Chapter Text
The bass was the first thing that hit you. Not the sound—the feeling. It vibrated up through the sticky floor, into the soles of your shoes, and settled deep in your chest. Pink Riot wasn't just a club; it was a living, breathing entity, a creature of neon light and shadow, and tonight, it was pulsing with a particular kind of electric anticipation.
At the heart of the storm, behind the sleek, glowing bar, Kirishima Eijiro tried to focus on polishing a glass. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the center of the room, where Ashido Mina was laughing, a swirl of vibrant pink and kinetic energy, as she directed the setup for the night's show. His chest tightened. They'd been friends since they were kids scraping knees on pavement, but somewhere along the way, watching her build this place from a dusty warehouse into the city's most vibrant nightlife spot, his feelings had shifted. It was no longer just camaraderie; it was a crush so huge and manly it felt like a physical weight. And he had no idea what to do with it.
"Hey, man. You're gonna rub the logo off that thing."
Kirishima jumped, nearly fumbling the glass. Bakugo Katsuki slid onto a barstool, his expression its usual default setting of simmering irritation. Next to him, Midoriya Izuku offered a small, apologetic smile.
"Kacchan! Don't startle him like that."
"Tch. If he's gonna be a bartender, he should have better reflexes," Bakugo grumbled, though there was no real heat in it. "Two Dragon's Breath whiskeys. Neat."
"Celebrating?" Kirishima asked, grateful for the distraction as he poured the amber liquid.
"Our gym's official grand opening was today," Midoriya beamed, his green eyes sparkling with pride. "We had over fifty new members sign up!"
"The hell did you think we were here for, Shitty Hair?" Bakugo snapped, but he raised his glass. "To not going bankrupt. Yet."
They clinked glasses. The gym, "Dynamight Fitness," was Bakugo's pride and joy. It was also his rebellion. He never talked about it, but Kirishima knew the weight of the "Bakugo" name in the business world. This gym, built from the ground up with Midoriya, with no family money, no connections, just their own sweat and a viciously detailed business plan, was his middle finger to the nepotism baby label he'd been born with.
The club's house lights dimmed, and a single, brilliant spotlight cut through the haze. The crowd's chatter died down to a whisper.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mina's voice purred over the sound system, smooth as honey. "Prepare to be enchanted. Welcome to the stage… the one, the only… Camie!"
A synth beat, slow and hypnotic, began to pulse. And then she appeared.
Camie seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves, all long limbs and effortless grace. She moved to the center of the stage, wrapped in shimmering silk, and grasped the microphone. But then she did something she never did. She started to sing.
It wasn't a pre-recorded track. It was her voice—smoky, rich, and powerful, weaving through the synth beats, transforming the sultry pop song into something raw and soulful. The room fell utterly silent, captivated.
Bakugo, who had been scowling into his whiskey, went completely still. His glass hovered an inch from his lips. His eyes, wide and unblinking, were locked on Camie. It wasn't the performance. It wasn't the dancing. It was the voice. It was the kind of voice that could front a rock band. The kind of voice he'd been hearing in his head for years, ever since he started secretly writing songs in his soundproofed home studio.
He saw it all in an instant—not a stripper on a stage, but a lead singer under the blazing lights of a stadium, with him driving the rhythm behind a massive drum kit.
The song ended on a haunting, sustained note. The club erupted. Camie took a bow, a cool, collected smirk playing on her lips before she disappeared back into the shadows.
Bakugo slammed his whiskey back, the burn barely registering. "I'll be back," he grunted, sliding off the stool.
"K-Kacchan? Where are you going?" Midoriya asked, alarmed.
"To talk to her."
"Whoa, dude, maybe cool off first," Kirishima suggested, but Bakugo was already cutting through the crowd like a shark, his broad shoulders carving a path.
He found her outside her small, glitter-strewn dressing room, leaning against the wall and scrolling through her phone.
"Hey," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
Camie looked up, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. She recognized him. The grumpy gym guy who came in sometimes. "Well, hey yourself, Explosive Personality. Enjoy the show?"
"Your timing was off in the second chorus," Bakugo stated, crossing his arms. "You rushed the bridge into the final verse. And you're wasting your talent."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Camie's face. She pushed off the wall, standing nearly toe-to-toe with him. "Oh, I am? And what, exactly, should I be doing with my talent, Mr. Gym Bro?"
"Singing. In a real band. With a real drummer." He met her gaze, his red eyes blazing with an intensity that made her smirk falter for a second. "I'm a drummer. And I'm starting a band. You're the singer."
She let out a light, airy laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, sweetie. I've heard that one before. The whole 'let me save you from this life' routine. I've seen how that story goes." Her gaze flickered over his shoulder, and her expression softened slightly.
Bakugo turned. Ochako Uraraka was standing there, having just emerged from the staff hallway. She was out of her nurse's scrubs and in casual clothes, a fond smile on her face.
"Hey, Camie. He giving you trouble?" Ochako asked, her voice warm.
"Just the usual brand of male audacity, Chaks," Camie sighed, but she squeezed Ochako's arm affectionately.
Ochako looked at Bakugo, her expression knowing. She'd been in Camie's position once, dancing on that very stage until a kind-eyed, green-haired man saw the dreamer behind the dancer and helped her reach for it.
"She's not a damsel, Katsuki," Ochako said softly, reading the determined look on his face. "She's a partner. If you want her in your band, you talk to her like one. Not a project. A partner."
Bakugo looked from Ochako's earnest face back to Camie's guarded one. The pieces clicked into place. The history. The protectiveness. He grunted, the sound almost acknowledging. He wasn't good with words, not like this. He reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small, unlabeled flash drive.
"Here," he thrust it at Camie. "It's a demo. A track I wrote. I rearranged it. For your voice." He paused, struggling with the next words. "Just… listen to it. Your voice… it shouldn't be background noise."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and stalked back down the hall, leaving a stunned Camie and a slightly impressed Ochako in his wake.
Camie looked down at the flash drive in her hand, then at Ochako. "Well, damn, girl. That was… different."
Ochako smiled. "That's Bakugo for you. He's an ass, but he's not a liar. And he's got an ear for music. I've heard him play." She linked her arm with Camie's. "Now, come on. Let's go find Izuku. And you can tell me if you're actually going to listen to that thing."
Back at the bar, Kirishima let out a low whistle as Bakugo returned. "Dude. You're still alive."
"Shut up," Bakugo muttered, signaling for another drink.
Midoriya was watching him with a familiar, analytical look. "You asked her to join your band, didn't you, Kacchan?"
Before Bakugo could retort, a smooth, cultured voice cut in. "Band? I wasn't aware you were pursuing music, Bakugo."
Todoroki Shoto stood there, impeccably dressed in a designer suit, Yaoyorozu Momo at his side in an elegant cocktail dress. They looked like they'd just stepped out of a board meeting, which they probably had.
Bakugo's scowl deepened. "None of your business, Icy-Hot."
"We were in the area for a merger dinner and saw the crowd," Momo explained gracefully, her eyes scanning the club with polite interest. "It's quite… lively."
"It's Mina's," Kirishima said proudly, then immediately flushed as Mina herself bounced over.
"Shoto! Momo! You made it!" she cheered, giving them both a hug. Then she spotted Kirishima's red face and winked. "Everything good over here, Ei?"
Kirishima could only nod, his tongue feeling like it was made of lead.
Todoroki's heterochromatic eyes lingered on Bakugo. "If you are serious about a musical venture, our venture capital firm is always looking for promising new…"
"No," Bakugo cut him off sharply. "No family money. No nepotism. My band, my rules."
Todoroki simply nodded, unfazed. "The offer stands."
As the group talked—Mina teasing Kirishima, Midoriya and Momo discussing business trends, Todoroki observing it all with quiet amusement—Bakugo's gaze drifted back toward the dark hallway that led to the dressing rooms. His mind wasn't on venture capital or his wealthy classmates. It was on a flash drive and a voice that could shatter stadiums.
Across the club, tucked in a booth near the stage, Jiro Kyouka tuned her bass guitar, while Kaminari Denki fiddled with an amplifier, his fingers occasionally brushing against hers and sending a familiar, electric spark between them. They didn't know it yet, but a storm was brewing, and its name was Bakugo Katsuki. And he was about to pull them all into his orbit.