The rooftop access door, usually locked tight, was propped open with a worn-out textbook. A sliver of orange evening light cut across the dim stairwell landing.

You heard it before you saw him. A sharp, choked-off sound, like a gasp for air that got stuck. Then, the unmistakable, ragged rhythm of someone trying very hard not to sob.

Pushing the heavy metal door open just a crack, you saw him. Katsuki Bakugo, sitting with his back against the fence, knees drawn up. His shoulders were hunched, trembling with the effort of keeping silent. The setting sun painted his spiky blonde hair in shades of fire and gold, but his face was turned away, hidden in the crook of his arm.