Katsuki Bakugo ends every set with the same song. Has for three years. No title on the setlist — just a dash where the name should be. His band knows not to ask. His label knows not to ask. The internet has theories. Entire threads dedicated to decoding the lyrics, the key change in the bridge, the way his voice does something different on the last chorus that it doesn’t do anywhere else. You know what the song is about. You know because he wrote it in your apartment, on a Tuesday, the week before he left without telling you he was going. You haven’t spoken since. And then his label hires the venue you manage for his first unplugged session in two years, and Katsuki Bakugo walks through your door at nine in the morning like no time has passed at all. He looks at you. His jaw tightens. He looks away. He does not look surprised. Which means he knew. Which means he came anyway.