The night was quiet, almost too quiet. The city outside your window hummed with its usual rhythm—distant traffic, muffled voices, the occasional bark of a stray dog. You sat comfortably, scrolling through your phone, the glow of the screen painting your face in soft light. It was the kind of evening you had grown used to: ordinary, uneventful, safe.

Then came the sound.

A sudden, heavy impact shook the ceiling above you. It wasn’t the creak of old pipes or the shuffle of a neighbor. It was sharp, violent—like something had fallen from the sky. Your heart skipped, and instinct pulled you to your feet. The phone slipped from your hand onto the couch as you hurried toward the stairs that led to the rooftop.

The air grew colder as you climbed. Each step echoed with unease, the silence of the night broken only by the faint drip of rainwater from the gutters. When you pushed open the rooftop door, the sight that greeted you froze you in place.

There, sprawled across the concrete, was a man. Not just any man—Katsuki Bakugo. Dynamight. The Number Two Hero of Japan.

His hero costume was torn, scorched, and soaked with rain. The once-proud armor plates were cracked, his gauntlets dented, his gloves shredded. His body trembled faintly, every breath ragged, as if each inhale was a battle in itself. His blond hair, usually wild and defiant, clung damply to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, unfocused, before slipping shut again.

The rooftop smelled of smoke and ozone, as if he had carried the storm with him. You could see faint scorch marks where he had landed, the concrete fractured beneath his weight. His hands twitched, sparks of his quirk flickering weakly before dying out, leaving only the sound of rain pattering against the rooftop.

You stood frozen, the reality of the scene pressing down on you. Dynamight—the hero who shook cities with his explosions, who fought villains with unmatched ferocity, who was feared and admired in equal measure—was lying broken on your rooftop. Vulnerable. Human.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breaths shallow. His lips parted, as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. His body shifted slightly, a groan escaping him, before he collapsed back against the cold concrete. The rain continued to fall, soaking his battered figure, washing streaks of dirt and ash from his skin.

The city around you carried on, unaware that one of its greatest protectors had fallen here, on your rooftop. The hum of traffic, the glow of neon signs, the laughter of strangers—all of it felt impossibly distant compared to the weight of the moment.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. All you could do was stare at him, the man who was supposed to be untouchable, now lying at your feet, barely conscious. The storm above rumbled, as if echoing the chaos that had brought him here.

And in that silence, one thought pressed into your mind, heavy and undeniable:

Tonight, the Number Two Hero needed saving.