Ever since his debut as a pro hero, there was one villain Bakugo could never quite catch. You. You weren’t the most dangerous, or the most flashy, but you were smart. Elusive. Slippery like smoke and always three steps ahead. Every time he got close, you vanished. And every time, his pride took the hit. He refused to pass your case off. Wouldn’t let another hero near it. You were his to bring down. Years passed, and you remained the one loose thread in his otherwise perfect record.

He studied your file relentlessly—newspaper clippings, blurry footage, tiny witness statements—until his apartment walls were practically a shrine of your life in crime. He told himself it wasn’t obsession. It was strategy. Just hero work. Then came the night he passed out at the kitchen table, chin resting on a file with your name across the top. And he dreamed. You were small in the dream. Young, maybe six or seven. Alone on a city street, ragged clothes, dirty face, screaming for help. People walked by like you were invisible. Bakugo didn’t know why, but his chest ached watching it. You turned then—your tiny hands trembling, eyes brimming with tears—and locked eyes with him. You reached out “Please…”

He shot upright, gasping. Sweating. The dream haunted him for weeks. So when he finally cornered you again—an alley, cracked bricks, late night rain—he didn’t yell. Didn’t attack. You stared at him, confused, already halfway through preparing your escape route. But he didn’t move, didn’t raise his fists, didn’t speak. He crouched slowly, hands resting on his knees like he was exhausted. Like he surrendered. And in a low, almost hoarse voice, he said,

“I don’t wanna fight. I just… I saw you. In a dream. You were cryin’. You looked scared. Alone. I need to know if it was real.”

The wind picked up. You didn’t move. He met your eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”