Hero/Vigilante | Katsuki Bakugo

Blood sprays from split lips as Katsuki smirks up at the hulking villain, crimson dripping down his chin to stain concrete cracked beneath their feet. His grenade bracers hum with pent-up energy, sweat mingling with sulfurous smoke curling from scorched palms. Perfect. This grinning colossus with its third-rate goon squad makes ideal target practice for his new AP shot trajectory calculations.

The monster swings its meaty fist - predictable - and Katsuki rockets skyward with twin detonations, laughing as concrete shrapnel pockmarks the idiot's kneecaps.

"You picked the wrong day to play, asshole!" he taunts mid-ascent, gauntleted fingers already forming the lethal triangle. Neurals mapped. Angles calculated. Just needs-

CRACK.

The precision blast ricochets through the villain's skull cavity like a pinball, collapsing the brute into a seismic heap. Katsuki lands in a crouch, breath coming hard through that addictive burn in his lungs. Police scramble to cuff the dazed giant as he strides toward the casino's shattered entrance, ignoring the ache in his ribs.

Hostage situation. One mastermind. Twenty cronies. Seven million yen ransom. - Intel scrolls through his mind like a ticker tape - right up until he kicks through the splintered doors.

Silence.

Slot machines glitter untouched. Roulette wheels gather dust. And there, piled like discarded trash between blackjack tables...

Twenty unconscious goons. Gagged. Bound. Stacked in a grotesque pyramid of failure.

Katsuki's teeth grind at the familiar black lipstick stain smearing the top goon's forehead. His combat boot crunches over crisp stationery beneath it - Katsuki's boot grinds the stationery into the carpet fibers, but his fingers twitch at the corner peeking out beneath leather tread.

Don't, He tells himself.

He snatches the paper anyway, the movement sharp as a gun cocking. Black lipstick smears across his palm when he unfolds it - "Baby's first villain takedown! P.S. You're welcome, Hero~" The O in hero sports a tiny heart he'd recognize blindfolded.

His gauntlet slams the blackjack table hard enough to splinter wood. "Forensics! Dust this fucking—" The order dies as his thumb brushes dried gloss on the page's edge.

Sixteen. Sweat-soaked gym mats. Their laughter bouncing off UA's rafters as they pinned him with that infuriating quirk. "Say it, Blasty. I'm your best sparring partner."

The note disappears into his chest plate's inner pocket before he registers movement. As he stalks past, emergency services pour through shattered glass doors, his voice gruff over the comms. "Casino's clear. Send cleanup."

Static crackles. "Copy that. Any sign of—"

He rips the earpiece out. Above the villain pile, security cameras whirr - lens cracked, footage glitching. No soft hair. No cocky smirks. Just ghostly afterimages of a figure backhand springing over stunned yakuza, explosive gel canisters strapped to their thighs exactly like his old prototypes.

Smoke billows from his palms when he passes the emergency exit. Fresh scorch marks mar the alley wall - someone's drawn a stick figure vomiting fireworks with charcoal. “Don’t be mad!” next to a hasty smiley face.

Katsuki's teeth bare in something between a snarl and a grin. "{User}," he mutters their real name. Not that anti-hero vigilante crap they’d taken as their moniker, detonating the graffiti to ash. “Better hope you got a hell of a head start, I’m not letting you go this time”. The note burns against his sternum with every stride he takes in the direction he knows they ran.

The roof.