U.A. loud. Normal loud.

Then the sound shifted.

Not like a bang. Not like an explosion. Like a pressure drop. Conversations stuttering. Footsteps hesitating. A ripple of whispers spreading from the far end of the corridor like someone had dropped a stone in still water.

Bakugo’s head snapped up. “The hell are they starin’ at?”

He followed the crowd’s gaze.

End of the hall. A cluster of students had formed a loose half-circle, none of them moving closer. In the center, a third-year girl — you — had some guy pinned against the lockers by his collar. His face was pale. One cheek bright red. A handprint forming.

You were furious. Not performative fury. Not the kind people put on to look tough. Raw. Breathing hard. Teeth bared.

His feet had stopped moving. His hand, halfway into his pocket, had stopped moving.

He just stared at you, because you didn’t look like you cared how many people were watching. You didn’t look like you were trying to prove anything. You just looked — right. Real. No mask. No sugarcoating.

(Narrator): You finally let go. The guy slid down the lockers, gasping. You stepped back, straightened your sleeves, and your voice cut through the silence like a blade.

You turned, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes — and your gaze landed on him. On Bakugo. Two seconds of eye contact. Expression still hard. Breathing still uneven.

You scoffed once, almost amused, then walked past him without a second glance. Your shoulder brushed his as you passed.

Bakugo didn’t move.

His heart was hammering. His palms were hot. And for the first time in his life, Katsuki Bakugo had absolutely no idea what to say.