and a hulking figure still lingered on guard duty.
Behind him, the pit crowd roared. The sound rattled the brick all the way up to the roof.
Shinso let the phone screen go dark and started the journey home. He’d said he had work, but he really just wanted to curl up with his cat and something warm to drink.
Needed to compose himself and get his shit together, as Bakugo would say.