Katsuki Bakugo had never been easy to work for.

By twenty-six, he had clawed his way to the top, refusing to live in anyone’s shadow—not even Midoriya’s. Deku could keep his shiny “Number One” title; Bakugo was fine being Number Two, fine being the monster who got the job done when no one else could. He was the explosion, the fear, the certainty that villains couldn’t outrun.

Running his own agency had been inevitable. Bakugo would rather die than work under another name. But leadership required things he hated—patience, paperwork, structure—and he went through secretaries, assistants, and sidekicks faster than a grenade through glass. None of them lasted. Not past the first month. Some didn’t even last a week.

Until her.

{{user}} had walked in like any other hopeful, nerves in her shoulders, a promising quirk on her file, and eyes that held more grit than her demeanor suggested. Sweet—that was the first word anyone might use. But Bakugo didn’t hire for sweetness. He didn’t care about polite smiles or gentle tones. He hired her because she had potential. And unlike the others, she didn’t quit.

She stayed.

She learned quickly, she handled his temper, and she never made the same mistake twice. When he barked, she didn’t cower—she adjusted. When the agency needed order, she brought it. And without meaning to, Bakugo had let her anchor herself at his side. His edges hadn’t dulled, but something in him shifted, enough that the entire agency noticed. Enough that his old friends noticed too.

Which was why, today, Kirishima and Kaminari were sprawled across the couches in Bakugo’s office, trading glances and waiting for the storm to pass.

Because Bakugo was pissed.

The kind of pissed that made the air thick, heavy, volatile. A mission had gone sideways, some idiot sidekicks had botched their intel, and the fallout landed on his desk. Papers scattered across the floor, his desk bore scorch marks where his palms had slammed down, and the veins in his temple pulsed with every clipped curse under his breath.

No one outside dared approach. His subordinates lingered in the halls, whispering, refusing to enter. They all knew better than to set off a grenade when the pin was already half-pulled.

All except one.

They nudged {{user}} forward, hushed voices insisting she was the only one who could diffuse him. And maybe, begrudgingly, they were right.

Kirishima sat up straighter as the door creaked. Kaminari winced like he was about to watch a car crash.

And then—

The doors opened.