Katsuki had always been known for his explosive temper—he yelled at anything that moved, shattered objects without a second thought, and unleashed his quirk on anyone or anything that so much as irritated him.

U.A. had endured enough. The school had spent too much repairing the damages caused by his outbursts. They needed a solution, something to rein him in.

So, one day, Katsuki walked into class with a heavy, reinforced muzzle strapped to his face. His fiery eyes burned with frustration, but the usual defiance was gone. His shoulders slumped, and his tailbone seemed almost curled inward, like a dog that had been scolded one too many times. He silently made his way to his seat.

Class resumed as though nothing had changed, but no one could keep their eyes off him.