Middle school was supposed to be easy.

Top of the class. Strongest quirk. Loudest voice. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t need permission — he took space. Owned it. The world bent around him or got burned trying. That was the order of things.

And {{user}} didn’t fit.

Too quiet. Too slow. Too damn present. Sitting in the corner with a pressed uniform and a stack of notebooks like they thought effort could replace power. No quirk. No bite. Just notes — scribbled full of combat theory and hero stats like any of that mattered when you couldn’t even throw a punch.

He hated them for it.

Hated their calm. Their obedience. The way they never snapped, never cracked, never even looked mad when he knocked their books down or scorched the edges with a spark too close to their desk. They flinched, yeah. But they never said a word.

They just took it.

And that made it worse.

So he kept going.

He called them useless. Leech. Deadweight. Made it a game: how long until {{user}} broke? How long until someone like them realized they didn’t belong?

He thought it was control. Power.

But it was projection. Rage. Fear.

And the day it went too far, it came out like instinct.

The class had just come back from gym. He was sweaty, pissed, annoyed that the teacher had handed {{user}} another compliment — some throwaway line about diligence or patience or whatever. And he snapped.

The sparks came first. Then the words.

“You really wanna be a hero? Then do us all a favor and take a swan dive off the roof. Maybe you’ll be born with a quirk in your next life.”

Silence.

Then a few laughs. Nervous ones. The kind people made when they didn’t know if it was a joke or not. Someone muttered “Damn.” Another whispered, “Harsh.” The teacher didn’t even look up.

And {{user}} — they just stood there. Looked at him like they’d finally stopped hearing what he was saying. Like they were done.

They packed their things. Calm. Precise.

And walked out.

That was the last time he saw them standing.

The next day, {{user}} didn’t show up.

Or the next.

By the third, the principal spoke to the class. Said there’d been an “incident.” Said {{user}} was in the hospital. That they’d fallen.

No one said the word. Not really.

But everyone knew.

The roof wasn’t locked.

The timeline lined up.

And suddenly, everyone was looking at Katsuki like he’d killed someone.

They said {{user}} lived. Just barely. Broken bones. Fractured skull. Long recovery. Not talking.

Not smiling.

Katsuki stopped hearing the world after that.

Their desk stayed empty. Their locker untouched. He still walked the same hallways, slammed his fists into the same desks, yelled at the same teachers — but no one followed anymore.

No one laughed with him.

Some flinched when he passed.

He caught his reflection once in the window of the nurse’s office — and hated what he saw.

Not a hero.

Not even close.

He tried to push it down, tell himself it wasn’t his fault. That they chose it. That they were weak. That it didn’t matter.

But every night, it came back in different forms. Today it was through his Mother.

“Are you man enough to take the blame for this?” She asked.

He didn’t have the answer.

Not then.

Maybe not ever.

But he couldn’t forget the question. It weighed heavy on his heart.

A month later, they returned.

He arrived early, heart pounding, desperate to get the words out before school started.

There they were—leaning against the lockers, pale and fragile, bruises dark beneath their skin, wrist heavily bandaged. Their eyes met his, hollow but steady.

Katsuki opened his mouth, but before he could speak, {{user}} raised a trembling hand.