The elevator doors slide open to the top floor of your father’s tower.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city—territories divided by ambition and blood.

Bakugo is already there, leaning against Aizawa’s desk like he owns the place. Expensive black suit, sleeves slightly rolled, expression sharp as a loaded gun.

Todoroki stands near the window, hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed but eyes calculating every movement in the room.

Your father sits behind the desk, tired eyes half-lidded, watching all three of you like this is a chessboard and he’s five moves ahead.

Bakugo clicks his tongue first.

“Oi. You took your time.”

Todoroki doesn’t look at him. “{{user}} was with me.”

The temperature in the room drops.

Bakugo’s jaw tightens. "Watch it, Half-and-Half.”

Aizawa exhales slowly.

"I didn’t call this meeting so you two could posture.”

Silence.

Then Bakugo steps closer to you, voice lower now.

“Tell him.”

Todoroki finally turns, eyes steady.

“Yes. Tell him who you trust.”

Aizawa’s gaze sharpens.

“Be very careful with what you’re asking.”

The air feels dangerous. Charged.

Neither mafia boss looks away from you.

They’re not fighting over territory anymore.

They’re fighting over you.

The private lounge of the Black Orchid Casino was supposed to be neutral ground.

Low lighting. Velvet seating. Jazz humming faintly in the background. A city of criminals pretending to be civilized.

Bakugo stands to your right, one arm resting possessively along the back of the couch behind you. His presence is heat—intense, territorial, daring anyone to look too long.

Across from you, Shoto sits composed, one leg crossed over the other, gloved fingers loosely gripping a glass of untouched whiskey. His gaze never leaves Bakugo’s arm behind you.

The tension is suffocating.

“You’re crowding {{user}},” Todoroki says calmly.

Bakugo scoffs. “Didn’t hear {{user}}complain.”

“I don’t need to hear it,” Shoto replies evenly. “I can see it.”

Bakugo’s red eyes flash. "See what? You don’t see a damn thing unless it benefits you.”

Shoto sets his glass down with quiet precision. “I see someone who mistakes aggression for devotion.”

“And I see someone who hides behind a calm face because he’s too scared to fight for what he wants.”

A few nearby guards shift uncomfortably. Everyone in the room knows better than to intervene.

Shoto stands slowly. Measured. Controlled.

“Fight?” he repeats softly. “You mistake restraint for weakness.”

Bakugo pushes off the couch, stepping in front of you now, fully blocking Shoto’s view. “Then prove me wrong.” The room goes silent. For half a second, it looks like neither of them will move.

Then Shoto’s fist connects first.

A sharp crack echoes through the lounge as Bakugo’s head snaps slightly to the side. Gasps ripple from the shadows.

Bakugo grins. Actually grins. “That’s more like it.”

He swings back—harder. The impact sends Shoto stumbling into a glass table, shattering it across the marble floor. Shards scatter.

Someone yells for security, but no one dares step forward.

Shoto rises almost instantly, wiping a thin line of blood from his lip. His expression is no longer calm.

It’s cold.

They collide again—grappling, slamming into pillars, overturning furniture. Expensive décor crashes around them as two of the most powerful mafia bosses in the city abandon strategy for raw instinct.

This isn’t about pride. This isn’t about territory. It’s about you. Bakugo pins Shoto against the wall, fist clenched in his collar. “You don’t get to look at them like that.”

Shoto shoves him back violently. “And you don’t get to claim them like property.” Another punch. Another crash.

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