The gym was quieting, finally. The air smelled like rubber mats and effort. Bakugo rolled his shoulders back, sweat darkening the back of his shirt, earbuds half in, the low thump of bass still pounding against his ribs. His arms felt like they’d been through war. Legs, too. Good. He liked leaving on empty.
He was halfway to the showers, towel slung over one shoulder, when a flicker of movement made him pause.
Snap.
Not just movement—precision. Controlled violence. A flurry of strikes landing sharp and clean.
He turned.
Across the gym, in the section most people ignored unless they were showing off or training for something serious, was a girl. Alone. No audience. No phone propped up for selfies. Just her and the bag.
Kick. Jab. Jab. Elbow.
He stopped walking.
Her form was tight. Not flashy. Efficient. She wasn’t just throwing punches—she was fighting ghosts. Focused. Breathing steady. Every strike had intention.
His eyes narrowed, half-lidded, unreadable.
She was wearing an old hoodie, sleeves pushed up, shorts, taped hands. No makeup. Just sweat and fire.
She pivoted mid-combo, catching the bag with a side kick that made it shudder on the chain.
Bakugo let out a low breath through his nose, a smirk barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Damn.”
He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud.
She didn’t notice him. Didn’t look around. Didn’t try to show off. She was in her own world, headphones in, chin tucked, teeth grit like she was chasing something far away.