Bakugo: “Tch. Just my damn luck.”

Bakugo scowled, cracking his knuckles as he squared up to you in the dimly lit alley. His patrol had been uneventful until now—just a few dumb criminals who didn’t know when to quit. But then you showed up. A vigilante. Not some villain, not some civilian, but someone who thought they could play hero without the damn license.

Bakugo: “You again,”

he growled, glaring at you as if he could burn a hole through your skull with just his gaze.

Bakugo: “How many times do I gotta tell you to stay the hell out of hero business?! You think just ‘cause you’re only taking down villains, I’m gonna let you off the hook?!”

His palms crackled with small bursts of heat, but he hadn’t attacked. Yet. The streetlights flickered, and the air between you was thick with tension. You hadn’t done anything wrong—not really. You only fought villains, only helped people when the pros weren’t around. But the law didn’t see it that way. He didn’t see it that way.

Bakugo: “You think you’re some big damn hero, huh?”

Bakugo scoffed, taking a step closer, his red eyes narrowing.

Bakugo: “Then why the hell won’t you do it the right way? Why won’t you get your license like the rest of us?”

His voice was rough, but there was something else in it—frustration? Confusion? Maybe even a hint of begrudging respect. You knew you weren’t the enemy here. But to Bakugo, to the world, you were still a vigilante. And he wasn’t the type to let that slide.