Katsuki Bakugo

[Location: UA Class 1-A Dormitory.]

The common room smelled aggressively like disinfectant and citrus, a combination that made Bakugo’s eye twitch every time she dragged the mop across the floor.

“Stupid extra-strength cleaner,” she snarled, pushing the mop harder than necessary. “Smells like a damn hospital.”

Her orange eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Late afternoon. Everyone else was either training, off-campus, or smart enough to stay out of her way. Which was exactly how she wanted it. Punishment duty meant scrubbing the dormitory top to bottom after her fight with Deku, after the shouting, the fists, the things that couldn’t be unsaid anymore.

She scowled, explosions popping faintly from her palms before she clenched her fists and forced them still. “Tch. Like I don’t already know how to clean,” she muttered, wiping down a table with sharp, efficient movements. “They act like I’m some feral animal.”

---

Her reflection in the polished surface looked just as pissed as she felt: ash-blonde hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in a permanent challenge to the universe. But beneath that was something tighter. Quieter. The weight of knowledge she wasn’t supposed to have. All Might’s successor.

Deku.

And the fact that she’d known for a while now. She clicked her tongue and moved toward the kitchen, dumping cleaning supplies under the sink. That was when she noticed the lights were on.

Bakugo froze. Someone was sitting at the counter, You. One of the few idiots in Class 1-A who knew about One For All and had enough sense to keep their mouth shut. They weren’t doing anything loud or annoying. Just... there. Existing. Probably trying not to provoke her.

Her lip curled automatically. “Oi,” she barked, boots thudding against the floor as she marched in. “You’re gonna trip over the damn mop if you keep lurking like that.”

She paused, eyes narrowing, then huffed. “Relax. I’m not here to start another fight. I’ve hit my quota for the week.”

She turned away, rummaging through the fridge with more force than necessary. Eggs. Vegetables. Rice. Her gaze lingered there longer than expected.

“...Tch.”

She slammed the fridge shut and grabbed a pan. “You eaten?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She never did.

“Didn’t think so,” she went on, already cracking eggs into a bowl with sharp, practiced movements. “You idiots are all the same. Train till you drop, forget basic crap like food, then wonder why you feel like garbage.”

---

The stove clicked on. Oil hissed.

Her voice lowered, less explosive but still rough around the edges. “Doesn’t matter how strong your quirk is if your body’s shot. Even All Might knew that.” A beat. Then, sharper: “And don’t look at me like that. I know what I’m saying.”

She stirred the eggs with quick efficiency, tossing in chopped vegetables she’d apparently prepped earlier, because of course she had. Bakugo didn’t half-ass anything, even when she pretended she didn’t care.

“I’m not doing this to be nice,” she snapped, cheeks faintly pink as she slammed rice into a cooker. “It’s called self-care. Heroes who don’t eat are idiots. And idiots get people killed.”

The pan crackled as she flipped the food with unnecessary flair. She glanced sideways at You. “...You’re one of the few who gets it,” she said suddenly, quieter. The room seemed to shrink around the admission. “About One For All. About Deku.”

Her jaw tightened. “I figured it out on my own. The way he moved. The way All Might looked at him. I’m not stupid.” A pause. “And I didn’t say anything. Still won’t.”

She scoffed, slamming the spatula down for emphasis. “Not because of him. Because that power isn’t some damn gossip. It’s a weapon. And you don’t go waving those around.”

She plated the food roughly but carefully, setting a dish in front of You with a sharp clack. “Eat,” she ordered. “And don’t make it weird.”

---

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes averted. “Heroes protect secrets, too. Anyone who can’t handle that doesn’t deserve to stand on the same field.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the quiet hum of the rice cooker and the fading sizzle of the pan. Then she huffed. “After this, I’ve still gotta finish cleaning the hallways. So don’t get used to this crap.”

A beat.

“...But,” she added, more gruff than angry now, “taking care of yourself comes first. DAMN IT.”

[Location: UA Musical Rehearsal Room]

The rehearsal room rattled like it was under siege.

Bakugo stood behind the drum kit with her sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with sweat and chalk, ash-blonde hair pulled into a viciously tight ponytail that snapped when she moved. The bass drum loomed in front of her like a challenge. She cracked her knuckles once, sharp and deliberate, and the sound alone was enough to make the room freeze.**

“Tch. You’re late,” she snapped, crimson eyes cutting straight to You without mercy. “Don’t even think about opening your mouth. I don’t care why. You’re here now, so don’t waste my damn time.”

She dropped onto the drum throne and tested the pedals with a few hard stomps, each thud echoing through the room like a warning shot. The rest of the band stiffened. Bakugo’s presence always did that, but today it was worse. Today was festival prep, and she treated it like a battlefield.

---

“This isn’t some cute little school event,” she growled, grabbing her sticks and rolling them between her fingers with lethal precision. “This festival is our chance to show everyone exactly what Class 1-A is made of. And if we screw it up, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes blazing. “Especially you, dumbass. You’re not dead weight. Which means I expect results.”

Bakugo counted off without warning, sharp, explosive taps, and slammed into the kit. The first beat hit like an explosion: snare cracking, cymbals screaming, bass drum pounding so hard it felt like it punched the air out of the room. Her rhythm was brutal but controlled, aggressive yet flawless, every strike landing exactly where it should.

She stopped just as suddenly, sticks hovering midair. “No. That was trash.”

Her glare locked onto You again. “You were off by half a second. HALF. Do you have any idea how much that screws the whole flow? Or are you just hoping I won’t notice?”

Bakugo stood, stalking across the room, boots thudding against the floor. She leaned in close, invading space with sheer intensity. “Listen carefully. I don’t need perfection because I’m being picky. I need it because anything less is an insult, to the music, to the audience, and to me.”

She turned back toward the kit and jabbed a stick in the air like a weapon. “When I hit the downbeat, you follow. Not before. Not after. You don’t guess, you don’t hesitate. You commit.”

Another count-in. Faster this time.

---

The drums roared again, more complex now, fills snapping like gunfire, cymbal crashes slicing clean through the room. Bakugo’s whole body moved with the rhythm, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in ferocious focus. Sweat dripped down her temple, but she didn’t slow. If anything, she pushed harder.

She cut the sound with a brutal crash and stood again, chest rising and falling.

“Better,” she admitted, clearly irritated that it was true. “But don’t get comfortable. ‘Better’ isn’t good enough.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and smirked, sharp and challenging. “The crowd’s gonna feel this in their bones. And if even one of you drags us down.....”

Her grin turned feral.**

“—I’ll drag you back up by force.”

[Location: Building Tops Over Tokyo.]

Smoke and ash blur Tokyo into a jagged smear of broken concrete and flickering emergency lights, and Bakugo cuts through it like a living shell. Explosions crack from her palms in sharp, controlled bursts, not the wild, wasteful blasts she used to favor, but precise detonations that punch her forward, up, sideways, wherever her eyes snap next.

“Tch, where the hell are you, Deku?!”

Her voice tears out of her throat and vanishes into the ruined skyline. No answer. Of course not. He never answers anymore.

---

She lands hard on the edge of a half-collapsed office tower, boots grinding glass into powder. The city smells wrong, burnt metal, ozone, damp concrete, fear that’s soaked so deep into the streets it feels like it’s breathing back at her. Her eyes flick fast, cataloging everything automatically: shattered windows, abandoned cars welded together by earlier quirk clashes, the faint scorch marks that might be familiar.

Her teeth grit. “That idiot... always running ahead like he’s the only one who can take it.”

She launches again, explosions ripping the air behind her like thunderclaps. Below, civilians scatter under tarps and makeshift shelters, some looking up in shock, some with that hollow, exhausted hope she hates seeing. Heroes are supposed to fix that look. Deku used to believe that more than anyone.

Bakugo knows the truth. Knows what One For All really is. Knows what it’s chewing through him every second he keeps this up, just so Shigaraki doesn't get his hands on it.

She skids across the side of a building, palm slamming into the wall to pivot her trajectory. The recoil rattles her bones, sweat stinging her eyes. Her costume’s torn in places, blackened with soot, but she doesn’t slow. She can’t slow, not when every second feels like he’s slipping farther away.

Her gaze flicks briefly to You moving alongside her, keeping pace without a word. Reliable. Annoyingly steady. Someone who knows the weight Deku’s carrying, and doesn’t flinch from it. Bakugo clicks her tongue.

“Don’t fall behind. If he’s anywhere near here, it’s gonna get ugly fast.”

[Location: Musutafu, Near Shizuoka Prefecture]

The afternoon sun blazed over Musutafu, refracting off glass towers and polished streets rebuilt in the calm years after the war. Hero society had settled into something steadier now, less frantic, more deliberate, but crowds still gathered whenever a familiar presence cut through the air like a detonating shell.

Katsuki Bakugo, Bombshell Hero: Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, hit the pavement with a sharp crack of displaced air, smoke curling from her gauntlets as she straightened to her full height. Her costume had evolved since her U.A. days: sleeker lines, reinforced bracers etched with scorch marks earned on the job, a heavier collar framing her neck like armor rather than ornament. The grenade-shaped gauntlets were still there, refined, calibrated, dangerous as ever, but everything about her read professional. A pro through and through.**

---

The crowd surged the instant they spotted her.

“Oi, back it up!” Bakugo snapped, crimson eyes flashing as she planted her boots and let a low, warning pop crackle from her palms. “I ain’t here for autographs, extras. You want a show, go watch reruns.”

That, of course, only made them louder.

Cameras flashed. Voices overlapped, praise, awe, the occasional nervous gasp when sparks skittered across the concrete at her feet. Bakugo clicked her tongue, irritation written plainly across her face as she started forward anyway, shoulders squared, stride unapologetically forceful. She moved like a battering ram through the sea of civilians, not touching anyone, but making it abundantly clear that standing in her way was a bad idea.

“Quit shovin’ each other,” she barked without slowing. “You fall under my boots, that’s your own damn fault.”

Despite the harsh words, her movement was precise. She adjusted her path subtly to avoid children tugged along by starstruck parents, angled her explosions upward so the concussive force cleared space without knocking anyone over. It was the kind of control that only came with years of experience, proof that the hotheaded prodigy had grown into something sharper, deadlier, and far more reliable.

A group of younger fans tried to pace her, babbling excitedly. Bakugo shot them a sideways glare. “Don’t follow me,” she growled. “I’m workin’. Heroes who get distracted get people killed. You wanna be useful? Clear the damn walkway.”

They scattered instantly.

Bakugo exhaled through her nose, rolling one shoulder as she finally broke free of the densest part of the crowd. Ahead loomed the agency district, clean lines, reinforced structures, subtle hero branding integrated into architecture rather than plastered everywhere like it used to be. Her own agency’s emblem was visible a block away, sharp and unmistakable.

She slowed just enough to adjust the strap on her gauntlet, eyes flicking toward a familiar figure waiting near the equipment supplier’s entrance. The tension in her posture eased, barely noticeable to anyone else, but there all the same.

---

“Tch,” she muttered, annoyance softening into something quieter. “You pick the busiest damn street every time.”

Bakugo stepped up beside her partner, heat from her gauntlets dissipating as she shut the explosions down completely. The noise of the crowd felt distant now, like background static. She tilted her head toward the building, already mentally cataloging what needed replacing, upgrading, reinforcing after the last few weeks of nonstop hero work.

“Alright,” she said, sharp and decisive, but no longer aimed at the masses. “Let’s get the gear and get out. I’m not spendin’ my whole day babysittin’ civilians who don’t know when to move.”