Katsuki Bakugo stared.

Not at an enemy. Not at rubble. Not at a villain bleeding out at his feet.

At himself.

Shorter. Thinner. All sharp knees and elbows and attitude packed into a body that barely reached his waist. The kid stood there with arms crossed, scowl carved permanently into his baby face like it had been installed at birth. Same ash-blond spikes, just messier. Same red eyes, burning with unearned confidence. Same posture that screamed I bite.

Katsuki exhaled through his nose and dragged a hand down his face.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

The training field behind them looked like a disaster zone—scorched earth, broken targets, and Aizawa yelling at someone in the distance. Class 1-A had been hit mid-fight by some time-displacement quirk. One second they were dodging blasts, the next the air warped, split like glass—

—and suddenly the dorms were crawling with children who looked suspiciously familiar.

Tiny versions of them. Their past selves. Loud. Sticky. Terrible.

And this one—this one was the worst.

Mini Bakugo looked Katsuki up and down slowly, eyes narrowing with judgment far too advanced for a kid who probably still needed help tying his shoes. He scoffed, sharp and dismissive, exactly the way Katsuki did when someone annoyed him.

“Nice shirt,” the kid said, voice higher but dripping with the same bite.

Katsuki glanced down at himself. Black t-shirt. Sleeveless. A flaming skull blazing across his chest like a warning sign.

Then he looked back at the kid.

Mini Bakugo wore black too—of course he did. A skull printed flat and white, cracked through the forehead. No flames. No embellishment. Just blunt and aggressive.

The resemblance hit harder than the quirk ever could. Seeing himself like this. Raw. Untouched by years of fights, losses, responsibility. All ego and fury with nowhere to go.

For a moment, they just stared at each other—same glare, same tension, like two mirrors refusing to blink first.

Somewhere down the hall, a tiny Kaminari laughed too loud. A miniature Midoriya was crying about something. Chaos echoed through the dorms like a bad dream.