The air was warmer than anything Class 1-A had felt before. Delhi’s sun hit differently — a golden, glowing heat that shimmered on every rooftop, every glass window, every bright-colored dupatta fluttering in the wind.

“This is insane,” Kaminari groaned, fanning himself with a tourist brochure. “It’s like walking inside a toaster!”

“Stop whining,” Bakugo muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s not that hot.” It was that hot. His hair stuck to his forehead, and the smell of street food — spicy, smoky, mouth-watering — filled the air, mixing with car horns and laughter.

India was chaos. But… somehow, beautiful chaos.

They had a free hour before heading back to their bus. The others scattered through the market, eyes wide at every stall of jewelry, spices, and sarees. Bakugo stayed back, pretending to be uninterested — until his eyes caught something.

A girl.

She wasn’t anyone he knew — a total stranger walking past, carrying a basket of jasmine flowers. Her long black hair brushed against her shoulder, and she wore a light yellow kurti, bangles chiming softly with each step. The sun hit her earrings, and for a second, Bakugo swore time slowed.