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The wind howled through the narrow pass leading toward the training camp, carrying with it the sharp scent of pine and the murmur of distant streams. The bus ride had been a long one, filled with chatter and bursts of laughter from the students. But Bakugo sat silently, his head leaned against the cold glass of the window, watching the landscape blur past. His crimson eyes flicked toward the back of the bus where Aoyama sat, clutching his stomach with a pained grimace. The boy had been unusually quiet, and every so often, Bakugo caught him wincing, though no one else seemed to notice.
“What's up with Sparkles?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Aoyama had brushed off any questions about his condition earlier with a breezy laugh and a claim of overeating cheese again. It didn’t sit right with Bakugo. It gnawed at Bakugo, as irritating as a splinter lodged under the skin. He found his gaze flicking toward the other boy more often than he wanted to admit, his instincts whispering that there was more to this than indigestion.
The bus jolted over a pothole, drawing a muffled groan from Aoyama. Beside him, Mina reached out in concern, but Aoyama waved her off with a trembling hand.
“He’s hiding something,” Bakugo muttered under his breath.
A faint chill settled over Bakugo’s neck, a familiar prickling of static against his skin. Bakugo felt it—like frost creeping over his skin. The air around him was colder than it had any right to be in midsummer, the faint scent of damp earth lingering too long to be natural. He knew what it meant.
Izuku was here.
He clenched his fists, his breath hissing through gritted teeth.
He turned his head slightly, not enough to draw attention from the others, and muttered under his breath, “What do you want this time, nerd?”
There was no answer. There never was.
But the chill intensified, and in the warped reflection of the bus window, Bakugo caught the faint outline of a figure—green eyes glowing faintly, hair matted with shadows, face pale and hollowed by death. Izuku stood just behind him, his head tilted at an angle that shouldn’t have been possible.
Bakugo clenched his teeth and looked away.
He hated when it was quiet. The silence reminded him too much of the nights back in middle school when his dreams were haunted by the sound of a cracking branch, the thud of footsteps running through the dark. By the time he woke up, his chest would ache with the suffocating weight of guilt and something else—something he refused to name.
You did this, the voice had whispered once.
Bakugo had snapped awake, his room freezing cold despite the summer heat. And there, sitting at the foot of his bed, had been Deku. Or what was left of him.
It wasn’t real, of course. Couldn’t be real. Deku was dead. Had been for years. Everyone had attended the funeral. Teachers gave somber speeches. The school counselor checked in with his classmates for weeks after the body was found at the bottom of that river, his green notebook still clutched in his lifeless hand.
But Bakugo knew better. He could feel him.
The bus hit a bump, jolting him back to the present. Beside him, Kirishima yawned and stretched, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Bakugo’s head.
“You good, man?” Kirishima asked, nudging him lightly.
“Yeah,” Bakugo grunted, not looking at him.
The air beside him grew colder still, and Bakugo didn’t have to look to know Izuku was closer now, standing right behind him. He could feel the faint pressure of nonexistent hands hovering near his shoulders, the oppressive silence that came with the ghost’s presence.
“Yeah, I know you’re there,” Bakugo growled softly, earning a puzzled glance from Kirishima in the next seat. He glared back, daring his friend to ask questions again. Kirishima didn’t.
By the time the bus rolled to a stop at the edge of the training camp, the tension in the air was palpable. The students filed out one by one, stretching their limbs and shaking off the stiffness of the long ride. Bakugo lingered near the back, letting the others go ahead.
When he finally stepped off the bus, the fresh air did little to settle his nerves. The forest surrounded them, dense and alive with the hum of insects and the rustle of unseen creatures. It wasn’t silent, but the sound didn’t feel natural—it felt watchful.
Izuku didn’t appear right away, but Bakugo could still feel him. The cold lingered at the edges of his senses, a constant reminder of the boy he’d failed to save.
“Not gonna show up now?” he muttered under his breath. “What, you scared of a bunch of trees?”
The chill deepened, a sharp bite against the back of his neck. Bakugo’s lip curled in irritation. “Whatever.”
The day passed in a blur of grueling exercises and unrelenting heat. Bakugo threw himself into the training, his explosions echoing across the forest as he pushed harder and faster than anyone else. But no matter how much he focused, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Aoyama, meanwhile, seemed to grow worse. His movements were sluggish, his face pallid, his usual flair reduced to hollow gestures. Bakugo caught him sneaking away from the group more than once, disappearing into the trees with a hand pressed to his stomach.
That evening, as the students gathered around the campfire, Bakugo found himself sitting apart from the others, his back to the warmth of the flames. He stared out into the dark forest, the shadows between the trees shifting in ways that didn’t feel natural.
The chill returned, stronger than ever. Bakugo didn’t turn around.
“You gonna say something this time, Deku?” he muttered.
For a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the fire and the murmur of his classmates’ voices. Then, soft and low, a voice broke the silence.
“Traitor.”
Bakugo froze.
Slowly, he turned his head. Izuku stood just behind him, his outline faint but unmistakable in the dim light. His green eyes burned with an intensity that made Bakugo’s skin crawl.
The ghost’s arm lifted, and his finger pointed—not at Bakugo, but over his shoulder.
Bakugo’s breath hitched as he followed the direction of Izuku’s gaze. Aoyama sat near the edge of the firelight, hunched over with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His face was pale, his eyes darting nervously as though he could feel the weight of Bakugo’s stare.
“Traitor,” Izuku said again, his voice like a distant echo.
Bakugo’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked back at Izuku, but the ghost was gone. The chill lingered, though, wrapping around him like a vice.
For once, Bakugo didn’t know what to do.