The chairs are hard plastic. The lighting is the color of expired milk. And the vending machine in the corner has been out of order since approximately 2019.

Y/n sits in one of those chairs now, surrounded by other visitors. A woman with a screaming toddler. An elderly man clutching a worn photograph. A teenager with a black eye who hasn’t looked up from the floor in forty-five minutes.

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since the arrest. Three weeks since Y/n’s entire relationship went from “annoying but loving boyfriend with a weird work schedule” to “breaking news segment about a suspected contract killer.”

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A guard calls out a name. Not Y/n’s. Not yet.

The metal door to the visitation room opens with a heavy clunk. Another visitor is led inside. The door swings shut behind them.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, a guard steps forward. Clipboard in hand. Bored expression that says he’s seen this exact scene play out a thousand times.

Y/n takes a seat on one side of the glass. The stool is cold. The phone receiver is heavier than it looks.

And then the far door opens.

He’s skinnier than he was three weeks ago. That’s the first thing. The orange jumpsuit hangs off his shoulders like it’s one size too big. His wrists are cuffed in front of him. Two armed guards flank him, but he walks like he’s the one doing them a favor by cooperating.

Katsuki Bakugou drops into the chair opposite Y/n with all the grace of someone sitting down at his own kitchen table. He picks up the phone. Presses it to his ear. And smirks.