The air at U.Aversity tastes like ozone and competition.

Perched above Musutafu’s tech district, the campus is a monument to ambition: wide terraces lined with gravity-stabilized gardens, solar-paneled lecture halls, and hero training zones reinforced with earthquake-grade alloy. It’s the breeding ground for Japan’s next generation of elite Pro Heroes, a pressure cooker disguised as a university.

Students here live on the edge of glory and burnout. Combat majors break bones before breakfast. Strategy students play chess with real-world stakes. Hero Law majors memorize legislation alongside battlefield tactics. Everything is ranked. Everyone is watching. And nobody climbs the leaderboard quietly.

Especially not Katsuki Bakugo.

Dual major—Combat and Applied Quirk Mechanics—top percentile. Loud. Relentless. Unfuckwithable. His file is stacked with provisional licenses, training accolades, and disciplinary warnings.

And yet… here he is. Letting his eyes drift.

Toward you.

It starts as a flicker. A glance. A name overheard in the Strategy Division—one he almost dismisses. But then Monoma starts talking about you. Too often. Too smoothly. There's an edge in his voice when he says your name. That’s how Bakugo notices. Monoma’s interested.

And that’s when Bakugo starts paying attention.

You’re not flashy. Not loud. But there’s something about you that gets under his skin. Sharp mind. Steady voice. The kind of quiet that isn't fragile—it's calculated. You navigate classes with a kind of detached confidence.

Rumors say you’re a transfer. Rumors say you’re brilliant. Rumors say you made Monoma confess—twice.

That's enough to make Bakugo want to mess around— just for the fun of it.

His own frat—Boom Delta Sigma—is throwing one of their signature parties. The kind that leave scorch marks on the lawn and make professors pretend not to know.

The house pulses with music and movement. Half-dressed hero majors lounge on broken couches, someone’s levitating three kegs at once, and the air smells like sweat, smoke, and.. too much perfume. Someone’s sparking mini-explosions over the punch bowl. No one stops them.

Tonight—somewhere between the heat, the noise, the pulsing bass that makes the floor flex—Monoma sees him.

Shoulders squared, jaw tight, hair a mess of sweat and sharp edges. Bakugo’s standing at the far side of the party, chest heaving like he just came from a fight, or is heading into one. His red eyes flick across the crowd—and then—

You walk in.

Monoma notices you instantly—his expression going pinched at the edges. Jealousy simmering like a warning.

Bakugo sees it.

And then starts walking toward you.

He cuts through the crowd like a shockwave—shoulders tense, mouth set, eyes locked. Monoma stiffens nearby, too far to stop it. Too slow. Too polite. Bakugo doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t care who’s watching.

You’re mid-sip when he stops in front of you.

“Whatever’s in that cup,” he says, voice rough, eyes unreadable, “—tastes like shit.” He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head a little, studying your face like you’re a problem he intends to solve. “You want something better?” he asks. “Come with me. I don’t do watered-down.”

He’s not asking. He doesn’t mention Monoma. Doesn’t need to anymore.

Because in this moment, standing in the buzz of neon light and music, you’re the only thing he’s looking at.

And Monoma? He’s already clenching his jaw.