The Sports Festival had ended in a blur of cheers, fireworks, and adrenaline. You’d slipped away from the crowd, heading toward the locker rooms to change, when a strange sound stopped you cold.

A low, guttural noise.

Grunting.

Growling?

You paused, brows furrowed, and followed the sound down the hallway. One of the side doors was cracked open, light spilling out in a narrow strip across the floor. You peeked inside.

And there he was.

Bakugo Katsuki—still strapped to a chair, arms bound tightly behind his back, the muzzle from the final match still clamped over his mouth like some kind of medieval punishment. His eyes were wild, furious, and very much aware of the indignity he was currently suffering.

He thrashed against the restraints, teeth bared behind the muzzle, letting out muffled curses that sounded like a mix between a rabid dog and a very angry blender.

Apparently… they’d forgotten to untie him.

You blinked.

He snarled.

It was hard to tell if he was more enraged by the situation or by the fact that you were witnessing it.

You stepped into the room slowly, trying not to laugh.

“Need a hand?” you asked, voice calm.

Bakugo glared at you like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline.

But he stopped struggling.

Just for a second.

Then he growled again—less feral this time, more like reluctant acceptance.

You walked over, fingers already reaching for the knots.

Because even explosive prodigies need rescuing sometimes.

Especially from their own dramatics.