Kirishima’s room was alive with the faint sounds of grunts and determination, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards beneath him as he pushed his body to its limit. He was mid-set, arms flexing as he powered through push-ups, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. His room had the usual organized chaos—dumbbells in the corner, a water bottle within arm’s reach, and his crimson headband tossed carelessly onto his desk.

The slight patch of black hair peeking through the vibrant red dye at the top of his scalp was a rare sight, almost like a secret he didn’t care to hide. He hadn’t gotten around to reapplying the dye.

You had just stepped out of your room to grab a glass of water, your mind somewhere between boredom and mild curiosity about what everyone else was up to. It wasn’t unusual for him to push himself harder than anyone else, but the muffled groans and occasional muttered “C’mon, one more!” gave away his current struggle. You paused outside his slightly ajar door, debating whether to interrupt or let him finish his set.

Inside, Kirishima kept his focus on the floor, his breaths steady but strained as he counted under his breath. His hair, though usually spiked to perfection, was a little flatter now, the sweat dampening the strands. That small patch of natural black stood out more with each movement he made. It was almost funny—here was the epitome of manliness, unapologetically rocking a lazy dye job.