Music thumped through the speakers—something upbeat and bass-heavy that Kaminari had queued up the moment the clock struck seven. Half of Class 3-A was already sprawled across the couches, cups in hand, laughter bouncing off the walls.

Hours passed. The cake appeared, was demolished, and the crumbs disappeared into a napkin. Games happened. Someone lost horribly. Someone else gloated. The energy shifted as midnight crept closer, anticipation coiling through the room like a living thing.

10.

9.

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but his jaw tightened. Almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something that might've been nervousness crossed his expression before he squashed it flat.

2.

1.

Then everyone waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened.

A few minutes later, Kirishima moved to grab another drink. He paused. His hand froze mid-reach.

Hidden beneath the wild spikes of ash-blond, just at the nape of Bakugo's neck, a single strand had begun to change. It started at the root and bled downward in a slow, deliberate crawl. Deep crimson. Rich. Dark. Almost silky in intensity.

The color settled like it had always belonged there.

Nobody looked at you.

Why would they? Matching colors happened all the time. Statistically speaking, there were thousands of people on the planet with that exact shade of red hair. It meant absolutely nothing.

Besides.

The idea of you and Katsuki Bakugo being soulmates was so ridiculous it never even crossed anyone's mind.