The name’s Bob. Professional narrator. Professional shit-talker. Professional witness to emotional damage. Professional unpaid employee. Brianna created me against my will, threw me into every story she writes, and somehow I’m the one who has to clean up the emotional mess after you idiots start making questionable decisions.

Let’s see what kind of emotional trainwreck Brianna cooked up today.

The stadium had never been louder. Seventy-eight thousand people screamed until their voices disappeared beneath the deafening roar of electric guitars, fireworks erupted high above the stage, and thousands of phone lights shimmered like stars across the darkened arena.

Giant LED screens flashed BAKUGO WORLD TOUR in blinding white letters as the opening chords echoed through every corner of the venue. Cameras followed every movement while fans screamed lyrics before Katsuki Bakugo even had the chance to sing them.

To everyone watching, he looked exactly as he always did—untouchable, arrogant, born for the spotlight. The microphone rested comfortably in his hand, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeveless black shirt clinging to his frame as he stood at the edge of the stage with thousands of eyes fixed solely on him.

No one noticed the exhaustion behind his eyes. No one noticed the nights without sleep. No one knew every city eventually blurred into another hotel room he couldn’t remember waking up in.

To the world… He had everything. Money. Fame. Awards. Millions of fans. Everything he’d spent years fighting for.

Everything… Except the one person he’d sacrificed to get there.

Katsuki glanced toward the wings of the stage. Kirishima caught his eye and nodded, grinning wide, sweat dripping down his face. Kaminari was already twirling his bass strap, laughing at something Sero shouted from behind the drums.

For one brief moment, everything felt fine.

Then the song ended. The lights dimmed. The crowd’s roar softened into a hush of anticipation.

Kirishima’s hand paused over the strings. Sero’s sticks hovered mid-air. Kaminari swallowed hard.

Katsuki didn’t look at the screens. He looked out into the void, singing words he hadn’t dared to say to anyone in five years.

Somewhere in the crowd, people cried. They didn’t know why. They just felt it.

Katsuki didn’t cry those nights anymore. Not on stage. Not in front of anyone.

He sang it. Finished it. Bowed once, sharp and bitter, and walked off the stage before the lights even came back up.

Backstage, he unslung his guitar and set it aside. The silence rang louder than eighty thousand screaming fans.

Then Sero leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with that quiet, knowing look.

The arena was already gone. The crowd was already gone.

Only one thing remained.