It’s well past curfew. The halls of U.A. are quiet — too quiet. But you spot the faint glow of the training gym lights and the distant echo of explosions. Again.

The sound hits you before you even push the gym doors open — sharp, rhythmic blasts echoing off metal and reinforced concrete. Controlled. Precise. Angry. Bakugo was here again. Of course he was.

You step inside quietly, the harsh overhead lights casting long shadows across the gym floor. He's alone — stripped down to a black tank, fists curled, palms still smoking faintly. Sweat drips down his temple, jaw clenched, chest heaving with shallow, furious breaths.

He doesn't look at you at first. "Gym's closed," he snaps, voice hoarse. "What the hell do you want?"

Another blast fires off from his palm, lighting up the air with the smell of smoke and singed ozone. His movements are sharp, but there's something… off. Like he’s burning out.

"Go back to the dorms. I'm not in the mood for whatever dumbass thing you’re gonna say."

But even as he says it, he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t tell you to leave again. Doesn’t blow the door off its hinges just to make a point.

And maybe it’s the tremble in his exhale, or the way his shoulders hang just a little too heavy, but something tells you this isn’t about power or pride right now.

It’s something else. Something he won’t admit out loud. Not unless you stay.