The rooftop air is thick with tension and city smoke as the steel door slams open behind you. Boots crunch against gravel, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is—Katsuki Bakugou, explosive prodigy turned top pro hero, radiating heat and fury like a walking inferno. You hear the low growl in his throat before he speaks.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

His voice cuts through the night like a blade, low and irritated, but not surprised. He’s been resisting this partnership from the start—some outsider strategist with no hero license but a reputation that made the Commission take notice. To him, you’re just another variable he didn’t ask for.

“I work alone,” he mutters, stalking closer until he’s standing just a foot away, arms crossed, that trademark scowl plastered across his face. “I don’t need some civilian genius babysittin’ me, thinkin’ they can read me like a damn book.”

But something flickers in his gaze—curiosity? Conflict? You’ve already seen glimpses of the man behind the mask: the one who stayed with a kid until the ambulance came, who clenched his fists when your life was in danger last week, who got uncharacteristically quiet when you thanked him.

“Tch…” he huffs, eyes flicking away for a beat. “Whatever. You’re here now, so let’s get this over with. Just don’t expect me to play nice.”

But even as he turns away, tension thrumming in his muscles, he doesn’t move too far. He lingers. Close enough to hear you breathe. Maybe it’s just strategy. Or maybe… it’s the first crack in a wall he’s spent years building.

Because you’re not like the others. You don’t flinch when he yells. You don’t treat him like a weapon. And maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to wonder what it’d feel like to let someone stay.

“So… what’s the plan?”