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Katsuki Bakugou ran as fast as his legs would carry him, breath coming in harsh gasps, his hands trembling at his sides. He still couldn’t believe what he had heard. The rumors had reached him in the city, whispered between market stalls while he was buying food—quiet voices, hurried glances, fear hanging thick in the air.
Everyone was talking about it now. No one wanted to believe it, especially the older generation, those who had fought and survived the last war—years marked by despair, hunger, loneliness, and grief. They dismissed the rumors with tight smiles and shaking heads. They had already paid their price.
The younger ones, though, prayed. Prayed that it wasn’t true. They wanted peaceful lives, modest futures, wives, children—anything but another war.
Katsuki didn’t stop running.
He headed straight for the first place that came to mind: a small white house, slightly secluded yet close enough to have neighbors within shouting distance. He had lived there once, years ago, before moving away. Even now, the place felt like a second home. He knew its creaking steps and narrow hallways better than the house he’d been living in for over five years.
When the porch came into view, he broke into a full sprint. A few brooms leaned against the railing, and he nearly sent them clattering as he took the steps two at a time. He reached the front door and knocked—hard. Once. Twice. Again. He kept knocking, refusing to stop, until someone finally came to answer.
He hoped it would be him—Izuku Midoriya.
They had known each other for almost their entire lives. What had started as childhood friendship had slowly grown into something deeper, something neither of them had planned for but neither had ever wanted to lose. For a few years now, they were more than best friends. They were lovers.
It was something the world did not accept. People whispered, mocked, sometimes worse than that. There were looks filled with judgment, cruel jokes muttered just loudly enough to hear. But none of it mattered to them. Not really. They loved each other more than anything, and in a world that felt increasingly uncertain, that love was the one thing Katsuki clung to.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Dark curls came into view, familiar and unmistakable. Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, holding on as if letting go would make everything real in the worst possible way.
Izuku gasped, startled by the sudden embrace, his hands lifting instinctively before settling against Katsuki’s back.
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It had been a month since he had broken down on the patio in front of Izuku.
A month since everything had begun to feel inevitable.
He was eighteen now. Once, that age had meant something else entirely. Freedom. Adulthood. A future that belonged to him. He had dreamed of it for years. Now it felt like a curse clinging to his skin, something foul and unavoidable. He hated it. He despised the number, the weight it carried, the way it had stolen all meaning from the word grown.
He sat in the living room, staring absently ahead as the radio played some harmless drama—voices rising and falling, a story meant to distract, to soothe. He wasn’t really listening.
Then the sound cut out.
Static filled the room.
He frowned, irritation stirring as he leaned forward, already preparing to stand, to strike the old radio and coax it back to life. But before he could move, the static stopped.
A new voice came through. Flat. Official. Unmistakable.
His body went rigid.
He listened.
And then he understood.
His eyes widened, breath catching painfully in his chest as his heart began to race, faster and faster, until it felt like it might tear itself free. His stomach twisted violently. He tasted bile and barely swallowed it back. The room seemed to tilt, the walls pressing in, the air suddenly too thin.
This couldn’t be real.
It couldn’t.
A sound tore from his throat—raw, broken—as he cried out for his mother. He screamed again, louder, desperation clawing its way up his chest, his hands shaking as he lifted one arm and pointed weakly toward the radio, as if it were the source of all evil.
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
Mitsuki burst into the living room, breathless, already prepared to scold him for shouting—until she saw him. Her only son stood frozen in front of the radio, pale, trembling, his finger still pointing.
She followed the direction of his hand.
She heard the announcement.
And then she screamed.
The sound was sharp and unrestrained, a mother’s worst nightmare finally taking shape in words and airwaves. She staggered forward, her knees threatening to give way, her hands flying to her mouth as the truth settled in.
The war was no longer a rumor.
It had arrived.
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He walked to the marketplace despite the feeling that his life was already over. The world did not pause for grief, and neither did daily chores. Food still had to be bought. Routine still demanded obedience.
The streets felt wrong.
What had once been a lively part of the city now resembled a ghost town. Conversations were muted, laughter absent. People moved slowly, shoulders slumped, eyes unfocused—as if everyone were waiting for something they didn’t dare name.
He watched them, recognizing himself in every face. He couldn’t judge them; he looked just as lost, just as hollow.
They were all waiting.
Waiting for the letter.
That cursed piece of paper that would arrive without mercy, printed in cold ink, carrying a single message: that you were old enough, that you were needed, that your life no longer belonged to you.
He wanted to see Izuku.
He owed him that much. Izuku deserved to know that, in a few weeks, he would no longer be here. That this—them—had an ending already written. Katsuki was certain of it. He would not survive the war. And Izuku needed to understand that, needed to be told that one day he should find a kind woman, marry her, build a life that would keep him safe.
It felt cruel. It felt vile.
But it felt necessary.
Katsuki wouldn’t be there when the world turned on Izuku for loving a man. He wouldn’t be there to stand beside him, to shield him, to endure it with him. Izuku needed a future that didn’t end in grief.
So he walked.
The small white house came into view, groceries still weighing down the bag in his hand. The sight of it twisted something in his chest. Familiar. Too familiar.
He knocked.
The door opened, and instead of Izuku, a woman stood there. They shared the same hair color, the same gentleness in their features. Inko Midoriya. Izuku’s mother.
They exchanged polite words—quiet, restrained. Katsuki knew she had heard it too. Everyone had. The announcement had reached every household, every radio, every heart. There was no escaping it.
She let him pass.
He climbed the stairs without hesitation. He didn’t knock. He knew Izuku would have heard him come in.
The bedroom door was ajar.
Izuku lay on the bed beneath his blankets, curled in on himself, as if trying to disappear. Katsuki closed the door softly behind him. He set his jacket aside, slipped off his shoes, movements careful and slow, as though the slightest sound might shatter what little peace remained.
He lay down behind Izuku and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, fitting himself there as naturally as breathing. They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.
The only sounds in the room were Izuku’s quiet whimpers and the soft hitch of his breath as he tried—and failed—to keep himself from crying.
Katsuki held him tighter.
For now, that was all he could do.
Katsuki wanted to speak. He wanted to tell Izuku everything—how he felt, what he feared, the life he hoped Izuku would build once he was gone. But the words felt heavy, lodged deep in his throat. He let out a shaky sigh, heart hammering in his chest, and began anyway.
He spoke slowly, haltingly, each word measured and deliberate. He spoke of the radio announcement, of the cursed letter he would soon receive, and of the future he prayed Izuku would have—a future he could not share. Every so often, his voice faltered. He paused to breathe, to swallow the lump in his throat, to steady himself against the pain of knowing he would not be there to see that future come to life.
Three hours passed. Nearly three hours of words poured out in fragments, in stutters, in silence, in trembling confession. And through it all, Izuku said nothing. Not a word.
Still, Katsuki continued, holding him close, pouring everything he had into the space between them.
When at last he finished, his voice hoarse and raw, he let himself rest against Izuku’s back, silent now, listening only to the steady rhythm of his breathing. It was the only reply he needed.
That night, Katsuki slept beside Izuku.
Their closeness was quiet but full of meaning. Every so often, they pressed a gentle kiss to each other’s lips, whispered soft words that barely carried beyond the room—sweet nothings, promises, reassurances. Words that said I’m here, you’re safe, it’s alright, even if only for a little while.
They held each other through the darkness, clinging to the warmth, to the small comfort of touch. In that fragile night, it was enough. It was everything they needed.
The days passed slowly, each one heavier than the last. Receiving the letter—finally—felt both inevitable and impossible. When it arrived, it sat on the table for what felt like hours, a quiet accusation in plain sight. Katsuki stared at it for ten long minutes, hands frozen over its envelope, heart hammering in his chest.
The envelope was pale, crisp, and sealed with a deep red wax stamp, the kind that carried authority and finality in its weight. He picked up the small letter, feeling its rigidity, its cold, official promise. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the letter opener, hesitating only for a heartbeat before sliding it through the paper.
He unfolded it slowly, the faint smell of ink rising. The words were printed carefully, crisply, almost painfully clear:
Dear Mister Bakugou,
By order of the Ministry of Military Affairs, you are hereby summoned for immediate service in His Majesty’s Armed Forces. You are considered of full age to bear the responsibilities of military duty. Your name has been placed on the register of those required to report without delay.
Upon receipt of this letter, you are to make all necessary preparations and present yourself at the designated training facility at the date and time assigned. Failure to comply with this summons will be treated as a violation of law and will carry the severest consequences under military code.
You are to understand that this is not a matter of choice. The nation requires every able-bodied man of your age and standing. Your personal desires, your fears, and your household obligations are subordinate to this duty. The obligation to serve is absolute, and no exemptions will be granted except under circumstances explicitly recognized by the Ministry.
Arrange for your household and personal affairs immediately. Ensure your family is aware of this summons and that all matters are settled before your departure. You will obey every instruction given by your superiors without hesitation or argument.
This letter is final. Compliance is not optional. The duty of manhood has arrived.
By command of the Ministry of Military Affairs
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He read it and reread it twice. He didn’t want to believe it; he tried not to. His thoughts raced, desperate and panicked. He needed to do something—anything—to keep himself from going to war.
He made up his mind. He heard about it, about how some men try to cut of their fingers to not go to war, especially your index-finger, you need it to pull the trigger.
He walked into the kitchen, his movements stiff and uncertain. His hands trembled as he searched for what he thought he needed-a knife the biggest they have and a cloth to cover his screams and to not bite of his tongue. His chest felt tight, his breathing shallow. Every step forward felt heavier than the last.
He lays his index-finger on the counter, hoping it will be over once he cuts of his finger.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe. His heart pounded violently in his chest, each beat louder than the last.
He raises his hand, closing his eyes. He is breathing loudly through his nose.
Fear overwhelmed him completely.
He screamed, the sound tearing itself out of his throat as he stumbled backward. Whatever resolve he had shattered instantly. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, rejecting the choice entirely. He just couldn’t do it, why?
Throwing the knife away from him and spitting his cloth out of his mouth.
Anger followed the fear—burning, uncontrollable. He was furious at himself. Furious at everyone else. How could they take his future away? A future he had planned so carefully, dreamed of for so long.
He clenched his fists, shaking, tears blurring his vision. Everything he wanted—everything he had believed in—felt ripped from him in a single, merciless moment.
---------------
The day he had to register finally arrived.
He woke before dawn, earlier than he ever had before. The room was still dark, the air heavy and unmoving. The registration office wasn’t in his town, but several towns away—far enough to make the journey feel like a quiet departure rather than a simple trip.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes dull, stripped of emotion. Getting out of bed felt impossible, as if his body already knew what waited for him and refused to move. Eventually, he forced himself up.
He dressed slowly, carefully, making almost no sound. His parents were still asleep. He didn’t wake them. He didn’t trust himself to say goodbye.
Outside, the morning was cold and grey. He boarded the bus and took a seat near the window. Around him sat other men—boys, really—between eighteen and twenty-five. Some were silent. Some tried to laugh too loudly. Others stared straight ahead, just like he did.
It was strange, knowing their futures. Most of them would never come back. And those who did would return changed—broken in ways no one could fully fix.
When he arrived at the registration office, everything became clinical. Impersonal.
They asked for his name.
His age.
His height.
His weight.
His social status.
He answered automatically, like he was reciting facts about a stranger.
When they were finished, they handed him a badge. He stared at it for a long moment, understanding what it meant without anyone having to explain it to him. Young. Healthy. Physically fit.
Exactly what the war wanted.
They gave him a brochure next. He read it slowly. It detailed his future in neat lines and official language—what he would be trained to do, how they would prepare him, how they would turn him into something useful for the battlefield.
He folded the paper carefully and tucked it away.
Just like that, his life was no longer his own.
------------
At last, the moment arrived.
The war was no longer a rumor. It was beginning.
Izuku had stayed with him for the past week. There had been tears—so many tears. Hysterical sobbing that left them breathless. Angry shouts, Izuku’s voice breaking as he swore he couldn’t live without him if he died. Then softer moments followed: whispered promises, desperate reassurances that he would survive, that he would come home, that they would live quietly together when all of this was over.
None of it felt real enough to hold on to.
The bus stopped in front of the house with a hiss of brakes. The sound cut through him like a blade. He hugged his parents first. They were crying too, clinging to him as if letting go might mean losing him forever. They told him they were proud—of their only son, of his courage—even though they all knew those words were armor, nothing more.
Then he stood in front of Izuku.
He looked worse than anyone else. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks flushed and bloated from crying. Katsuki felt something inside him break completely. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave him behind. The thought alone made his chest ache.
He pulled Izuku into a sobbing kiss, holding him like this might be the last time he ever could. And then—despite the terrible timing, despite the chaos—he did the one thing he knew he would regret forever if he didn’t.
He pressed a ring into Izuku’s palm.
It was gold, simple but beautiful, their initials engraved on the inside. His hands shook as he closed Izuku’s fingers around it. Izuku stared at him in disbelief, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between shock and grief.
“I’ll come back,” Katsuki promised, even though the words trembled.
Then he turned away before he could change his mind.
He stepped onto the bus, found an empty seat, and sat down. Through the window, he watched his family grow smaller. He lifted his hand and waved until he could no longer see their faces clearly.
The bus pulled away.
And just like that, everything he had been was left behind.
----------------
The bus finally came to a stop after what felt like endless hours.
He grabbed his bag and stepped outside, blinking against the open space before him. The camp was massive. Tents stretched as far as he could see, rows upon rows of them planted into the ground like a temporary city. Beyond them lay wide, open fields—training grounds, most likely—empty now, but heavy with expectation. Everywhere he looked, there were people. Too many to count.
They were ordered into a line, standing shoulder to shoulder, all of them facing forward. No one spoke.
A man who looked to be in his forties paced in front of them, his voice sharp and unforgiving as he shouted over the crowd. He told them this was real life. That nothing here was a game. That if they didn’t take every moment seriously, they wouldn’t last long enough to see the end of the war.
The names were called one by one. When it was your turn, you answered. A single word to confirm you were present. Still alive. Still standing.
Afterward, they were sent to their assigned tents.
His was large, filled with long rows of narrow beds pressed close together. No privacy. No comfort. Just canvas, metal frames, and the low hum of nervous energy. He picked one at random and set his bag down.
Slowly, methodically, he unpacked his things.
There was no going back now.
-----------------
The first week of training was exactly as brutal as he had expected—maybe worse.
They ran for kilometers until his lungs burned and his legs shook. They crawled through dirt and mud for hours, climbed until his hands blistered and split. Every day ended the same way: drenched in sweat, muscles screaming, body aching in places he hadn’t known could hurt. Bruises bloomed across his skin like proof of survival, reminders that he was still alive.
And this, he knew, wasn’t even why he was here.
The second week shifted focus. They were taught how to shoot, how to aim, how to defend themselves. Weapons were placed in their hands with cold efficiency. No hesitation allowed. No fear tolerated. He learned quickly, because he had to.
By the third week, reality truly set in.
Half of the men selected were sent straight to the frontlines. Watching them leave felt like watching ghosts walk away. And then the injured began to arrive—new groups every week, brought in to be examined, patched up, or sent away again. He saw things that carved themselves into his memory, things he knew he would never be able to forget no matter how hard he tried.
Men missing parts of themselves.
Men so badly hurt that it felt cruel to let them keep breathing.
Men who stared through him with empty eyes, already somewhere else.
There was blood. Too much of it. Enough to stain his thoughts long after he looked away.
Those who weren’t chosen yet prayed—not for victory, not for honor—but simply not to be next.
During those three weeks, he wrote constantly. Letters to his parents. Letters to Izuku. He told them what he did each day, what little food he ate, how he slept, how he lived. He left out the worst parts. He always did.
Some things were too heavy to put into words.
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Two days later, it happened.
He heard his name called.
For a moment, he didn’t react. The words seemed to hang in the air, unreal, as if they belonged to someone else. Then it sank in. This was it. His time had come. The place everyone whispered about, the place spoken of only in hushed voices.
Hell.
He packed quickly, taking only what he truly needed. There was no room for sentiment—except for one thing. He tucked a small photograph of Izuku into the inside of his hat, hidden but close, where it could stay with him no matter what happened.
He climbed into the transport vehicle with twenty other men. They all wore the same expression: fear stripped bare, impossible to hide. No one spoke. No one needed to.
The drive lasted three hours, though it felt endless. Every minute dragged, heavy and suffocating. And yet, part of him was grateful for the slowness. As long as the road stretched on, the moment of arrival was delayed.
But eventually, it ended.
They reached the front.
Before he even stepped out, he heard it—the sharp cracks of gunfire, the screams, the shouting. Orders barked and voices breaking all at once. The air itself seemed alive with chaos.
It didn’t feel real.
It felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.
They were lined up again, just like they had been at the training camp. Shoulder to shoulder. Eyes forward. No one spoke.
The officer stood before them, his voice steady and merciless. He didn’t soften his words. He told them exactly what would happen out there. What they might see. What they might become. He said fear would get them killed faster than the enemy ever could.
He told them the truth—cold and final.
That the best fate on the battlefield was a clean death. That anything else meant suffering.
Katsuki’s stomach twisted. His hands felt numb around his gear. Being nervous was unavoidable. Anyone who wasn’t terrified was lying to themselves.
Orders were given quickly. Names called. Positions assigned.
Some men were directed toward the rear units, tasked with assisting the wounded. Those men looked shaken but relieved. They were the lucky ones.
Others were sent forward.
Straight into combat.
Katsuki heard his assignment and felt something inside him sink. He had expected it. He had known it. Still, nothing could have prepared him for hearing it out loud.
A soldier older than him approached and spoke briefly, efficiently. He explained what would be expected of him. Where to move. When to shoot. When not to hesitate. He pressed a rifle into Katsuki’s hands like it was nothing more than a tool.
They moved out together toward the frontline.
The closer they got, the louder everything became.
The ground trembled faintly beneath his boots. Smoke hung low in the air. The noise was overwhelming—gunfire, shouted orders, explosions in the distance.
He walks in the canals, seeing men injured, half their bodies gone but still breathing, second-third degree burns that are infected, rats eating the dead bodies and other things he doesn’t want to think about. It smelled so bad that he will throw up.
They stopped near the commander, who surveyed them with a hard, unreadable expression. His voice carried easily over the chaos.
He told them there would be no retreat. No turning back. If one man broke and ran, another would take his place immediately.
No one was irreplaceable.
Katsuki swallowed hard, gripping his weapon tighter.
There was no more training now.
This was war.
They were pushed forward before he had time to think.
The ground beneath his boots was uneven, torn apart by explosions and footprints. Smoke hung low in the air, burning his throat every time he breathed. The noise was constant—gunfire cracking, men shouting,
orders overlapping until they became meaningless.
He dropped down behind what little cover he could find.
It was a mess. It was muddy, he doesn’t know if it’s blood or mud. He sees the missing limbs, dead bodies, missing pieces of clothes, rats eating the limbs like in the canals.
Someone yelled his name. Or maybe it was someone else’s. It didn’t matter. He raised his weapon because everyone else did.
Then he saw him.
An enemy soldier, close enough that Katsuki could see his face clearly. Too clearly. For a brief moment, they just stared at each other. The other man looked just as terrified.
His hands shook.
He thought of Izuku.
He thought of home.
He thought of dying.
Then training took over.
He pulled the trigger.
He shoots the man in his stomach, he falls on his back, screaming loudly. He stares at him seeing a hole in his stomach, bleeding uncontrollably.
Katsuki didn’t move. He couldn’t. His ears rang, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might tear through his chest. His stomach twisted violently.
He had done it.
He had killed someone.
Someone shoved past him, yelling at him to move, to keep going, to stay alive. The battle didn’t stop. It never stopped for one death.
He stumbled forward, numb, weapon still clutched in his hands.
This was what the war wanted from him.
Two weeks had passed.
Every day blurred into the next. Sleep came in short, broken bursts whenever the chaos allowed it. Hunger was constant, dulling his mind more than fear ever could. His uniform was never clean. His hands were raw, his muscles perpetually sore. He moved through the battlefield on instinct now, reacting before thinking, as if his body remembered things his mind could not bear to process.
He had killed more than he wanted to count, seen things that would haunt him for the rest of his life. And yet, he was still alive. Still standing.
He had learned to push the nausea down, to ignore the pounding of his heart when another soldier fell nearby. He had learned to function while feeling hollow, as if the war had already taken something essential from him—his certainty, his innocence, his ability to hope.
A year would pass before he realized just how much he had already lost.
He was ready to move straight toward the enemy lines, every step calculated and fast. He knew the risk—he understood this could be a suicide mission—but he willed himself to make it. He had to survive.
Pulling his hood low, he scanned the area, listening for any movement. His hands gripped his weapon, careful, steady. He took a cautious step to the side, trying to stay low, hidden.
It should have worked. His camouflage was nearly perfect. But a single mistake—a sound, a shadow—was all it took.
A sharp impact tore through his leg. Pain shot through him, sudden and hot. He hit the ground, gritting his teeth, his body refusing to cooperate. Reflexively, he swung his weapon toward the threat—but it was
too late.
Another strike landed, now through his chest, blood gushes out of his wound painting his uniform blood-red, and the world tilted. He cried out in pain, fighting to keep his focus, to keep breathing, to keep moving. His hands shook as he tried again to aim, to fight back.
Screaming in pain he pulled the trigger…… he missed.
He realized the end was near. Every instinct, every breath, every heartbeat screamed at him. He knew he wouldn’t make it this time. His thoughts flickered to home. To Izuku. To everything he had loved and left behind.
He can’t die here he has a promise that he needs to follow, a dream that needs to come thru, a live that needs to be lived.
He lay still, the world tilted at an impossible angle. The sounds of battle faded into something distant, muffled, as if cotton had been stuffed into his ears. His body felt unbearably heavy, pinned to the earth that had already claimed so many others.
Breathing hurt. Each breath was shallower than the last.
He tried to move his fingers. They barely responded.
Above him, the sky was a dull, empty gray. For a moment, he wondered if this was what peace felt like—this strange quiet that followed terror. Then pain surged again, reminding him that he was still here. Still alive. But not for long.
His hand drifted to his pocket, trembling, searching.
The letter was still there.
Relief washed through him so suddenly it made his chest ache. He pressed the folded paper against himself, clutching it as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world. His thoughts unraveled, no longer orderly, no longer strong.
Izuku’s face came to him so clearly it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though his voice barely existed anymore. “I wanted… I wanted to come back.”
Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, disappearing into the dirt. He thought of home. Of quiet mornings. Of warmth and laughter and a future that would never be his. The grief of it was overwhelming, crushing, but underneath it all was something gentler.
Love.
He hoped Izuku would live. Truly live. That he would smile again, that he would find joy, that the world would be kind to him even if it had not been kind to Katsuki.
His breathing slowed.
His grip on the letter weakened, fingers loosening despite his effort to hold on. The last thing he felt was the paper against his chest and the thought—clear, unwavering—that Izuku had been worth everything.
Then his chest stilled.
The battlefield moved on around him, indifferent and relentless. But the letter remained, tucked safely where his heart had been beating moments before.
Waiting to be found.