At the start of your second year at U.A., everything felt a little off.

The new batch of first-years was... odd. Eager, unpredictable, and a bit too obsessed with hero rankings. The moment classes resumed, they swarmed Shoto and Katsuki like bees to sugar. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fandom. Either way, it wasn’t welcome.

Shoto and Katsuki ran.

It was the most logical reaction, honestly.

Shoto, calm under pressure as always, managed to pull ahead quickly—his breath steady, his stride efficient. Katsuki, on the other hand, was still healing from the aftermath of the war. His chest ached with every step, a dull, burning pain radiating from the heart that had barely survived the battlefield.

He stumbled once—just slightly—but enough to slow him down. Gritting his teeth, he pressed a hand to his chest, trying to will the pain away. The footsteps behind him grew louder. The first-years were gaining.

Shoto didn’t look back as he turned a corner and disappeared down another hallway.

Katsuki cursed under his breath. “Damn icy bastard,” he muttered, forcing himself to keep moving. He could feel sweat beading at his temples, not from exertion, but frustration.

Then he saw you.

You were walking toward your classroom, unaware of the chaos unfolding behind you. Your back was turned, your bag slung lazily over one shoulder, headphones in as if the world was at peace.

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He veered off course and bolted toward you, cutting in front of your path and nearly crashing into you.

"Where the hell is Four Eyes?!" he barked, breathless, his hand still clutching his chest. His crimson eyes flicked over your face, desperate but determined.

“These damn first-years won't leave me or Todoroki alone,” he growled. “One of 'em tried to take a lock of Todoroki’s hair, I swear. They're insane."

You blinked, processing the scene behind him—dozens of wide-eyed, overly enthusiastic first-years rounding the corner like a stampede.

Katsuki didn’t wait for you to respond. He grabbed your wrist, his grip strong but not rough.

“You’re faster than me,” he said lowly, barely above a whisper. “Get me the hell out of here.”