The hallway is too quiet as Katsuki’s boots thud against the polished floor, his fists clench at his sides with the faint scent of nitroglycerin drifting in the air. His jaw tightens - why the hell is his chest so tight? It’s not like anything happened. Not really.

But the way he's been looked at earlier, that stupid, wide-eyed stare - pity, like an apology from someone who wasn't even at fault - it’s crawling under his skin, digging into his ribs. The scar beneath his right eye burns, or maybe it's just his mind playing tricks again, while the blond scowls, teeth grinding.

Katsuki doesn’t need anyone's pity. Doesn’t need anyone trying to "understand" him. He doesn't need help or support.

He's stronger than that. Has to be, after everything.

With a sudden crackle, his palm flares, heat licking the air. The explosion's only brief, but the scorch mark on the wall stays as he passes; a sharp, angry reminder of the storm churning inside him.