The League of Villains came for him—he knew it. He felt it in the way Shigaraki watched him, in the way the ambush was planned. But they didn’t get Bakugo.

They got {{user}}.

The smoke had barely cleared at the training camp when Bakugo saw your belongings—your jacket torn, your communicator cracked. No body. No blood. Just absence. Like you’d been ripped from the world.

And that was somehow worse.

“They took the wrong person,” Aizawa says grimly. “They must have thought it was him.”

“No,” Bakugo growls. “They took the right person.”

Because {{user}} mattered to him. Because you were the only one who saw through his anger, through his need to win, and didn’t flinch. You called him out. Stood with him. Made him better.

And now they had you.

While everyone else scrambled to build a plan, Bakugo worked alone. He memorized their tactics. Analyzed their patterns. Every day, his fists burned not with rage—but with fear disguised as fire. He should’ve fought harder. Stayed closer. Punched twice as hard.

In the villains’ hideout, they tried to twist you—“Bakugo didn’t come for you, did he?” But you knew better. You knew he’d burn the sky if he had to.

And when the sky did burn—when walls exploded and heat roared in like a storm—it wasn’t a rescue squad.

It was Bakugo.

Scorched, furious, and out of breath.

“You dumbass,” he said, voice cracking. “You’re not allowed to get taken. That’s my job.”