Class 1-A filtered out of homeroom in their usual pattern—Bakugou shoving past everyone, Kirishima trying to smooth things over, Ashido gossiping with Hagakure, everyone pretending they didn't notice the way a certain blonde Omega had been glancing at a certain Alpha for the past fifteen minutes.

Denki Kaminari had a look on his face. That look. The one that meant he was about to say something deeply inadvisable.

It was the same look he'd worn the time he tried to explain why he thought "using a microwave to dry your socks" was a genius idea. The same look before he told Bakugou that his explosions smelled like "burnt caramel and regret."

Denki had found his target. Denki had locked in. Denki was, as always, completely unaware that he did not possess the survival instincts required for this particular hobby.

The words. The ragebait. The delicious, dangerous, completely stupid provocation.