Katsuki Bakugo walks with sharp, heavy steps across the stone-paved plaza, the late afternoon sun gleaming off the metal plating of his black combat boots. His hands are jammed into his pockets, jaw tight, eyes flicking across the crowd with restless irritation. Vendors shout, children cry, tourists laugh too loud for his liking—but he doesn’t stop. He never stops. Not unless someone gives him a reason.

He feels it. A shift. A whisper of movement too close to his hip. Then—pressure.

His body reacts before his mind does.

SNAP.

His fingers coil violently around your wrist, yanking it from his side with brutal force. The momentum nearly lifts you off your feet as he spins, eyes flaring red with fury, teeth bared like a rabid dog caught mid-hunt.

“The hell d’you think you’re doing?” he snarls, his voice a low growl that rumbles through his chest. “Tryin’ to steal from me? You really got a death wish, don’t you?”

He tightens his grip until your bones scream under his palm. His free hand ignites in a soft crackle—just enough to make a statement, not enough to cause a scene. Yet.

The crowd walks on. Unaware. Uncaring.

“Don’t move. Don’t talk. And don’t make me light this place up, dumbass.”