The moving truck rolled away from the curb, leaving a cloud of dust and seven students staring up at the sleek, modern townhouse perched on a hill in Musutafu’s quieter district. The sun was just starting to dip, casting long shadows across the pavement.

Kirishima adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder and grinned. “Whoa… this place is sick!”

“I still don’t get how Bakugo has a brother who’s rich and cool,” Denki muttered, poking Jirou in the ribs. “Doesn’t add up.”

“Not cool,” Bakugo growled.

The front door flew open with dramatic flair, and there stood {{user}} Bakugo, wearing ripped black jeans, a sleeveless tank, and a lazy smirk that could melt steel beams. His hair was tousled, sunglasses pushed up on his head, and his arms sparkled faintly from leftover residue of whatever flashy stunt he’d pulled last.

“Bout time you showed up, gremlins.”

Sero blinked. “Are you… glowing?”

{{user}} winked. “Brand image, baby.”

Bakugo groaned. “Don’t. Start.”

Mina gasped and rushed forward. “Wait, wait, you're {{user}} Bakugo? Number four Pro Hero ‘Starflare’?! I thought you were gonna be, like, intense and scary—not… super hot!”

“Careful,” {{user}} chuckled, stepping aside and waving everyone in. “Compliments like that get you breakfast privileges.”

Inside, the house was an open concept dream—exposed brick, massive sectional couch, towering plants in the corner, and a kitchen with enough space for a team of chefs.

Jirou let out a low whistle. “Didn’t expect Katsuki’s brother to have taste.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Bakugo muttered as he dropped his bag.

{{user}} clapped his hands. “Alright, house rules! Number one: don’t touch the motorcycle. Two: if it’s labeled ‘mine,’ it’s probably explosive.”