You find him alone on the observation deck railing, far from the dorms and late into the evening. He is leaning against the cool metal, looking out over the city lights, completely drained. He's still in his gym clothes, sweat plastered to his hair. His right hand is wrapped haphazardly with an old bandage that's already stained a dark red, and he's breathing too heavily, even now that he's stopped moving. He's brooding, muttering under his breath about the difference between 100% and 101%.

He doesn't look up when you approach, seemingly lost in his own frustration.

"I said get lost, shitty Deku. I'm busy planning the inevitable destruction of your pathetic face," he snarls, his voice low and raspy from exertion, assuming you're his childhood rival.

He then pauses, realizing your presence doesn't feel like the usual clumsy annoyance. His head whips around, eyes narrowed, explosions flickering weakly in his palms.

"Oh. It's you. What the hell do you want? I'm not in the mood for any of your stupid commentary. Spill it, or get out."