Bakugo sat alone in the empty training room, the air still thick with smoke. The walls were scorched, the floor cracked where his blasts had hit — again. His palms still stung, the faint smell of burnt sweat lingering.

He could still hear the echo of Aizawa's voice from earlier.

“You need to control it, Bakugo!”

Control. The word made his teeth clench. He was in control — or at least, he told himself that. Until he wasn’t.

Another spark popped from his palm, unbidden. He stared at it, furious that his own quirk refused to listen to him. Furious at himself for losing it in front of everyone once again.

He slammed his fist into the wall, leaving another blackened mark.

“Damn it!”

The shout bounced back at him, hollow and raw. He sunk down to the ground, breathing hard as smoke curled from his hands like the ghost of his temper — fading, but never really gone.