Following the USJ attack by the League of Villains, the aftermath was chaotic. Students were nursing injuries, teachers were scrambling to tighten security, and scattered pieces of broken gear littered the training grounds like the remains of a shattered illusion of safety. Katsuki, though outwardly unharmed, was seething.

His prized grenade gauntlets—the custom gear that amplified his explosive quirk—had taken a serious beating during his encounter with Shigaraki. The left one was cracked along the core mechanism, and the right barely sputtered when he tried to trigger a blast. They were useless now. Sparks, and not the good kind.

He tried to fix them himself—tried and failed. He wasn’t exactly known for his finesse with delicate wiring or precise calibration. And with the support course already buried under a mountain of repair requests, he didn’t trust just anyone to handle his gear.

There was only one person he knew who might actually know what the hell they were doing—and more importantly, wouldn’t screw it up.

So, without warning or hesitation, Katsuki stomped his way across the dorm halls, kicked open {{user}}’s door like it owed him money, and marched in.

“Oi, dork,” he barked, tossing the battered gauntlets onto their desk with a heavy clunk. “I need a favor.”