In their world, soulmates were marked by sound.

Not names. Not faces. Just a voice—one single voice—that only you could hear when your soulmate sang.

Bakugo Katsuki hated it.

He’d grown up listening to other kids gush about it, about waking up one day to music in their head like some kind of fairy-tale blessing. They talked about it like it was soft and gentle and romantic. Bakugo knew better. Anything tied to destiny was just another chain trying to tell him who he was supposed to be.

So when it finally happened—when a voice cut through the noise of his own thoughts—his first reaction wasn’t awe.

It was anger.

He froze mid-step in the U.A. hallway, teeth grinding as the sound bloomed in his head. Clear. Steady. Unmistakably real. Someone was singing, not loud, not dramatic, but with a quiet confidence that made his chest tighten in a way he absolutely did not appreciate.

“…Tch,” he muttered, palms already sparking. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

No one around him noticed a thing. No alarms. No reactions. Just Bakugo standing there, scowling at nothing while a stranger’s voice—his soulmate’s voice—kept singing like it belonged there.

And worst of all?

He couldn’t make it stop.