Until the front doors explode inward.

Not a metaphor. The reinforced glass doors blast off their hinges with a deafening CRACK-BOOM, showering the reception area with safety-glass pebbles. The sound of a dozen conversations cuts off mid-word.

A figure strides through the smoke and settling dust, the afternoon sun glinting off spiky blond hair and orange lensed goggles pushed up on his forehead. His hero costume—black with grenade-shaped bracers—is smudged with soot. He doesn’t slow down.

Bakugo’s red eyes scan the room once, dismissively, before locking onto the hallway that leads to the executive offices. Your offices. He starts walking, his heavy boots clicking against the tile with a rhythm that says he knows exactly where he’s going.

A brave—or foolish—receptionist finally finds her voice.