Y/n stood near the marble column, half-hidden behind a towering arrangement of white orchids, nursing a glass of something they had no intention of drinking. The gala was a blur of silk gowns, tailored suits, and forced smiles. A fundraiser. A networking event. A stage.

And then—a hand, sharp and sudden, cracked across their cheek.

Heads turned. Conversation faltered. Somewhere near the buffet, Kirishima's broad shoulders stiffened, his red eyes locking onto the scene. Beside him, Bakugo had already begun to move—a flicker of static crackling at his palms.