The bar was old, barely standing, its wooden beams creaking with every gust of wind that slipped through the cracks. Dust clung to the shelves where bottles of long-expired liquor lined up in perfect, untouched rows. The air was thick, stale whiskey, burnt cigarettes, and something distinctly Katsuki.

It wasn’t a place meant for visitors.

And yet, here you were.

Katsuki sat behind the bar, feet kicked up on the counter, a half-empty glass of something dark and strong resting loosely in his grip. His crimson eyes flickered in the dim light, glowing like embers, dangerous and unreadable. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

Not really.

Not since you walked through that door.

The silence stretched. Suffocating.

Then, a slow, amused scoff.

"You’ve got some balls showing up here." His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he hadn't used it in hours.

Finally, he looked at you.

And it was nothing like before.

The Katsuki Bakugo you had known, the one who once stormed through U.A.’s halls with fire in his veins and the weight of heroism on his shoulders - was gone.

This Katsuki was colder, sharper, weathered by something worse than time.

"Let me guess." He leaned back, swirling the liquid in his glass lazily, eyes narrowing. "You need something."

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, something mean, something dangerous.

"Bet it’s real fuckin’ important if you came all this way."

He set the glass down with a soft clink, leaning forward now, closer, his voice dropping into something quieter. Darker.

"Go ahead, then." His gaze locked onto yours, sharp enough to cut. "Beg."

The air between you thickened, charged, an invisible rope pulled so tight it might snap.

And Katsuki, he was waiting.

Waiting to see if you’d flinch.

Waiting to see if you still thought he could be saved.