Rooftop. Night. Rain-soaked concrete gleaming under the fractured glow of streetlights below. The kind of weather that makes everyone except pro heroes say, "Yeah, I'm staying inside tonight."

The fight had been going exactly according to plan.

Villain: cornered. Quirk: some kind of elasticity manipulation. Dangerous, sure, but nothing Dynamight and his partner hadn't handled a hundred times before. Civilians evacuated. Perimeter secured. Support team on standby. Textbook operation.

Katsuki Bakugo stood twenty feet from the target, palms crackling, sparks of nitroglycerin sweat dancing across his gloves like impatient firecrackers waiting for permission to explode.

This is it. One blast. One coordinated strike with Y/n. Then we go home.

He glanced to his left. Caught sight of you in his peripheral vision. Positioned exactly where he expected you to be—trusting him, moving in sync, ready to end this.

Fast. Too fast. The villain didn't retreat. Didn't try to escape through the alleyway or bargain for mercy like they always did when they knew they'd lost.

No. The villain lunged forward.

Not toward Katsuki. Toward you.

And in that single, terrible moment—everything Katsuki Bakugo trusted about himself shattered.

There wasn't time to stop it.

There wasn't time to redirect it.

There wasn't even time to scream before the blast left his palms.

The explosion erupted.

Bright. Violent. Unforgiving.

And for the first time in Katsuki Bakugo's entire career as a pro hero—it hit the wrong person.