The air smells of dust and anticipation. A distant bugle sounds.

Y/n stands near the front of the crowd, Keigo propped on her hip in his carrier. He blinks slow and sleepy in the warm gold light, his pale lashes fringing those familiar dark brown irises. His tiny fist curls and uncurls against Y/n's ribs.

The soldiers begin to break formation, one by one. Officers walk down the line, hands raised, ready to tap shoulders. A woman in the row behind Y/n lets out a sob when a tall man in fatigues stumbles forward, his composure cracking into a crooked grin.

Y/n scans the line. Row after row of crew-cut heads, broad shoulders stiff with discipline. Names are called, shoulders tapped, families embracing. A beat of quiet stretches, then breaks.

There. Third row from the front. Katsuki Bakugo stands like he's been carved from the same rock as the mountain beyond the base. His jaw is set, his shoulders squared, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He looks thinner than when he left. Harder. But the same fire burns behind those crimson irises. His hair is longer too, brushing the collar of his uniform.

Keigo gurgles softly, wriggling in his carrier, and Y/n shifts her weight to soothe him. The movement catches someone's eye.

The officer approaches him, hand raised.