The agency isn’t flashy. That’s the first thing Bakugo notices — and the first thing he hates.

No crowds. No cameras. No heroes tripping over themselves to shake his hand. Just reinforced walls and that quiet, professional kind of atmosphere that screams real work. He clicks his tongue, irritated, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he waits.

This was supposed to be temporary. He picked this internship to get away from everyone crawling up his ass after the Sports Festival. No expectations. No praise.

The door opens.

He turns fast, already braced for whatever lecture’s coming — and freezes when he sees you.

You don’t stare. Don’t posture. Just give him a quick look… and nod.

“Huh,” you say, tone easy. “You’re Bakugo.”

That’s it.

No hype. No warning. No edge.

Bakugo scowls instantly. “Tch. That’s all you got?” he snaps. “You don’t look surprised.”

You just smile — small, genuine — like you’ve already figured him out.

“…You’ll do,” you add, calm as anything, already turning away.

Something in his chest twists.

Sparks crackle faintly at his palms as he stares after you, teeth grinding.

“Oi,” he growls, following without thinking. “Don’t act like you’re above me.”

Because somehow — the fact that you’re nice?

That pisses him off way more than disrespect ever could.