Stories

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Jay
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Shouta Aizawa

The assignment sheet said joint patrol. It should have been simple: two pros, quiet district, watch the alleys until dawn. You’d been dreading it all week. When you met him at the station, he was already there, leaning against the wall with his hair half-tied and the same unreadable look he always wore. The fluorescent lights made his shadows sharp. He didn’t greet you; just a small nod and a curt, “Ready?” You nodded back because arguing before midnight would only make it worse. The city at night was damp with early rain. You could smell the concrete cooling, hear the hiss of cars somewhere far below. Aizawa moved like he was built for the dark—no wasted steps, no noise. You tried to match his rhythm and hated how easy he made it look. Half an hour in, he stopped near a fire escape, scanning the street with that calm precision that made you feel loud just for breathing. “Perimeter first,” he said. You wanted to ask why not the rooftop? but bit your tongue. You’d already learned that he didn’t explain things twice. When you reached the roof, you set up the small receiver while he adjusted his goggles. You could hear the soft fabric drag of his scarf behind you, the faint rasp of cloth on metal as he coiled it back into place. Everything about him was controlled, deliberate. You sat cross-legged, pretending to check the equipment again. “Do you ever talk during patrols,” you asked, “or is that against protocol?” “Depends,” he said. His tone didn’t change. “On whether the talking’s useful.” You laughed under your breath. “Right.” For a while, the only sounds were the wind and the faint buzz of the receiver. Down on the street, a neon sign flickered, painting brief flashes of red across the edge of the roof. The glow touched his face for a second, then disappeared. He looked tired, not just physically—tired in the way people get when they’ve carried too much for too long. You pushed the thought away. Another hour passed. You spotted movement in the alley—a figure slipping between dumpsters. You started forward before you could think. His hand closed around your arm, firm but not rough. “Wait,” he said. “There’s—” “Cats,” he interrupted quietly. “Three of them.” You looked again. He was right. Three strays, pale shapes nosing through trash. You felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck. His hand dropped away immediately, as if contact itself had been accidental. “Next time,” he said, “verify first.” You wanted to snap back, but the steadiness in his voice left no room for pride. You turned back toward the skyline, biting the inside of your cheek until the sting faded. Later, on the walk back, you lagged a step behind. The rain had started again, thin needles against the pavement. He didn’t seem to mind getting wet; his scarf was already dark with it. When you reached the station entrance, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Good instincts,” he said quietly. “You just move too fast.” It wasn’t quite a compliment, but it wasn’t a reprimand either. Before you could answer, he was already inside, the door clicking shut behind him. You stood there a moment longer, listening to the rain on the glass, feeling that mix of irritation and something else—something you didn’t want to name yet. Tomorrow you’d argue again. You always did. But somewhere between the silence and the small, measured words, the edges between you were beginning to change—just enough for you to notice, not enough to understand.

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Shouta Aizawa

The final bell rang, sharp and echoing through the tall windows of Class 1-A. It was a familiar sound — the signal that the day was finally over — and almost instantly, the room came alive with movement. Chairs scraped against the floor, papers rustled, and the low buzz of voices rose as students started to gather their things. Yumi sat still for a moment, her chin propped on her hand, watching the organized chaos unfold. The end of the day always felt the same — loud, restless, and fleeting. Everyone seemed to have somewhere else to be. At the front of the room, Aizawa stood by his desk, half-buried in papers. His capture scarf hung loosely around his shoulders, and his eyes followed the students with mild detachment. He didn’t raise his voice or bother with any parting words; he didn’t need to. The class already knew what to do. One by one, they filed out — the rhythm of zippers, shoes against tile, laughter spilling into the hallway. The sound grew distant with every passing second. Yumi began packing up her own things slowly, deliberately. She already knew she wouldn’t be leaving with the others. There wasn’t any formal request written down, no posted schedule that said she had to stay — it had just become routine. Aizawa had asked her to stay behind once to help tidy up. Then again the next day. And the next. After a while, it wasn’t really a question anymore. It was just what they did. He glanced up briefly, his gaze sweeping across the room, and then his voice — low, calm, unbothered — broke through the fading noise. “Yumi. Stay behind.” There it was. The daily ritual, simple and predictable. She didn’t answer right away, just nodded slightly, and continued slipping her notebook into her bag. The sound of the zipper closing was swallowed by the growing quiet. When the last student left, the door slid shut with a soft thud. The hallway beyond was still echoing faintly with voices, but inside the classroom, everything settled. Silence crept back in — the kind that filled every corner and seemed to stretch time. Dust hung lazily in the beams of late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the window. The room smelled faintly of chalk and coffee, the kind of scent that always lingered after a long day. Yumi leaned back in her chair, letting out a slow breath. The tension of the school day slipped away with the fading sound of footsteps outside. Aizawa didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just set down the papers he’d been holding and started organizing the piles on his desk, movements quiet and efficient. His expression was the same as always — unreadable, tired, but focused. This was how every day ended: the noise gone, the room empty, and the two of them left behind in the stillness. And somehow, that silence felt more familiar than anything else.

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Barron Trump

Bestie Barron

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Barron Trump

You didn’t even want to be there, not really. Another family vacation — the Millledges and the Trumps, two dynasties pretending it was all about relaxation when everyone knew it was about optics. You’d been through it your whole life. The photo ops, the small talk, the fake laughter. You could do it in your sleep. But when you stepped onto that private jet, you knew immediately that this one would be different. Barron was already there. He sat near the back, hood up, phone in hand, looking out the window as though the rest of the world didn’t exist. There was only one empty seat left, and it was right beside him. You paused for a second — just long enough to let the irony sink in — then placed your bag in the overhead compartment and took your seat. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at you. But that faint curve at the corner of his mouth told you he knew exactly what he was doing. The plane lifted into the clouds, and silence filled the space between you. Every so often, your arms brushed — subtle, brief, but enough to make you straighten your posture and pretend to adjust your blanket. You tried to focus on anything else — the soft hum of the engines, the faint smell of coffee from the front of the cabin, the chatter of your parents a few rows ahead. But the awareness of him lingered. Always there. Always just close enough to bother you. You’ve known Barron your whole life. Every version of him — from the quiet, awkward boy at charity dinners to the one who learned how to get under your skin with almost professional precision. Somehow, no matter how much time passed, he still managed to affect you the same way. It wasn’t just irritation anymore. It was something heavier, unspoken, something you didn’t want to name. Hours passed, and neither of you said a thing. But the silence between you wasn’t empty — it was thick with everything you both refused to acknowledge. By the time the jet began to descend over Italy, you sat perfectly still, your expression composed, your heartbeat not nearly as steady. Anyone else would’ve thought you were calm. But I know better. You weren’t thinking about the speeches, or the meetings, or even the villa waiting below. You were thinking about the quiet tension that had built 30,000 feet in the air — and the way you suddenly weren’t sure if you hated it… or him.

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Katsuki Bakugou

Yumi hated being the new kid. There was nothing worse than walking into a classroom full of strangers, every face turning toward her, every whisper filling the silence around her. It felt like a spotlight had been shoved onto her the second she stepped through the door. She clutched the strap of her bag tighter, wishing she could disappear. The teacher introduced her with a bright smile, as if that would make things easier. “This is Yumi. She transferred here today. I expect you all to make her feel welcome.” Her stomach twisted. She hated that phrase. Make her feel welcome. It sounded so simple, but it never happened the way teachers imagined. The response was lukewarm at best—an awkward pause, some polite nods, a couple of murmured greetings that were drowned out by the low hum of curiosity from the rest of the class. Someone whispered her name under their breath, another stifled a laugh, but none of it made her feel any less like an outsider. Yumi lowered her head, cheeks hot, and gave a small bow. “Um… it’s nice to meet you.” Her voice was quiet, nearly lost in the buzz of the classroom. With stiff movements, she slipped into the first empty seat she could find, pressing herself against the desk as though it could shield her from the weight of so many eyes. She was certain she’d be invisible here, just like she had been at her last school. She didn’t make friends easily, didn’t stand out, didn’t catch attention. People passed her in hallways without remembering her face, and honestly… she was fine with that. Being invisible was safer. Easier. But her teacher had other plans. “Bakugo,” the teacher said suddenly, their gaze shifting toward the middle of the room, “why don’t you show Yumi around after class? You know the school better than anyone.” Yumi froze. The name echoed in her mind even before the rest of the class reacted. Every head turned toward him. Katsuki Bakugo. Even as a transfer, Yumi had already heard his name whispered in the hallways that morning. He was the kind of person people talked about—loud, fiery, with a presence that drew attention whether he wanted it or not. He was the one students admired and feared at the same time, the one whose reputation spoke louder than anything he could say. He wasn’t just popular—he was known. But right now, as his name was called, he didn’t even bother to lift his head from where he leaned lazily over his desk. “Whatever,” he muttered flatly. That was it. No protest. No smirk. No dramatic outburst. Just indifference. The class erupted into quiet whispers, everyone buzzing over the strange pairing. The new girl with Bakugo? It was bound to be entertaining, at least for them. Yumi sank lower into her seat, her pulse racing. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t wanted this. When the final bell rang, Yumi gathered her books slowly, dragging out the moment as long as possible. Her hands trembled slightly as she stuffed her notebooks into her bag, heart hammering in her chest. She wished, just for once, that the teacher had chosen someone else. Anyone else. By the time she reached the door, Katsuki was already there, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His expression was unreadable, bored, like this was nothing more than a waste of his time. “You coming or what?” he asked without looking at her, his tone flat, detached. Yumi startled, clutching her bag tighter before nodding quickly. “Y-yeah.” She hurried after him, her footsteps light, almost hesitant, as though she was afraid of walking too close. He started moving without waiting, his stride long and purposeful, and she had to half-jog to keep up. The tour was more silence than conversation. Katsuki spoke only when necessary, pointing out the cafeteria with a jerk of his chin, the gym with a flick of his hand, classrooms with clipped words that sounded more like commands than explanations. “That’s the library.” “Bathrooms are down that hall.” “Training grounds are outside.” Never more than a sentence. Never looking at her for longer than half a second. His tone wasn’t rude—there was no sharp edge to his voice, no insults thrown her way—but it wasn’t welcoming either. It was detached. Impersonal. As if he were guiding a stranger through a place he’d walked a thousand times, and couldn’t wait to be done with it. Yumi clutched her schedule tighter with every step, her palms damp. She debated starting a conversation, maybe thanking him, maybe asking a question—something to fill the silence. But every time she opened her mouth, the words stuck in her throat. The indifference pressed heavier on her chest than open hostility ever could. At least if he had been rude, she would have known what he thought of her. At least then, she would have mattered enough to irritate him. But this? This made her feel invisible all over again. And she wasn’t sure which was worse.

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Katsuki Child hood best friend

You were already starting to earn recognition as a hero-in-training at U.A. By your third year, you weren’t just another student anymore—you’d grown, sharpened your skills, and built a reputation. Teachers praised your progress, and even some of the younger students admired you. Still, no matter how far you went, there was always one thing that kept you grounded: Katsuki Bakugo. You’d known him practically your whole life, the two of you growing up side by side. Katsuki had always been loud, ambitious, and brimming with fire, and you had seen every version of him—whether he was shouting at the top of his lungs in frustration, or smirking after a victory he worked hard to earn. Despite the sharp edges of his personality, you’d learned to understand him in a way that very few people ever could. And in his own way, he understood you, too. By the time you both reached your third year at U.A., your bond had only grown stronger, steady and unshakable. So when his parents invited you to join them on a family trip, it hadn’t felt strange at all. You’d spent countless afternoons in the Bakugo household, often scolded by Mitsuki for whatever trouble you and Katsuki got into. She treated you like one of her own children, barking orders and tossing snacks at you with the same energy she gave her son. Masaru, on the other hand, always welcomed you with a quiet smile and steady patience, creating a balance in the house that made it feel… safe. Now, you were seated in the back of their car beside Katsuki, luggage packed tightly in the trunk as the four of you made your way to the airport. The warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, painting the interior of the car gold as the city streets rolled by. Mitsuki sat in the passenger seat, going over last-minute details of the trip with her usual energy. “Make sure you didn’t forget anything, Katsuki,” she said, turning around suddenly. “And don’t think I won’t notice if you stuffed something stupid into your bag.” “Tch, shut up already! I didn’t forget jack!” Katsuki snapped back, glaring out the window like her words were an insult to his entire existence. Masaru kept his eyes on the road, his calm voice cutting through before Mitsuki could fire back. “It’ll be fine. I checked the luggage myself. Everything’s there.” Katsuki clicked his tongue in annoyance, slouching back in his seat. He caught you watching him for a moment and scowled. “What the hell are you staring at?” You didn’t bother answering, and that seemed to irritate him more, though he turned his head back toward the glass, pretending not to care. Mitsuki smirked knowingly. “See? Even your best friend knows when to keep their mouth shut around you, Katsuki.” “Shut up, old hag!” The car filled with Mitsuki’s laughter and Katsuki’s low grumbles. Masaru sighed softly, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. You leaned back into the seat, the atmosphere around you warm in its own chaotic way. This was what being around the Bakugos always felt like—loud, messy, sometimes overwhelming, but strangely comforting. Their voices rose and fell like background music you’d grown up with, something familiar enough to make you feel at home. As the skyline shifted, the shape of the airport began to appear in the distance, gleaming under the sunlight. Excitement stirred in your chest as you realized this was just the beginning. Soon you’d be boarding a plane, traveling to a new place, and making memories you knew would stick with you. You glanced at Katsuki beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight as if the whole world annoyed him. But there was something else there too—beneath the scowl, beneath the attitude—something steady and certain.

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Jacob Black

Rain pattered against the roof of Jacob’s house, steady and soft, filling the air with that fresh, pine-heavy scent that only La Push ever had. Aria stretched out on his couch, legs crossed, one hand draped lazily over the armrest. The firelight slid across her dark skin, catching the gold shimmer in her eyes whenever she glanced toward it. Jacob came out of the kitchen with two mugs. “You don’t drink hot chocolate, do you?” Aria smirked. “I can. Doesn’t mean I need to.” He handed her one anyway. “Just try it. It’s basically sugar and nostalgia.” She sniffed it, then took a small sip. Her nose scrunched instantly. “It’s warm mud.” Jacob laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re impossible.” “Thank you,” she said with mock pride, setting the mug down. “It’s a talent.” He shook his head, still smiling. “You know, for someone part wolf, part vampire, you complain more like a human.” “That’s because humans invented sarcasm.” She kicked her feet up, watching him over the rim of her cup. The warmth of the room contrasted the faint chill that always followed her, but Jacob didn’t seem to mind. He never had. The night rolled on easy — music humming low from the radio, rain against the windows, the scent of wood smoke mixing with the salty air. Every so often, Aria’s wolf senses twitched at the wind, and she’d glance toward the door, muscles coiling for half a second — but then she’d relax again. Jacob noticed once. “You okay?” “Yeah,” she said, leaning back with a grin. “Just my instincts being dramatic.” He chuckled. “Guess that’s contagious.” For a moment, their eyes met — his deep brown, hers a glowing gold-red that reflected the firelight. Two creatures from opposite sides of the world, sitting in a small house, arguing over cocoa and pretending everything was normal. And somehow, it worked.

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Agent

Day 1 — The Marathon Begins The countdown on stream hit three seconds. Naomi adjusted her headset and side-eyed Agent, who was already talking to chat like he owned the place. “Don’t start,” she warned, half-laughing. “I can already hear the nonsense coming.” Agent grinned. “I’m just greeting the people. They came to see greatness.” “Yeah, mine.” She turned to the camera. “Chat, remember that when he starts lying in 4K.” Chat: “😭😭😭 SHE WASTED NO TIME” “Agent blink twice if you’re scared.” Agent leaned back in his chair. “You talk a lot for someone who begged me to do this stream.” Naomi raised a brow. “Begged? Please. I offered you a chance to be relevant for eight days. You’re welcome.” He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.” “And you’re delusional,” she said sweetly, turning back to her monitor. “Perfect balance.” They loaded into their first game. Within minutes, Agent made a bad call and both of them got eliminated. Naomi slammed her controller down with a quiet thud. “See? That’s what happens when you don’t listen.” “I had it handled!” he protested. “You had it handled into defeat.” Chat: “💀💀💀 she’s ruthless” “Agent in shambles already and it’s hour 1.” He pointed at her screen. “You were supposed to cover left!” “I was covering the part of the map where you weren’t dying,” she said. “Didn’t realize I needed to babysit.” He laughed, trying not to smile too wide. “You always gotta have the last word, huh?” “Only when I’m right,” she said, then glanced at chat. “Which, statistically, is always.” They played a few more rounds, the rhythm settling into something familiar: him poking, her firing back, both of them grinning through the noise. The teasing never stopped, but it was easy—comfortable. When the first break screen popped up, Naomi leaned back and stretched. “See? Day one and I’ve already carried the team and the conversation. You owe me dinner after this.” Agent laughed. “You want food or an apology first?” “Apology,” she said. “Then food. In that order.” He shook his head, smiling. “Eight days of this is gonna be long.” She smirked. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

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Rio

The city felt half-asleep under the rain. Streetlights flickered in and out, and puddles caught the reflections of passing cars like quick flashes of gold. Samira kept her head down and her hands in her jacket pockets, the small brown envelope pressed against her ribs. It was supposed to be an easy errand. Across the street, three men leaned on a dented sedan, voices low, laughter too deliberate. When she stepped into view, the laughter stopped. One of them straightened, eyes following her. She didn’t break stride, just listened to the echo of her own footsteps against the wet pavement. “Reggie’s sister,” someone called. The voice was smooth, too casual. “Come here a sec.” She didn’t. She kept walking. “Hey—” another one said, tone sharpening. “Don’t be rude.” The sound of their shoes behind her quickened. Her phone buzzed once in her pocket; she didn’t look. The air thickened, humid and electric. “Relax,” the first man said when she finally slowed. “We just wanna talk. Tell Rio he’s reachin’ too far. He don’t own this side anymore.” She turned her head slightly, enough for him to see the calm in her face. That quiet unsettled him more than anything she could’ve said. Then headlights swept across the street. A black SUV rolled up, tires hissing through shallow water. The men stepped back automatically. The driver’s window lowered halfway. Rio’s voice came out even and unhurried. “You done?” The man with the cigarette blinked. “Wasn’t doin’ nothin’, man. Just talkin’.” “Good,” Rio said. “Talk somewhere else.” They obeyed. The silence that followed felt heavy, final. “Get in,” Rio told her. She slid into the passenger seat without a word. Inside, it smelled faintly of smoke and rain-damp leather. The door shut, cutting off the noise of the street. For a while he didn’t say anything. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a slow rhythm on the console. “Don’t walk alone out here,” he said finally. His tone wasn’t harsh, just matter-of-fact. “People see that badge on your jacket, they see me. They get ideas.” She stayed quiet, watching the city pass in streaks of orange light. He glanced at her once, the corner of his mouth tightening. “You handled it, though. Didn’t panic. I can work with that.” The rest of the drive was quiet. The wipers moved in a slow, steady beat, and somewhere under the sound of the engine he hummed a few bars of a song she didn’t recognize. When they reached her building, he stopped but didn’t turn toward her. “Stay inside for a few days,” he said. “I’ll let you know when it’s clear.” She opened the door, the cold air spilling in. He added, almost as an afterthought, “Your brother’d be glad you keep your head the way you do.” Samira stepped out without replying. The SUV pulled away, taillights fading into the mist until they disappeared around the corner. The rain was barely falling now, only a fine mist clinging to her hood. She stood there a long time, listening to the distant city noise, the envelope still pressed tight against her ribs.

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Sanemi Shinazugawa

The courtyard of the Ubuyashiki Estate lay still beneath a pale morning sun. Wisteria petals floated lazily through the air, brushing against the kneeling forms of the newly ranked Demon Slayers. The silence was sacred — only the faint rustle of robes and the whisper of wind filled the space. Before them stood the Hashira, the pillars of humanity’s defense. Each radiated their own kind of pressure: Rengoku’s bright and blazing warmth, Giyu’s cold stillness, Shinobu’s sweet poison. And near the end, arms crossed and expression like carved steel, was Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira — scars pale against his skin, hair whipped by the very element he commanded. At the center, Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat in serene composure, his voice gentle but carrying easily through the air. “The Demon Slayer Corps continues to grow stronger, thanks to your courage. To our Pillars — if you see promise in any of these young Slayers, you may take them under your guidance. The path of the Hashira is one of solitude, but even the mightiest wind may one day pass its breath to another.” A collective breath stirred among the kneeling Slayers. Being chosen by a Hashira was rare — a chance few ever received. It meant acknowledgment, mentorship, survival. Myoka Kazehara kept her gaze low, her dark skin and braided curls catching the sunlight like burnished bronze. She could feel her heart thudding quietly against her ribs. The air was heavy with nerves, but the breeze that touched her cheek was cool and steady. She took it as a sign: stay calm. Rengoku moved first, his booming voice breaking the tension. “Yes! I shall take this spirited young warrior! Their soul burns with passion!” The chosen boy nearly burst into tears. Next, Shinobu spoke in her honeyed tone, selecting a timid girl who couldn’t stop bowing. Tengen grinned and snapped his fingers dramatically, claiming a pair of Slayers he called “flashy enough to survive.” Even Giyu quietly pointed toward someone, his nod the only confirmation. Names were called, pairs were formed — and the line of unchosen Slayers grew shorter. Myoka still knelt, still waiting. Her expression never wavered, though she felt the glances of the others. Most hoped to avoid certain Hashira — the ones known for being difficult. And one of those was the man whose shadow now stretched toward her. Sanemi Shinazugawa’s pale eyes scanned the remaining Slayers, sharp as blades. The wind around him shifted restlessly, tugging at his haori. When Kagaya’s voice reached him, it was soft but firm. “Sanemi,” he said, “do you see anyone worthy of your teaching?” The courtyard fell silent again. Even the wisteria petals seemed to hesitate midair. Sanemi clicked his tongue, jaw tight. His gaze swept across the line — cold, unreadable — until it landed, briefly, on Myoka. Her eyes met his. Just for a second. The wind picked up between them, swirling dust and petals in slow spirals. No one dared to breathe. Sanemi exhaled through his teeth — a sound like a storm threatening to break. “Tch…” he muttered, the word low and dangerous. And the courtyard waited for his answer.

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Katsuki Bakugou

Yumi had always been the top of her class. Every test she took, she aced. Every assignment she turned in, teachers praised. She wasn’t just smart—she was disciplined. Her quiet persistence and calm demeanor made her stand out, not just to her classmates, but to every teacher who saw her as a model student. Katsuki Bakugo was nearly as sharp. He was clever, fast, and his scores were consistently high, though never quite reaching Yumi’s. If anyone could challenge her academically, it was him. But Katsuki had one problem: his temper. He shouted at classmates, argued with teachers, and seemed ready to explode at the slightest provocation. He was brilliant, but volatile, and everyone knew it. So when the teacher pulled Yumi aside after class, she already suspected where the conversation was going. “Yumi,” they said, “I want you to keep an eye on Bakugo. You’re responsible, patient—you might be able to help him straighten out his behavior. If anyone can, it’s you.” Yumi hesitated. Out of everyone in the class, Katsuki was the last person she would have chosen to work with. But refusing wasn’t really an option, not when her teacher was looking at her with such quiet confidence. “…Alright,” she murmured. That evening, Yumi sat on her bed, phone in hand. She stared at the blank chat screen longer than she wanted to admit. Reaching out to Katsuki wasn’t exactly something she wanted to do, but if this was going to work, someone had to make the first move. With a small exhale, she typed a short, polite message and sent it. The response came almost instantly. Bakugo: Tch. Don’t waste your time. Yumi blinked at the screen. Not surprising. She typed a short reply, careful not to sound pushy. Yumi: The teacher asked me to. Another message fired back, harsh and immediate. Bakugo: I don’t need some top student babysitting me. Especially not you. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. There were a dozen things she could have said back—calm, logical arguments about why this wasn’t about babysitting, why he didn’t need to be so defensive. But she didn’t type them. She simply locked her phone, exhaled, and let the irritation pass. Because this was exactly what she had expected from him. Katsuki wasn’t going to welcome her help, not in words, not in attitude. He would fight against it, push her away, and make it as difficult as possible. But that was fine. Yumi wasn’t the type to give up easily, and she knew her teacher hadn’t assigned her this task by chance. Katsuki Bakugo was smart, but he was also stubborn, volatile, and full of walls he’d built to keep people at a distance. Yumi’s job wasn’t to knock those walls down with force—it was to patiently find a way through. As she lay back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling, she tightened her grip on her phone. He could be rude all he wanted. He could ignore her, argue with her, or even snap at her. None of it would matter. She wasn’t doing this for his approval—she was doing it because she had been trusted with the responsibility. And Yumi had never once failed to rise to a challenge.

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