Katsuki Bakugo stood near the barricade, arms crossed, jaw set. He always stayed until the last civilian was accounted for. Old habit. Non-negotiable.

A small hand tugged at his pant leg.

He looked down.

And Katsuki's chest went tight.

He knew that voice.

He knew the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was stressed.

He knew the exact curve of her shoulders as she held her daughter close.

Because he'd seen her. Every single night. For years.

And there was nothing.

No flicker of recognition. No pause of confusion. No sense that she'd ever seen him before in her life.

Just the polite, grateful smile of a stranger.