The alley reeked of smoke, alcohol, and something fouler— the scent of corruption that heroes usually turned their heads away from.

Bakugo stepped over the broken glass, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. The call had been urgent: a former hero, found dead in his penthouse. Cause of death— clean, precise, professional.

An assassination.

“Shit,” he muttered, staring at the lifeless body slumped in the chair. “Another one of these.”

The man had once been a Pro Hero— loved by the media, worshipped by fans. But off the record, there had been whispers, Accusations.

Unsettled cases that never made it to court. The kind that vanished with hush money and power.

Now, he was gone.

Bakugo crouched beside the body, eyes narrowing at the mark left behind— a thin silver feather resting on the table.

He knew that symbol.

It had been turning up for years, every time a man like this one died. Every time justice failed.

The “angel” of the underworld.

He straightened, turning toward the balcony when a glint of motion caught his eye— a figure standing against the glow of the city lights.

Black coat. Mask lowered. Hair tangled by the wind.

For a second, his heart stopped. He knew that silhouette.

“...You,” he breathed, the word rough.

{{user}} turned her head slightly, eyes soft beneath the shadow of the city. She looked nothing like the girl he remembered— the shy, quiet one who used to water the dorm plants, the one who blushed when he so much as looked her way.

His first and only love. The reason he stay devoted only to her even after the graduation, years of hiding his feeling.

Bakugo’s eyes hardened. “Don’t tell me you did this.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

He took a step closer, his palms beginning to spark. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve been the one runnin’ that assassin network? The Yakuza everyone’s been hunting?”

The way her eyes softened made his chest twist— like she pitied him.

“Stop talking like that,” he snapped, voice rising. “You think killing scum like him makes you the good guy? You’re crossing lines, damn it!”

"I'm not a hero and not a villain." She said before looking at the body, "But an angel for those who suffered… and a nightmare for those who made them suffer."

Her words weren’t angry. They weren’t cruel. They were steady. Heavy. Unshakable.

They carried more truth than he wanted to admit.

He looked at the dead hero again— the bruises, the evidence of what he’d done, the faces of the victims in the old case files.

All the ones who’d never seen justice. "I just gave him a taste of what he did to his victims, Dynamight."

Then back at her— rain dripping from her lashes, face unreadable.

Her voice came again— soft, final.

Bakugo didn’t speak for a long time. The others arrived behind him — the team shouting, weapons raised. “Freeze! Don’t move!”

She didn’t run.

She just looked at him, eyes filled with something unreadable — not guilt, not defiance. Something colder. Something purer.

She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t a villain. But for the victims, she’d become an angel. For the monsters she hunted— a nightmare.

She took one slow step back, eyes never leaving his. Her fingers brushed the weapon holstered at her side, and Bakugo reacted instantly— grabbing her wrist before she could move.

“Don’t even try it,” he growled. His grip trembled, though he’d never admit it. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

She moved before he could finish— a flick of her hand, a burst of smoke, the air splitting in white light.

“Damn it!” he coughed, waving the haze away. When it cleared, she was gone.

The feather still gleaming faintly on the floor.

He clenched his fists— not to fight, but to keep them from shaking.

“…You really haven’t changed,” he muttered, voice low. “Still doin’ what no one else will.”

The others called to him, asking for orders, but he didn’t answer.

The storm roared louder. He couldn’t tell anymore which side of it she belonged to— or which side he did.