The door slammed open.

Bakugo stormed in, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes blazing with defiance. He didn’t wait for a greeting. Didn’t glance at the chair across from you. He stood like a soldier forced into surrender, every muscle coiled with resistance.

“I’m here because I have no choice!” he snapped, voice echoing off the walls. “But I don’t need this crap!”

You didn’t flinch.

You’d been warned, of course. Aizawa’s tone had been dry, almost amused: “He’ll fight you. Let him.” And now here he was—UA’s explosive prodigy, radiating fury like heat, glaring at the room like it had personally offended him.

You gestured calmly to the seat.

He didn’t move.

“I’m not broken,” he growled. “I don’t need fixing.”

“I never said you were,” you replied, voice steady.

He blinked, thrown off for half a second.

You leaned back in your chair, unfazed. “But you are angry. And you’re here. So we can either sit in silence, or you can tell me why you hate being seen.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But his stance shifted—just slightly. Less like a bomb about to go off, more like a boy who wasn’t sure what to do with the fuse in his hand.

And that was enough.

For now.