The rain fell leisurely, drumming against the rusted metal of the abandoned warehouse. Bakugou was bent over a makeshift table, his face illuminated by the trembling light of an old monitor. The glow highlighted the deep shadows under his eyes and the tense set of his jaw.

His hands were stained with grease and gunpowder. Scattered on the table were blueprints, photographs and synchronized clocks. Everything was laid out. Everything was measured.

“Cardboard heroes...” he muttered between his teeth, contemptuously. “They think speeches are going to save anything.”

He traced the line of a routine patrol with a finger on one of the maps, memorizing every junction, every blind spot. He didn't need any more explosions than necessary. Just precision. Impact. Fear.

Because chaos was useless if it didn't have a message. And his was clear: everything they defended was rotten to the core.

He put his gloves back on. In his head, each step sounded exact, inevitable.

Civilians were not the target. Not yet. He wanted the heroes to look in the mirror and not be able to recognize themselves. He wanted them to doubt. I wanted them to fear. To understand that they were never invincible.

He took a deep breath, letting the silence of the place soak in his determination. In the distance, a clap of thunder seemed to mark the beginning of something inevitable.

“It's not just revenge...” he whispered, barely audible. “It's justice...my way.”