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The silence of the penthouse was something Bakugo Katsuki had paid an obscene amount of money for.
In the middle of Musutafu, silence was a luxury commodity. The city groaned and shrieked twenty-four hours a day—sirens, traffic, the distant rumble of construction, the occasional villain attack that rattled the windows of lesser buildings. But up here, seventy stories above the sidewalks, the glass was reinforced and soundproofed to a level of engineering usually reserved for nuclear bunkers.
Bakugo stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a mug of black coffee in his hand, looking down at the ants crawling through the veins of the city.
It was too big. The apartment. He knew it, that’s why he had bought it, but the annoying extras who forced their way into his life seemed to think that was a downside. “It’s an echoing cavern, Bakubro! You need a roommate! You need a cat! You need a fern!” Kirishima would shout, his voice struggling to fill the minimalist, open-concept living room.
Bakugo didn’t want a roommate. He didn’t want a cat. He certainly didn’t want a fern that he’d have to remember to water between patrols, interviews, and training.
He liked the empty space. He liked that when he put a book down on the coffee table, it was exactly there when he came back three days later. He liked that the air conditioning was set to his specific preference—colder than Half & Half’s glaciers—without anyone whining about needing a sweater. It wasn't lonely for him. This was his fortress of solitude. It was the recharge station for the Number Three Pro Hero, Dynamight.
He took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect.
At least that part of his life was under control. Like everything else had been, until three days ago.
His secretary, Mrs. Hisho, had quit.
It wasn’t a dramatic exit. There were no tears, no shouting matches, no explosions. Her mother, who lived in Sapporo, had taken a turn for the worse, and Hisho needed to move north to care for her.
Bakugo had stood there, arms crossed, scowling as she explained. He wanted to be angry—that he could handle—but he’d been spending too much time around the nerd. Apparently, he’d developed some ‘empathy’ shit. It was still a loss, even if he understood her decision. She knew how he liked his coffee. She knew how to tell the PR team to shove it without getting the agency sued. She knew that when he said “I’m busy,” he meant “If you let anyone in here I will incinerate the door and then you and then me.”
So, instead of yelling, he had grunted, signed her severance paperwork, and handed her a bonus check that made her eyes bug out of her head.
“Don’t spend it all on useless crap,” he’d muttered, looking away.
“Thank you, Dynamight-san,” she had bowed, actually tearing up. “You’re a good man, underneath all the… you.”
“Get out before I change my mind.”
She was gone. And now, Bakugo was left with a scheduling disaster, an inbox that was rapidly reaching critical mass, and a lineup of interviews for her replacement that made him want to blast himself through the roof.
He checked his watch. 08:00. The first candidate was due at the agency in thirty minutes.
He downed the coffee, grimaced at the bitter dregs, and turned away from the view.
“Time to go deal with the idiots.”
--
The Great Dynamight Agency was a well-oiled machine, usually. Today, it was more comparable to the gears of a decrepit washing machine rusting away in a dump.
Without Hisho at the front desk managing all the administrative work, the sidekicks were running around like headless chickens. Bakugo stomped through the main floor, his heavy combat boots thudding against the polished tile, a scowl etched so deeply into his expression it cast shadows on his face.
“Out of my way!” he barked at a pair of interns hovering near the elevator. They scattered like startled pigeons.
He reached his office, slammed the door, and sat behind his desk. He pulled up the digital files for the day's interviews. He had narrowed it down to five. If none of these worked, he was going to start firing people at random just to relieve the stress.
The first three were disasters.
One was a trembling mess who couldn't look him in the eye. One was clearly an undercover journalist trying to get a scoop on his personal life. The third was a suckup fangirl who spent ten minutes complimenting his abs before Bakugo quietly pressed the security button under his desk to have her escorted out.
“Next!” he roared at the closed door.
The door opened.
A young woman walked in, her honey colored hair tied back into a ponytail. Immediately, he could tell she had some promise, if only because her eyes didn’t go straight to his abs. She walked with a brisk stride, carrying a tablet and a physical portfolio. She was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that looked professional, but not over the top.
“Shimano Mahoro,” she stated, stopping a few feet from his desk. She bowed respectfully. “Thank you for seeing me, Dynamight-san.”
Bakugo narrowed his eyes.
Shimano.
The name rattled around in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his memory. It was familiar. Annoyingly familiar. Like a song he’d heard in a grocery store five years ago. He looked at her face. Large, expressive eyes and a determined set to her jaw.
She looked… oddly like someone he should know. But he’d met thousands of people. Victims, civilians, politicians, other heroes. She was probably just some extra he’d saved from a falling bus years ago.
“Sit,” he grunted.
She sat. Posture perfect.
“You’re young,” Bakugo said, glancing at her resume on his screen. “Twenty-two. Fresh out of university. Business management degree. Why apply here? I have a reputation. I’m not nice to work for.”
“I’m not looking for ‘nice,’ sir,” Shimano replied smoothly. Her voice was steady, slightly deeper than he expected. “I’m looking for excellence. Your agency has the highest closure rate of any top-ten agency in the prefecture. Your efficiency ratings are in the ninety-ninth percentile. I want to work where the standards are high.”
Flattery? Maybe, but it was working.
“My last secretary was with me for three years. She was the first one in and oast one out. She knew my schedule before I did. You think you can handle that?”
“I’m a quick study,” she said. “And I’m not easily rattled.”
Bakugo leaned forward, resting his chin on his laced fingers. He cranked up the intensity, letting a little bit of smoke curl from his palms, letting his eyes harden around the edges in a way that usually made civilians stutter and villains pale. “I yell. A lot. I blow things up. I work eighty-hour weeks and I expect my staff to keep up. If you mess up, I’ll fire you. No second chances.”
Shimano didn’t flinch. For a split second, he thought he even saw a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“I have a younger brother, sir,” she said. “I can handle eighty-hour weeks. And I put myself through college working night shifts at a convenience store in downtown Tokyo. I can handle loud noises and tight deadlines. As for the yelling… as long as the instructions within the yelling are clear, we won't have a problem.”
Bakugo stared at her for a long, uncomfortable minute.
She stared back. She was obviously trying very hard to act cool. She was definitely a fan, or at least intimidated, that much was clear by how nervous she was, but she was clamping down on it with impressive willpower. He could respect that.
“You’re hired,” Bakugo said, leaning back. “Trial period. One month. If you suck, you’re gone.”
Shimano blinked, a bit of surprise leaking onto her face. “Just like that?”
“I trust my gut. And my gut says everyone else I saw today was incompetent. Don't make me regret it.” He gestured to the door. “Hisho left her files on the server. Your access code is being sent to your phone now. Have a coffee ready for me when I get back tomorrow morning. Black. Two sugars. If it’s cold, you’re fired.”
Shimano stood up, smoothed her blazer, and bowed again. “Understood. Thank you, sir.”
She turned and walked out.
Bakugo watched the door close. Shimano Mahoro.
“Where the hell do I know that name from?” he muttered, rubbing his temple.
He dismissed the thought. If it was important, he’d remember.
--
Two weeks later, Bakugo had to grudgingly admit that Shimano was… adequate.
Actually, she was better than adequate. Better than he ever could’ve hoped for.
By day three, she’d had his schedule prepped for the next month.
By day five, she had memorized the coffee order. It was never cold.
By day ten, she had somehow managed to stone-wall Kaminari when the electric nuisance tried to barge into the office for an impromptu lunch.
“Dynamight-san is currently reviewing the quarterly damage reports and has strictly forbidden interruptions for anyone with an IQ lower than the room temperature,” she had said over the intercom, stopping Pikachu on the sidewalk before he’d even touched the door.
Bakugo had laughed so hard he nearly choked.
But there was a distance. She was stiff. Every interaction was "Yes, sir," "No, sir," "Right away, sir." She was a robot. An effective one, but a robot nonetheless. She treated him like he was a ticking bomb that might go off if she made a sudden movement.
Which, to be fair, was his brand. But usually, people around him eventually cracked and showed some personality. Even the terrified interns eventually cried or laughed. Shimano was just… professional.
It made him suspect she was hiding something. A massive fangirl obsession? A dark secret about her past?
He found out the truth on a Tuesday afternoon.
Bakugo was returning from patrol early. A villain with a slime quirk had tried to rob a jewelry store, and Bakugo had ended their rampage in under a minute. He was in a relatively good mood, despite the minor slime residue sticking to his gauntlet.
He walked into the agency through the back entrance, bypassing the lobby, and headed toward the break room near the administrative offices to wash the gunk off his gear.
As he approached the hallway, he heard voices.
One was whiny. Male. Familiar. It was ‘Windbreaker,’ a new sidekick they’d picked up recently. Good quirk—minor wind manipulation—but lazy work ethic.
“Come on, Shimano-chan, don’t be like that. It’s just a patrol. Nothing ever happens in Sector 4 on Tuesdays. I’ve got this date, see? She’s really hot, and if I reschedule again she’s gonna dump me. Just cover for me in the log. Say I was… scouting or something.”
Bakugo stopped. He leaned against the wall, eyes narrowing. Falsifying patrol logs was a serious offense. It was grounds for immediate termination. He waited to hear Shimano’s polite refusal. He expected a "I'm sorry, I can't do that, sir."
He got something much more entertaining.
“Let me get this straight,” came Shimano voice. It wasn't the polite, professional voice she used with Bakugo. It was low, sharp, and dripping with enough venom to drown a cobra. “You want me to commit fraud on a federal document so you can go dip your wick?”
“Whoa, hey, no need to be—”
“Shut your mouth, you waste of a hero license.”
Bakugo’s eyebrows shot up.
“Do you have any idea how hard people work to get into this agency?” Shimano continued, her voice rising in volume and indignation. “There are pros out there busting their asses, bleeding on the pavement, sleeping three hours a night to keep this city safe, and you pathetic, limp-dicked, wind-bag think you can skip patrol to go chase some skirt?”
“Hey! You can’t talk to me like that, I’m a hero—”
“You’re not a hero!” she shouted. “You’re a waste of space in spandex! If you’re not out there and on the streets in ten minutes, I’m not just going to mark you absent. I’m going to personally shove your patrol log so far up your ass you’ll be coughing up ink for a week! You think Dynamight got to where he is by skipping work? You think he sits around whining about dates? He would chew you up and spit you out, and you know what? I’d applaud him while he did it! Now get your sorry face out of my sight and do your damn job before I use my stapler to make sure your face is messed up enough that you’ll never get a date again!”
Silence.
Then, the sound of scrambling feet as Gale Force sprinted down the hallway, not even noticing his boss, looking pale as a sheet.
Bakugo stood there, frozen.
A slow, feral grin spread across his face.
He waited a beat, composed his face into his usual scowl, and stepped around the corner.
Mahoro was standing in the middle of the hallway, chest heaving, her face flushed red with anger. She was adjusting her glasses, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “…fucking useless extras…”
She looked up and froze.
Her eyes went wide. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back in double force. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck.
“D-Dynamight-san,” she squeaked.
“Shimano,” he said, his voice level.
She began to tremble. “I… I apologize. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. It was unprofessional. I was just… he was asking me to—”
“I heard,” Bakugo said. He walked past her, heading for the break room sink.
Mahoro spun around, wringing her hands. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m just a secretary, I shouldn’t be speaking to the sidekicks like that. Please don’t fire me. I promise I’ll keep my temper in check—”
Bakugo turned on the tap and started scrubbing the slime off his gauntlet. “Why are you apologizing?”
“B-Because I yelled? And used… foul language?”
Bakugo turned off the tap. He dried his hands on a towel and turned to look at her. She looked ready to bolt.
“Did he go to patrol?” Bakugo asked.
“Yes, sir. He should be there within the minute.”
“Good.” Bakugo tossed the towel into the bin. “If he tries to skip again, let me know. I’ll handle the ‘shoving the log’ part. You might not have the upper body strength for it.”
Mahoro blinked. Once. Twice.
“Sir?”
“You handled it. He’s an idiot. Idiots need to be yelled at.” Bakugo walked past her, pausing just as he reached her side. He looked down. She was short, barely coming up to his shoulder, but he had a newfound appreciation for the fire in her gut. “Creative use of ‘limp-dicked wind-bag,’ by the way. I’ll have to remember that one.”
He continued down the hall.
“Back to work, Shimano.”
“Yes! Yes, sir!”
--
Six months into her employment, the Hero Billboard Chart was released.
It was always a stressful time. The media circus, the speculation, the fan wars. Bakugo usually pretended he didn't care, but everyone knew he did. He cared about being Number One.
He wasn't Number One yet. Deku still held that spot with an iron grip, the damn nerd.
But for the last two years, Bakugo and Todoroki—the pro hero Shoto, which he thought was a stupid name—had been trading the Number Three and Number Four spots back and forth like a game of hot potato. It pissed Bakugo off. Losing to the nerd was one thing; losing to the Half-and-Half bastard who sometimes called him after parties to ask if he’d left his phone behind was another.
This time, however, the numbers were in his favor.
No. 3: Dynamight.
No. 4: Shoto.
The margin was slim, but a win was a win.
The agency went wild. The sidekicks threw a party. Bakugo tried to veto it, claiming there was work to do, but Shimano had booked it anyway behind his back and called Shitty Hair to drag him out of the office.
So, here he was.
They had rented out the entire top floor of a high-end Izakaya in the city center. The sake was flowing, the food was endless, and the noise level was giving him a headache.
Bakugo sat at the head of the main low table, a drink in his hand, watching his empire of idiots celebrate him. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't scowling either, which was the most approval they were going to get.
The "Bakusquad"—as the media and Deku insisted on calling them—had crashed the party, naturally.
Jirou was arm-wrestling Sero (and winning). Ashido was doing shots off of Kirishima’s stomach. Kaminari was currently at the other end of the table, trying to charm Shimano.
Bakugo watched them out of the corner of his eye.
Shimano was out of her work clothes. She was wearing a simple, elegant navy dress that showed off her shoulders. Her hair was down, loose waves framing her face. It made her look younger, softer.
She was also, Bakugo noted, three sheets to the wind.
Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink. She was laughing at something Kaminari said, but it was a sharp, cackling laugh that fit her true personality better than the polite titter she used in meetings.
“So then,” Kaminari was saying, gesturing wildly, “I told the villain, ‘Shocking to meet you!’ and zap! Down he went!”
“That is the worst pun I have ever heard,” Shimano slurred slightly, pointing a chopstick at him. “You should be arrested for crimes against comedy.”
Kaminari feigned a heart attack. “Bakugo! Your secretary is mean to me!”
Bakugo took a sip of his sake. “She’s right, Dunce Face. You’re not funny.”
Shimano beamed at Bakugo, her eyes crinkling. “See? The Boss agrees. The Boss knows what’s up.”
She tried to stand up to refill her glass, swayed dangerously, and grabbed the table for support.
“Whoa there, Shimano-chan,” Kirishima said, reaching out to steady her. “Maybe switch to water?”
“I am fine!” she proclaimed, waving him off. She held up her sake cup. “I want to make a toast!”
The room quieted down. Everyone loved a toast, especially when the person making it was clearly intoxicated.
Shimano climbed up on her chair and turned toward Bakugo. She looked at him through foggy eyes that seemed to piece his soul. The alcohol had stripped away the last layers of her inhibition, leaving something raw and nostalgic underneath.
“To Dynamight,” she announced, her voice slightly too loud.
“To Dynamight!” the room echoed.
“No, listen,” she hushed them, swaying. “To… to Katsuki.”
Bakugo stiffened slightly. She never used his given name.
“You know,” she said, giggling a little, then turning serious. “When I first met you… I hated you.”
The room went dead silent. Kaminari’s jaw dropped.
Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” she nodded vigorously. “I thought you were a villain. Mean. Scary. You yelled at my little brother. You were… the worst.”
Bakugo’s mind raced. Yelled at her brother? When? He yelled at everyone.
“But then,” Shimano continued, her eyes getting glassy. “Then Nine came.”
Bakugo froze.
The glass in his hand threatened to crack. Nine.
He hadn’t heard it as a name for years. Nabu Island. That operation, years ago, when they were still students at UA.
He looked at her, studying the features he’d forgotten with time.
The honey-colored hair. The brown eyes. The grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Shimano.
Katsuma. Her brother was the little kid with the healing-type quirk. Deku’s sidekick.
And the sister… the bratty older sister who tried to get them in trouble. Mahoro.
Holy shit.
“You saved us,” Mahoro said, her voice wobbling. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “You and… and Deku-san. You saved Nabu Island. You saved Katsuma. You stood up when you were hurt… so hurt… and you kept fighting.”
She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, entirely drunk and entirely genuine.
“I came to work for you,” she said, pointing a wavering finger at him, “because I wanted to help the hero who showed me that… that even the scary ones can be the best ones.”
She hiccuped.
“So… cheers, you angry Pomeranian.”
She downed her sake.
The room was suspended in a mix of horror and awe. Calling the Number Three Hero an "angry Pomeranian" was usually a death sentence.
Bakugo stared at her, reminiscing.
He remembered the island he hadn’t thought about in years. He remembered the desperation. He remembered the two kids he’d fought to save. He remembered a girl who was fiercely protective, half his height but brave enough to try and trick heroes to protect her brother.
That fire. It had always been there.
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Bakugo’s mouth. Not a smirk. A smile.
“You were a brat back then, too,” he said.
Mahoro blinked, seemingly processing the fact that she wasn't being incinerated. She grinned, lopsided and lazy, something he knew she’d never show him sober.
“Takes one to know one,” she shot back.
Then, she stumbled, and the chair began to tip. Her knees buckled.
“Whoa!” Sero shouted.
But Bakugo was faster. He moved with the speed that made him a top pro, out of his seat and catching her before she hit the tatami mats.
She was surprisingly light. She slumped against his chest, completely out cold.
“Party’s over,” Bakugo announced, hoisting her up effortlessly so he was carrying her bridal style. “You extras clean up. Put it on my tab.”
“You got her, Bakubro?” Kirishima asked, grinning softly.
“Shut up, Shitty Hair. I’m just making sure she doesn’t choke on her own vomit in a gutter. Good help is hard to find.”
--
The night air outside the Izakaya was cool.
Bakugo stood on the curb, waiting for the sleek black Agency car to pull around. He had texted the automated service, but it was a few minutes away.
He looked down at the woman in his arms.
Mahoro Shimano. The brat from Nabu Island.
She was shifting slightly in her sleep, her face pressed against the rough material of his blazer. A small line of drool was escaping the corner of her mouth, wetting his lapel.
Normally, he would be disgusted. He still wasn’t sure why he wasn’t.
But he just watched her. Her breathing was steady. The furrow in her brow that she wore constantly at the office was gone, smoothed out by the alcohol and the sleep.
She had come all this way, worked this hard, put up with his temper for six months, all because of one day five years ago. Because he had done his job.
It was… nice. To be someone’s hero.
She mumbled something unintelligible, her hand curling into his shirt, gripping the fabric tight.
Bakugo felt a weird sensation in his chest. Something warm. It was the feeling of that silence in his penthouse, but… occupied. Like the space was still quiet, but no longer empty.
He shifted her weight slightly to make her more comfortable.
“Drooling all over my damn shirt,” he whispered, no heat in his voice.
He looked at her peaceful, messy, drunken face.
“Cute,” he murmured, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
He stared at the streetlights reflecting in the puddles, holding her close, and decided that he wouldn’t mind if she stuck around for a long time.
He’d never admit it, of course. But as the car pulled up, Bakugo Katsuki held onto his secretary just a little tighter than necessary.