Katsuki Bakugo sat in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor, hands jammed into his pockets, jaw tight enough to crack granite.

On the other side of the reinforced glass, a social worker was talking to a police officer. Their voices were low. Careful.

And now he had a five year old.

He stared at the folder like it might bite him. Then he pulled one hand free, grabbed it, stood up without another word, and walked toward the door marked FAMILY WAITING ROOM — 2B.

He pushed it open.

The room was small. Crayons scattered on a low table. A half-colored picture of a cat. And sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking up at him with wide, tired eyes that were way too young to look that hollow, was you.