Mha - Angst

The air in the living room is thick with the scent of cheap pepperoni pizza and the sharp, artificial tang of soda. Class 3-A is scattered across the floor in a chaotic sprawl of sleeping bags, oversized hoodies, and discarded school uniform blazers. It is the first time everyone has managed to gather outside the UA dorms since the start of the final semester, and the energy is loud, unfiltered, and relaxed. Bakugo Katsuki sits cross-legged on a patch of hardwood, his sharp, crimson eyes narrowed as he aggressively tears into a slice of pizza. He wears a faded black tank top that shows off the heavy, corded muscle of his shoulders and the jagged, pale training scars tracking down his forearms. Next to him, Kirishima Eijiro is laughing boisterously, his bright red hair completely down and framing his face in soft, damp waves instead of its usual spiked gel. He leans back against the sofa, his broad chest rising and falling beneath a crimson crimson crimson tank top, the hardened, calloused skin of his knuckles catching the dim light of the television. On the other side of the room, Midoriya Izuku is rapidly scribbling in a notebook, his freckled face illuminated by the screen. His green curls are a wild, unruly mess, and the collar of his oversized grey sweatshirt dips low enough to reveal the thick, ropey scar tissue crossing his right shoulder. Todoroki Shoto sits quietly beside him, his posture impossibly straight even on the floor. The stark line dividing his white and crimson hair is stark under the lamps, and the smooth, pale skin of his left side contrasts sharply with the deep, puckered burn scar surrounding his turquoise eye. He sips quietly from a mug of barley tea, his mismatched eyes tracking the movement of the others. Uraraka Ochaco and Ashido Mina are currently trying to braid Asui Tsuyu’s long, dark green hair. Mina’s pink skin seems to glow in the dim light, her short horns catching the shadows on the wall as she giggles, while Ochaco’s round cheeks are flushed pink from laughing at a joke Kaminari just made. Kaminari Denki is lying flat on his back, his golden hair fanned out on a pillow, a faint yellow spark occasionally dancing from his earphone jacks when he laughs too hard. The atmosphere is warm, loud, and entirely normal. To them, this is just a regular teenage sleepover.

Then, the heavy click of the front door unlocking echoes through the small hallway. The laughter doesn’t stop immediately, but a sudden, icy shift occurs in the room's perimeter. The front door swings open, revealing a woman with sharp, angular features and dark hair pulled back into a bun so tight it pulls at the corners of her eyes. Her tailored coat is immaculate, but her posture is rigid, radiating a cold, heavy displeasure that immediately suffocates the noise in the living room. "What is this mess?" her voice cuts through the room, low and venomous. She doesn’t look at the guests. Her eyes lock onto the space near the kitchen entry. "I leave the house for one afternoon, and you turn it into a pigsty. Look at the trash on the counter. Look at the floor. You are completely useless." The class goes completely still. Midoriya’s pen stops moving mid-word. Bakugo’s jaw tightens, his crimson eyes shifting from the woman to the kitchen counter, which holds nothing but a neatly stacked pile of pizza boxes and a few closed soda cans. The criticism is entirely ungrounded, yet the venom in her delivery is devastating. "We can help clean up, ma'am!" Kirishima says quickly, his usual bright smile faltering slightly under her freezing gaze as he starts to stand up. "Sit down," she snaps at Kirishima, her voice sharp enough to make Uraraka flinch. She finally turns her full attention to the space near the hallway, her fingers twitching at her side. "I am talking to my child. Get up right now and clean this up before I make you regret ever opening your mouth to ask for people to come over." Todoroki’s turquoise and grey eyes narrow instantly. He recognizes the tone. He recognizes the specific, suffocating weight of an adult using their absolute authority to inflict psychological weight on a child. His grip tightens on his mug until his knuckles turn white. Bakugo stands up slowly, his palms faintly popping with tiny, involuntary sparks. "Hey," he says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through the small room. "We brought the boxes. We'll move them." "I didn't ask you," she replies coldly, stepping fully into the living room, completely ignoring the fact that twenty of the strongest hero students in Japan are staring at her with growing unease and realization. She glares downward. "Get to the kitchen. Now." The silence in the room is deafening. Nobody speaks, but the collective realization hits Class 3-A like a physical blow. The missing pieces of a puzzle they didn't know they were solving begin to click together—the sudden flinches at loud noises, the strict adherence to perfection, the complete silence regarding home life. They stand together in the crowded living room, caught between the boundaries of a private family dynamic and the overwhelming instinct to protect one of their own.