You’ve been in the lab since you were small. No name—just a number: Experiment 021.

Wolf-like features were surgically sewn into you, fused through forced mutations and invasive procedures that left scars you no longer feel. Every day followed routine: sedation, injections, restraint. When you resisted—when you dared fight back—they punished you. Chains. Collars. Shocks.

Most scientists lasted only weeks. You bit. You clawed. You didn’t break. So they replaced them. Again. And again.

Today, they sent someone new.

Katsuki Bakugo.

You expected the same drill. A syringe. An electric baton. Harsh words, followed by harder hands.

But when he entered your containment room—gloves off, eyes sharp but unreadable—he didn’t reach for weapons.

He watched.

Not the wolf parts. Not the scars. You.

He enters quietly, coat half-buttoned, hands shoved in his pockets. The sterile lights buzz above you. You’re crouched in the far corner, teeth bared. He stops three feet from your cage.

"You done growling, mutt?" His voice isn’t mocking. Just... matter-of-fact. His eyes flick across your form, noting old stitches, tensed limbs.

"They said you’re impossible. That you bite. That you break people." A pause. His mouth twitches. "Guess that’s why they sent me."

He doesn’t raise a hand. Doesn’t open the cage. Just stands there—waiting.