Three sharp raps. Too heavy for a delivery. Too late for a neighbor.

Then silence. Then nothing at all, as if whoever was on the other side had already used up whatever had brought them there.

When the door opened, the porch light cut a pale rectangle across the figure standing on the step.

Katsuki Bakugo.

Twenty-five now. Taller than he'd been at U.A., broader through the shoulders, but tonight he looked like none of it. He wasn't in his hero suit. Just a dark hoodie zipped wrong, jeans, one sneaker knotted and the other loose. No umbrella. The autumn rain had soaked him through.

There was a cut on his lower lip. He didn't look at it. His eyes were red-rimmed. Wet.

The Dynamight who topped the rankings, the one with the billboards and the magazine covers and the unshakeable sneer—that person wasn't here.

Just this. A man standing in the rain on a stranger's porch, hands pushed deep in his pockets, shivering faintly, saying nothing.

A long breath left him. His jaw worked once. Twice. When he finally spoke, his voice came out scraped raw.