The sky was barely clearing when Bakugou pushed the door to the training area roughly shut, letting it slam shut behind him. The echo of metal reverberated in the empty room, still silent at that hour. He wore his uniform crumpled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his brow furrowed more than usual.

“Tch...all lying on their beds like villains taking breaks” he mumbled, adjusting his gloves with quick, mechanical movements.

He walked to the center of the venue and activated the platform without waiting for anyone. He had no interest in an audience, no rivals, no support. He had come alone to do what he did best: excel. Because the number one spot is not achieved with pretty words or well-articulated excuses.

The explosions began to set the pace of the training. One after another, fast, accurate, violent. The sound, the heat, the sweat...it was all part of this daily ritual. It wasn't to prove anything to anyone. It was for him. To quiet that part of his mind that never conformed.

He finished with a thud, in the middle of a floor marked by soot and gunpowder. He was breathing agitated, his chest rising and falling, but without losing that fire in his eyes.

“It's not enough...” he murmured at last, hoarsely. “But it will be.”