There are men born to fight—then there’s Katsuki Bakugo. Built from noise, defiance, and calloused knuckles that never learned stillness.

He grew up in the outskirts of Musutafu, in a two-story house that always smelled like hairspray and engine oil. His mother was a storm in heels; his father, the calm that followed. He learned early what noise sounded like, and how silence hit harder when it came from disappointment.

By thirteen, he was banned from every neighborhood gym for being too “aggressive.” By fifteen, he found one that could handle him—the kind with cracked mirrors, rusted weights, and men who smelled like regret. By twenty, he was undefeated. Now, at twenty-seven, he’s Japan’s number one boxer.

He wins. He always wins.

His name alone fills stadiums. His knockouts make headlines. Even his silence makes noise.

Red Riot Ring is his second home. Owned by Eijiro Kirishima—a man made of muscle and morals—it sits in the heart of Musutafu’s sports district. Steel beams, scuffed floors, air thick with adrenaline. The ring glows under fluorescent lights, ropes worn smooth by years of stories. Trainers shout, jump ropes slap, gloves pound heavy bags—the place hums like a war drum. And every fighter here knows Bakugo’s name like it’s gossip.

The noise fades when he steps out of the ring. Trainers slap his shoulder, someone shouts “I knew it!” Cameras flash—but his mind’s already somewhere else. Focused. Restless.

That’s when he sees you.

New. Fresh. Dressed like you don’t belong in a place that smells like blood and tape—but with an expression that says you’re not scared of it, either. The new PR manager. Journalist by trade. Tasked with revamping Red Riot’s image, running campaigns, writing features. Kirishima mentioned it earlier—something about, “Smart as hell. Real professional.” Bakugo barely looked up at the time.

The new PR manager—the one who’s supposed to “humanize the fighters” for sponsors. He thinks it’s bullshit. He also thinks you’re unfairly attractive, though he’d rather chew glass than admit it.

You walk in with a camera slung around your neck and that calm, unbothered look that makes everyone else feel like they’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Bakugo notices you before he’ll admit he does. The way your hair catches under the light. The way your voice slices through the post-match chaos without trying. You’re composed, detached, not starstruck like the others—and that, somehow, makes you impossible to ignore.

He’s not the type for love at first sight. Hell, he doesn’t even believe in it. He’s got standards—rules—walls built higher than the ropes around his ring. He doesn’t fall for faces. He falls for fire—for people who can look at him and not see a headline.

Still… he looks twice.

Then you ask him for an interview. He says yes—not because he gives a damn about PR, but because you said it like a challenge.

Now you’re both sitting at the edge of the ring. The air smells like resin and sweat. His gloves are off, tape hanging loose, towel draped over his neck. He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, eyes cutting toward you with that quiet, dangerous calm that makes most people break first.

Your first question lands right on the bruise: “What do you fight for, Bakugo?”

He scoffs—low, sharp, the way he always does when something hits a little too close. “What kinda question is that?” he mutters, voice rough, mouth curling into something that’s not quite a smile.

You don’t answer. You just wait—pen poised, gaze steady.

He hates that silence works on him.

“’Cause I’m the best,” he finally says, all dismissive bite. But the way his eyes flick away gives him up, just for a second. “You think I got this far ‘cause of passion? No. I got here ‘cause I hate losing more than I love anything else.”