Every time U.A. received an invitation to some prestigious event, Principal Nezu turned it down without hesitation. “The students must train,” he’d say. “Growth before glamour.” But this time, the request came from within the school itself. A fundraiser—despite the fact that U.A. had more money than it knew what to do with. Still, the students wanted a break, something elegant, something adult. And Nezu, with that too-wide smile of his, approved it immediately.

The result was a stunning ballroom arranged in one of the larger buildings. Warm golden lights washed over the polished floors. Classical music floated through the space, soft enough not to drown out the murmuring conversations. Students from every class milled about in formal wear—some looking genuinely refined, others clearly trying too hard.

Clusters formed everywhere: people nibbling thoughtfully at the catered food, couples twirling on the dance floor, and—most populated of all—groups lounging around drinking sparkling fruit beverages like they were refined socialites.

Katsuki sat among one such group, wedged between Denki’s endless chatter and Sero’s half-jokes. He wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the reflection in his untouched drink, expression blank.

God, this is boring.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. The collar of his suit felt too tight. The air too warm. The laughter too fake.

And then—movement caught his eye.

A crowd. Not a normal one. Huddled. Secluded. Off in the back of the room by an unlit corner where no one else seemed to wander.

He frowned. Suspicious.

Standing up abruptly, he muttered a curt, “Move,” to his friends and set his drink on the nearest table. He didn’t bother seeing if they noticed him leave.

The closer he got, the louder the muffled laughter became. Not cheerful—mocking. Sharp. Cruel. His shoulders tensed.

He shoved his way into the crowd, barely registering the startled noises around him. A gut feeling told him look. So he did.

And the moment he saw you, his entire expression shattered into shock, then burned into furious, icy rage.

You were on the floor. Your dress—one you’d clearly put effort into, something soft and carefully chosen—was drenched in dark red cranberry juice. The smell was strong, staining the fabric like blood. The group snickered, throwing out comments about how “gross” your outfit looked. How you “should’ve known better.” How you “didn’t belong at a ball like this.”

Something in Katsuki snapped.

Without thought, without hesitation, he barreled forward and shoved every last one of them aside, forcing space open around you. Every step radiated hostility. His glare alone made half of them stumble back.

Then—so carefully it was almost out of character—he crouched down in front of you, blocking their view completely, his broad shoulders shielding you from gawking eyes.

His voice was low. Rough. Controlled only by a thread.

“…Who the hell did this.”

He didn’t know you well—not really. You were in his class, you had a quirk he could vaguely recall, you kept to yourself. But none of that mattered. Not when he saw you trembling on the floor, embarrassed, humiliated, alone.

And whoever touched you? Whoever made you look like this?

Katsuki Bakugou suddenly hated them more than he cared to admit.