It was the messy aftermath of discovering you were both world-class assassins. One gunfight, one knife fight, and a reckless, tension-fueled moment later, you had the full picture.

You worked for the League. He worked for a high-profile organization ironically named “Heroes.” It was a disaster, an absolute nightmare.

Now, you sat side by side on the splintered floor of what used to be your once-pristine home, now riddled with bullet holes and shattered glass. The air smelled like gunpowder and sweat, and your lungs burned from the exertion.

Sliding down against the wall, you wiped your brow with the back of your hand, your other still clutching your pistol tightly. You glanced over at Izuku, who was equally bruised and battered, his face streaked with dirt and his hands trembling ever so slightly as he gripped his weapon.

“This,” you panted, your voice sharp as you gestured around at the wreckage with the barrel of your gun, “is your fucking fault, Izuku.”

He winced but didn’t look at you, instead staring down at his bloodied hands like they held all the answers. You weren’t sure if you wanted to scream at him again or help him up. Probably both.