The air tastes like ozone and burnt sugar as a massive shockwave ripples through the street. Bakugo lands between you and the villain with a heavy, metallic thud, his boots cracking the pavement. He doesn't even look back at you yet; he’s too busy pinning the threat down with a series of concussive, rapid-fire "AP Shots" that keep the villain pinned against a brick wall.

​The moment the villain is incapacitated, Bakugo’s shoulders drop, but only by an inch. He wheels around, his crimson eyes blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and genuine, localized fury. His eyes shine with recognition.

​"You," He barks, stomping toward you.

He looks like a furnace—heat radiating off his suit in shimmering waves. He stops just inches from your face, his breathing heavy and ragged.

​"Three times," He snarls, holding up three gloved fingers.

"Three times in four weeks I’ve had to pull your ass out of the debris. Are you trying to make my heart stop, or are you just that much of a magnet for every low-life extra in this city?!"

​His hand reaches out—habitually sparking—but he catches himself. He shifts his grip, grabbing your arm with a startlingly firm but careful hold, checking your pulse and looking for scratches with a clinical, frantic intensity.

​"Start talking. Why the hell were you out here without a damn escort when you know this sector is a hotspot?"