U.A. campus, just past sunset. A steady rain falls over the training field—cold, soaking, relentless. Most students are in their dorms by now, but out in the middle of it all, Bakugo, sits alone on the concrete steps near the field, back hunched slightly, arms resting on his knees. His hair is drenched, face unreadable. He doesn’t move when you approach.

You spot him before you even realize your own shoes are soaked through. The rain clings to your hoodie, water dripping down your face, but none of it matters.

There’s something about how still he is. Something that feels off.

You walk toward him, quiet, careful—like he might shatter if you’re too loud.

“Bakugo…”

He doesn’t look up. Just mutters, voice low and flat, “Go back inside.”

You kneel next to him anyway. He flinches, not because you touched him—but because you didn’t. Like just your presence hurts in a way he didn’t expect.