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Tenya Iida straightened his tie with mechanical precision, the familiar, comforting ritual grounding him as the faint hum of the engines in his calves vibrated beneath the fabric of his suit pants. He paused afterwards, posture perfectly aligned, and surveyed the rooftop venue with a practised, almost ceremonial sweep of his eyes. Warm light spilt from strings of lanterns hung along the railings, casting a golden glow over polished concrete and carefully arranged tables. Beyond the edge, Tokyo glittered—towering buildings, flowing traffic, a city that never quite slept. Tonight, however, it felt softer. Celebratory.
This was Midoriya Izuku and Uraraka Ochako’s engagement party.
The thought still carried a pleasant weight to it. Two years had passed since that pivotal turning point in their lives—the period when Midoriya had finally received the specialised suit that allowed him to return fully to hero work. Back then, the revelation of his rank alone had been enough to leave headlines buzzing: proof that his quirkless phase had not been an ending, merely an intermission. Iida remembered how proud he’d felt, how inevitable it all seemed in hindsight. Of course, Midoriya would come back. Of course, he would climb.
Ten years since the war. Eight since graduation.
Time truly did move faster the older one became. Iida adjusted his glasses, mentally reviewing the current rankings as if they were lines from a well-rehearsed report. Midoriya Izuku now stood firmly at No. 2—a living testament to relentless effort and moral clarity. Todoroki Shoto followed close behind at No. 3, his calm, balanced heroism earning widespread respect. Bakugou Katsuki held No. 4, his raw power refined into something sharper, more controlled. Shoji Mezo had broken into the top tier as well, and Uraraka herself—radiant, determined Uraraka—had earned a place in the top ten through sheer consistency and heart.
At twenty-six, they were no longer students playing at heroics. They were professionals. Veterans, even. Battle-worn in ways the public rarely understood, yet undeniably softened by the years they had survived together.
The guest list reflected that shared history. Nearly everyone from Class 1-A had come—though Iida still thought of them simply as friends, a designation that transcended official labels. Shinso Hitoshi moved easily among them now, his presence so natural it was hard to remember a time when he hadn’t been part of their circle. Support Course alumni mingled animatedly near the drink table, comparing notes and laughing about old disasters-turned-successes. A few senior heroes made brief appearances, offering congratulations before slipping away to their next obligation.
Aizawa Shota was one of them.
He stayed exactly thirty minutes, just as Iida would have predicted. The man leaned against a table near the buffet, capture weapon looped loosely around his neck like an oversized scarf, looking perpetually exhausted despite the festive atmosphere. He nursed a plastic cup filled with something unmistakably non-alcoholic, eyes half-lidded as he listened more than he spoke.
Iida happened to pass close enough to overhear when Aizawa quietly pulled Midoriya aside. The music and chatter softened their words, but Aizawa’s gravelly tone carried just enough.
“Mandalay mentioned Eri’s been… off lately,” he said. “Sad. Withdrawn. You should check on her soon. She listens to you.”
Midoriya’s expression shifted instantly—freckles standing out as concern etched itself across his face. He nodded without hesitation. “I will, Sensei. I promise.”
That, too, felt right. Iida allowed himself a small, approving nod before turning his attention back to the party.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Kaminari Denki had somehow convinced a small group to gather around the punch bowl, dramatically shocking it in controlled bursts while insisting it was “part of the flavour experience.” Jiro Kyoka stood nearby, arms crossed, unimpressed on the surface—but the corner of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. Kirishima boomed with laughter somewhere near the grill, Mina dancing beside him with a drink raised high.
And then there was Bakugou.
Iida’s gaze lingered as he spotted him near the far railing, overlooking the city. Bakugou stood apart from the others, arms folded tight across his chest as if bracing himself against an unseen chill. The lights caught his face just enough for Iida to notice how pale he looked—almost ashen. His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched, crimson eyes fixed on nothing in particular. This wasn’t irritation. Not exactly. It was something quieter. Heavier.
This was not the Bakugou Katsuki Iida was accustomed to monitoring for imminent explosions.
Concern stirred. Iida made a mental note to check on him later, perhaps discreetly through Midoriya. Despite everything, those two shared a bond that ran deeper than rivalry, woven all the way back to childhood.
Before Iida could take a single step in Bakugou’s direction, a sudden, unmistakable force collided with his personal space.
“Iida-kun!”
He stiffened as Hatsume Mei latched onto his arm with alarming enthusiasm. Her pink hair was even more chaotic than usual, dreadlocks frayed and uneven, her signature overalls stained with what appeared to be fresh oil—and possibly glitter. Her breath carried the faint but undeniable scent of alcohol.
“Mr Rules-and-Regulations himself!” she continued, leaning far too close. “You won’t believe this, but I’ve been working on a brand-new exhaust system prototype. If I tweak the airflow just right, I could push your legs to, like, Mach speed. Mach speed, Iida! Wanna be my test subject? Pretty please?”
Her words tumbled over one another, excitement blurring into slurred enthusiasm. Her eyes gleamed with that familiar, dangerous brilliance—the look of someone already mentally dismantling him for parts.
Iida flushed instantly, hands raised in reflexive protest. “H-Hatsume-san, there are protocols! Safety standards! Proper authorisation forms—!”
She laughed, loud and unbothered, already tugging him toward a shadowed corner where a suspiciously overstuffed bag waited. Tools clinked ominously from inside.
Despite himself, Iida found the tension in his shoulders easing as he was swept along. The music swelled, glasses clinked, and warm voices blended into a comforting hum. The party closed around him again, vibrant and alive, and for the moment, his worries about Bakugou faded into the background noise of celebration and heartfelt toasts.
_-_-_
A week passed after the engagement party, yet the image of Bakugou Katsuki lingered stubbornly in Izuku Midoriya’s mind.
It surfaced at the most inconvenient moments—during early-morning patrols, when the city was still half-asleep; during paperwork briefings where his pen would pause mid-sentence; even during training, when his body moved on instinct, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Pale skin. Tight posture. Eyes that refused to meet anyone else’s. Bakugou had looked wrong in a way that set off every internal alarm Izuku possessed.
He’d tried to be subtle about it.
A short text at first.
You good?
Nothing.
Another, a day later.
Haven’t heard from you. Wanna spar later this week?
Still nothing.
Izuku told himself Bakugou was busy. He was a top-ranked hero, after all. Missions stacked up. Schedules overlapped. Silence didn’t always mean something was wrong—but that excuse rang hollow when it came to Katsuki. Bakugou wasn’t the type to vanish without a reason. He was blunt, loud, and infuriatingly honest. If something was wrong, he usually made it everyone else’s problem.
This time, he hadn’t.
At twenty-six, they were supposed to be better at this. Better at talking. Better at checking in before things spiralled. They weren’t reckless kids anymore, screaming across training fields. They were professionals. Survivors. People who knew what unspoken pain could turn into if ignored.
Still, Izuku forced himself to set the worry aside—for now.
Because Eri needed him.
The train ride to the quiet suburb was short, but Izuku barely noticed the passing scenery. He replayed Aizawa’s words in his head, the unusual edge of concern in his usually flat tone. Sad. Withdrawn. Coming from Aizawa, that alone was reason enough to take it seriously.
The apartment the Wild Wild Pussycats had arranged for Eri was modest but warm, tucked away on a calm residential street far removed from the chaos of central Tokyo. Izuku stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, steadying himself before knocking softly.
There was a brief pause. Then the door opened.
“Midoriya…”
Eri stood there, seventeen now—taller than she used to be, but still carrying that fragile, almost ethereal presence. Her long white hair spilt freely down her back, and her red eyes brightened the instant she saw him. She smiled, small and careful, and then stepped forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him.
He returned the hug immediately.
“Oniichan,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.
She held on a little too tightly. A little too long.
Izuku felt it instantly—the weight behind the affection, the quiet desperation that didn’t quite have words attached to it. When she finally pulled back, the smile was still there, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Inside, the apartment told its own story.
The living space was neat but lived-in. Stacks of thick medical textbooks occupied one side of the small table—anatomy, physiology, quirk-related trauma response, and emergency medicine law. Colourful tabs marked dozens of pages. Yet scattered among them were sheets of handwritten music, a notebook filled with lyrics, and a well-loved acoustic guitar resting against the wall, its strings recently changed.
Izuku felt his chest tighten.
“You’ve been busy,” he said gently, toeing off his shoes.
Eri nodded as she led him inside, settling onto the couch with a tired sigh. “I’m trying to be.”
Izuku picked up one of the open syllabi, skimming the dense text. “So… medical college, huh?”
Her eyes flicked to the book, then away. “Yeah. I start prep courses soon.”
“That’s amazing,” he said honestly. “You’ve come a long way.”
She smiled at that—this one a little more real. “I still love music. Singing. Writing songs. I don’t want to give that up.” Her fingers twisted together in her lap as she continued. “But I also want the license. The one that lets me use my quirk legally in emergencies. Not as a hero. Just… when people really need it.”
Izuku lowered himself onto the couch beside her, listening carefully.
“I don’t want to be a full-time doctor,” she added, voice quieter now. “And I don’t want to be a hero. But I don’t want to just… stand there anymore, either.”
Prepared, Izuku realised. She wanted to be prepared.
“That sounds like you,” he said softly. “Finding your own way.”
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction at that.
There was a brief, comfortable silence—until Izuku gently steered the conversation where it needed to go.
“Aizawa-sensei said you haven’t been yourself lately,” he said. “That you’ve been sad.”
Eri’s hands stilled.
The air seemed to thicken as she stared down at her fingers, jaw tightening. For a moment, Izuku worried he’d pushed too hard—but then she spoke.
“I am,” she admitted quietly.
Izuku waited.
She swallowed. “But I can’t tell you why.”
He turned fully toward her, concern written plainly across his face. “Eri—”
“It’s not my secret,” she said quickly, almost apologetically. “I want to tell you. I really do. But it belongs to someone else, and it wouldn’t be right.”
Her eyes shimmered, tears threatening but never quite falling. She blinked rapidly, breathing in until she steadied herself again.
Izuku felt something twist painfully in his chest.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “Then you don’t have to.”
She looked up at him, startled. “You’re… not mad?”
“Of course not,” he said immediately. “If you’re carrying something that heavy, it means you’re trying to protect someone. I get that.”
He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. He knew better. Trauma didn’t respond to force—it responded to safety.
They made tea instead. Talked about her classes. About the open mics, she still went to them on weekends. Izuku told her about hero work, about the engagement party, carefully keeping things light. He promised he’d visit more often—and meant it.
When he finally left, dusk had settled over the neighbourhood.
As Izuku walked toward the station, the unease returned in full force.
Bakugou’s silence.
Eri’s unspoken burden.
Two separate worries, yet somehow connected by the same heavy thread of things left unsaid.
Being the No. 2 hero didn’t leave much room for personal time—but friendships, he knew all too well, didn’t care about rankings.
And ignoring them had consequences.
_-_-_
Two months after the engagement party, Todoroki Shoto finished his patrol in a district that technically belonged to another agency—but in practice, boundaries blurred at night.
The area sat between commercial high-rises and older residential blocks, the kind of place where crime slipped through jurisdictional cracks. Shoto moved through it with practised efficiency, boots touching down softly as frost spread beneath his steps to keep slick rooftops stable. The evening air was cold enough to sting, but a controlled burn of heat along his left side kept it tolerable, a balance he’d long since mastered.
At twenty-six, he was the No. 3 hero.
The number didn’t mean much to him on its own. It was simply a reflection of consistency—showing up, doing the work, going home. No spectacle. No slogans. Just results. Still, he was aware of how others viewed it, how closely the rankings were watched now that their generation had fully replaced the old guard.
As he moved toward the edge of the district, a familiar presence registered before he consciously identified it.
Explosions—short, sharp, controlled.
Shoto looked up.
On a neighbouring rooftop stood Bakugou Katsuki.
Dynamight’s silhouette was unmistakable, broad-shouldered and tense, framed against the glow of the city. He stood near the edge, smoke curling lazily around him, posture angled as if ready to launch at the slightest provocation. Shoto adjusted his course and propelled himself upward with a brief burst of flame, landing a few meters away.
Bakugou turned at once.
Shoto noticed the change immediately.
A mask covered the lower half of Bakugou’s face—sleek, full-face, clearly custom-made. It was black and utilitarian around the mouth and jaw, seamlessly integrated into his costume, while the upper portion retained Dynamight’s familiar orange tones. The design was efficient, practical… and new.
“Bakugou,” Shoto said evenly, letting his feet settle. “Looks like our patrol zones overlap.”
“Tch.” Bakugou’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Icy-Hot.”
The nickname landed with less bite than usual.
More notably, his voice sounded different—muffled by the mask, yes, but also rougher. Thicker. Like he’d been shouting too much. Or not enough.
Shoto’s mismatched eyes lingered on the mask longer than etiquette strictly allowed. “That’s new.”
Bakugou’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. “What, this?” He tapped the side of the mask once with a gloved finger. “Helps with blast smoke. Keeps my lungs clear.”
It was a reasonable explanation.
Shoto didn’t believe it.
“Oh,” he said simply.
He didn’t press further. Their relationship had never been built on conversation. They communicated through shared space, through awareness of each other’s movements, through the unspoken understanding that came from fighting alongside someone for years.
They turned their attention back to the streets below.
For several minutes, they stood in silence, scanning alleyways and intersections. Shoto extended thin sheets of ice down fire escapes to block off escape routes while Bakugou repositioned himself above, explosions kept deliberately minimal. Their coordination was still flawless—automatic, instinctive.
Yet something felt off.
Even from this distance, Shoto could see the shadows beneath Bakugou’s eyes, dark and pronounced against his pale skin. His movements were sharp but restrained, as if he were holding himself back. The usual restless energy—so characteristic it bordered on violent—was dulled, compressed into something rigid.
When the patrol timer chimed in Shoto’s earpiece, he straightened. “That’s my cue.”
Bakugou grunted. “Same.”
They didn’t exchange anything resembling a goodbye. Bakugou launched himself into the air with a controlled blast, vanishing into the night in a streak of sparks and smoke.
Shoto watched him go longer than necessary.
As he descended toward street level, unease settled in his chest, quiet but persistent. Bakugou Katsuki had always been intense, volatile, loud—but diminished was not a word Shoto would ever have associated with him.
Until now.
The mask. The silence. The exhaustion he hadn’t bothered to hide.
Shoto resumed his route, frost crackling softly beneath his boots, but the image stayed with him—Bakugou standing alone on a rooftop, half his face hidden, like he was trying to disappear without actually leaving.
_-_-_
Izuku Midoriya refused to let the worry die.
He tried—honestly. He buried himself in work, accepted extra patrols, pushed his body through training until his muscles burned and his thoughts dulled. But Katsuki Bakugou lingered at the edges of everything, an unresolved equation that refused to balance no matter how many variables Izuku reviewed.
Four months had passed since the engagement party.
Two since Todoroki’s unsettling encounter on patrol.
And now, the silence had grown so loud it felt intentional.
Izuku finally cornered Eijiro Kirishima during a joint training session between agencies—a large, reinforced gym filled with impact-resistant walls and the familiar scent of sweat and ozone. The room echoed with shouts, explosions, and the rhythmic thud of fists meeting practice dummies.
Kirishima stood out immediately.
Not because of volume—if anything, the lack of it.
The red-haired hero moved through drills with mechanical efficiency, his punches landing true but without conviction. Each strike looked practised, precise… and empty. His usual grin was nowhere to be found, replaced by a tight, distant expression that sat wrong on his face.
Izuku watched for a moment too long.
Then he stepped in.
“Kirishima-kun,” Izuku said, keeping his voice casual as he approached. “Got a second?”
Kirishima turned, surprise flickering briefly before recognition set in. “Oh—hey, Midoriya.” He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “What’s up?”
Izuku hesitated. Then decided honesty was better than dancing around it. “Have you… heard from Katsuki lately?”
The effect was immediate.
Kirishima froze.
Not stiffened—collapsed, almost imperceptibly. His shoulders sagged, and when he looked away, the sharp spikes of his hair seemed to droop with him, as if weighed down by gravity alone.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I have.”
Izuku’s chest tightened. “And?”
Kirishima let out a slow breath, the kind that came from somewhere deep and exhausted. “It’s bad, man.”
He leaned back against the padded wall, arms crossing over his chest—not defensively, but like he needed something solid to keep himself upright.
“He broke up with me,” Kirishima said.
Izuku felt the words land like a physical blow.
“Three months ago,” Kirishima continued, voice rough. “No explanation. No argument. Just… ‘It’s over.’ That was it.”
Izuku’s stomach dropped.
Three months.
That placed it just after the engagement party.
Just after Bakugou had stood alone by the railing, pale and withdrawn.
“I didn’t even get to ask why,” Kirishima went on, staring at the floor. “Tried calling. Texting. Showing up at his place. He shut everything down.”
Izuku swallowed. “Everything?”
“Yeah.” Kirishima gave a humourless huff. “Not just me. The whole squad.”
“The… squad?” Izuku echoed.
“Mina started calling us the ‘Kiri-squad,’” Kirishima said faintly. “Me, her, Kaminari, Sero—everyone who used to orbit around him. Katsuki said it was ‘distracting’ or something. Like we were in the way.”
Izuku struggled to reconcile that with the boy he’d known his entire life.
Bakugou was many things—abrasive, prideful, explosive—but he had always been fiercely loyal in his own blunt, unpolished way. He didn’t discard people lightly.
“He cut off contact completely,” Kirishima said. “No hangouts. No messages. Mina tried joking it off at first, then she got mad. Now she’s just… worried.”
Izuku’s hands clenched at his sides. “Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”
Kirishima shook his head slowly. “Nothing that made sense. He just… changed.”
Izuku looked at him sharply. “How?”
“Paler,” Kirishima said after a moment. “Quieter. Like he was tired all the time, even when he wasn’t doing anything. And when I pushed—when I really tried to get through—he just shut down. Told me to drop it.”
He laughed weakly. “Guess I wasn’t manly enough to break through that wall.”
“That’s not true,” Izuku said immediately.
Kirishima shrugged, eyes glassy. “Maybe. But I’ve never seen him like that. Not after the war. Not ever.”
Izuku nodded slowly, his mind racing.
The timing.
The withdrawal.
The mask.
Eri’s unspoken secret.
None of it felt random.
“This isn’t like him,” Izuku murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
“No,” Kirishima agreed. “It’s not.”
They stood there for a moment, the noise of training continuing around them, heroes shouting and laughing and colliding—life going on as if nothing was wrong.
Izuku finally straightened, resolve hardening in his chest.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said. “I won’t let this drop.”
Kirishima looked up, something like relief flickering across his face. “If anyone can get through to him… It’s you, Midoriya.”
Izuku wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.
But he knew one thing for certain.
Katsuki Bakugou was isolating himself, cutting ties one by one—and whatever was driving him to do it had started months ago.
Izuku wouldn’t look away.
Not again.
_-_-_
Ochako Uraraka had learned, over the years, to recognise the weight of Izuku’s silences.
They were different from his thinking pauses—those came with muttered notes, restless pacing, hands twitching like he was ready to scribble ideas into the air. This silence was heavier. Quieter. The kind that settled into his shoulders and stayed there, pressing down until even his breathing seemed more deliberate.
She noticed it the moment she came home.
They curled up together on the couch, a habit formed long before the engagement ring, before the rankings and the cameras and the carefully scheduled lives. Ochako rested her head against his shoulder, absentmindedly activating her quirk just enough that the pillows around them drifted lazily, suspended like clouds. It was comforting—soft, familiar, theirs.
Izuku’s arm tightened around her, grounding both of them.
“I’m worried about Kacchan,” he said at last.
The words were quiet, but they cut through the calm like a crack of thunder.
Ochako tilted her head to look up at him. His eyes were distant, brows drawn together, freckles standing out sharply against skin that looked more tired than usual. He hadn’t even waited for her to ask.
“I talked to Kirishima yesterday,” Izuku continued. “He told me Katsuki broke up with him. Three months ago. No reason. Just… ended it. And he’s cut everyone else off, too.”
Ochako felt her breath catch.
“Kirishima?” she repeated. “Like—Kirishima Kirishima?”
Izuku nodded.
Ochako pushed herself upright, the floating pillows bobbing higher before settling again. “That’s not—” She stopped herself, searching for the right words. “That’s not Katsuki.”
She’d known Bakugou Katsuki for more than a decade. Loud, abrasive, sharp-tongued, infuriatingly proud—but not cruel. Not careless with the people who mattered. He didn’t walk away from bonds without a fight.
“I know,” Izuku said, voice strained. “That’s why it scares me.”
Ochako studied him for a long moment, then reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. His grip was tight, like he was holding onto something fragile.
“Okay,” she said finally, tone shifting into something steadier. “Then we don’t sit on this.”
Izuku blinked. “Huh?”
“We rally the class,” she said, simple and decisive. “Not agencies. Not hero channels. Just us.”
A familiar spark lit in her chest—the same one that used to flare up during late-night dorm meetings, when problems felt impossible, but teamwork made them manageable.
Izuku hesitated. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I don’t want to overwhelm him.”
“I don’t either,” Ochako said gently. “But right now, we don’t even know what we’re dealing with. And we can’t help if we’re all isolated and guessing.”
She smiled faintly. “Besides, if something’s really wrong… I don’t think you’re meant to carry it alone.”
That earned her a small, grateful smile.
They created the group chat together—an old-classmates-only space, stripped of titles and professional decorum. No hero names. No agencies. Just first names and nicknames, like before.
Ochako named it without much thought.
Class A (No Assignments Allowed)
Messages started trickling in almost immediately.
At first, they were cautious.
Mina: omg what’s up?? Did I miss something?
Sero: This better not be another surprise party chat, I still have trust issues
Jiro: …why does that sound ominous
Ochako took a breath and typed.
Ochako: Has anyone heard from Katsuki lately? Like… really heard from him?
The typing bubbles came and went.
Then the floodgates opened.
Sero: uh. no. actually.
Sero: he stopped coming to game nights months ago. I thought it was just work.
Kaminari: WAIT, yeah, same
Kaminari: he used to at least roast my memes
Kaminari: Now I’m just getting left on read. or worse. nothing.
Mina: he blocked me on his private account
Mina: Like. actually blocked.
Mina: I thought he was mad at me???
Ochako’s stomach tightened as she read.
Izuku leaned closer, eyes scanning over her shoulder, his breathing growing shallow.
Tsuyu: I noticed he’s been requesting solo patrols more often.
Tsuyu: It didn’t feel like a coincidence.
Then another name appeared.
Todoroki: I ran into him on patrol two months ago.
Todoroki: He added a face mask to his costume.
Todoroki: He said it was for smoke.
Todoroki: I don’t think that was the reason.
Ochako felt a chill run down her spine.
She typed carefully.
Ochako: Has anyone actually talked to him? Like… face to face?
Several dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Momo: I tried inviting him to a small dinner.
Momo: He declined. Politely. That alone worried me.
Kirishima: …he told me not to worry about him.
Kirishima: said he was “handling it.”
Ochako glanced at Izuku. His jaw was clenched now, eyes dark with recognition.
Piece by piece, the picture came together.
Katsuki is withdrawing from social events.
Requesting isolated patrol routes.
No more public appearances outside required hero work.
Social media abandoned.
Personal connections severed one by one.
Not exploding.
Vanishing.
“This isn’t burnout,” Ochako murmured.
Izuku nodded slowly. “No. He’s… shrinking his world.”
The realisation sat heavily between them.
Ochako squeezed his hand, grounding herself as much as him. She thought back to the boy who used to storm through classrooms like he owned the air itself, who burned too bright and too loud and too fiercely to ever be ignored.
Someone like that didn’t fade quietly unless something was very wrong.
“We have to do something,” she said, voice firm despite the knot in her chest.
“I know,” Izuku replied. “I just don’t know what yet.”
Ochako leaned into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder. For a moment, she let herself feel the fear—the same kind that used to grip her during the war, when losing someone felt like a constant threat rather than a distant possibility.
Then she steadied herself.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Together. Like always.”
The group chat continued to buzz softly, messages overlapping as memories and concerns piled up. No solutions yet—just shared worry, shared history, shared determination.
Outside, the city lights glowed steadily, unaware of the quiet crisis unfolding among the heroes sworn to protect it.
Ochako closed her eyes, holding onto Izuku, and made herself a promise.
They wouldn’t let Katsuki disappear.
Not on their watch.
_-_-_
Mina Ashido had always trusted her instincts.
They were the same instincts that let her read a room in seconds, that told her when a smile was real and when it was just a shield. And right now, every instinct she had was screaming that Katsuki Bakugou was slipping through their fingers.
She got the tip through agency gossip—an offhand comment from a sidekick complaining about “that explosive blond who always shops alone, late, and looks like he’s hiding from the world.” Mina didn’t even hesitate. She dragged Kirishima with her before he could talk himself out of it.
They waited across the street from a small neighbourhood grocery store, the kind that stayed open late for people who didn’t want to be seen. The air smelled like rain and asphalt, streetlights casting hazy halos over the sidewalk.
“There,” Mina muttered, straightening as the automatic doors slid open.
Katsuki stepped out carrying a single grocery basket.
He was dressed plainly—dark hoodie, gloves, worn sneakers—but what made Mina’s chest tighten was the mask. It wasn’t part of any costume. It was civilian, utilitarian, similar to the one Shoji wore: fabric reinforced along the jaw and mouth, straps tight against his face, hiding everything below his nose.
Like he didn’t want to be recognised.
Like he didn’t want to be seen.
“Blasty!” Mina called, forcing brightness into her voice as she jogged forward. “Wow, look at you—domestic life arc?”
Kirishima followed a few steps behind her, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on Katsuki like he was afraid he might vanish if he blinked.
Katsuki didn’t even slow down.
He walked past them as if they were strangers on the sidewalk.
Mina’s grin faltered. “Hey. Hey—seriously?”
“Move,” Katsuki said flatly, not looking at them. His voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
Mina darted in front of him before she could think better of it. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t just disappear on us and pretend everything’s fine.”
His eyes snapped up then—sharp, irritated, exhausted.
“Get out of my way, Pinky.”
Kirishima flinched at the nickname. Mina caught it immediately.
“We’re your friends,” she shot back, acid bubbling faintly along her fingertips. “You broke up with Eijiro, cut us all off, started acting like we’re radioactive—don’t you think we deserve something?”
For a moment, just a moment, Katsuki’s grip tightened on the basket. Mina saw it—the tremor in his hands, the tension in his shoulders like he was holding back more than just anger.
Then the walls slammed back up.
“It’s not your business,” he said. “Never was.”
He stepped to the side, brushing past her shoulder. Sparks crackled faintly along his gloves—not an attack, just a warning.
“Back off,” he muttered. “I’m handling it.”
Mina turned, watching him walk away down the street, his back rigid, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact that never came.
Kirishima finally moved, taking a shaky step forward. “Katsuki—”
“Don’t,” Katsuki snapped without turning around.
And then he was gone, swallowed by shadow and streetlight.
Mina exhaled slowly, the anger draining out of her and leaving something colder behind. She looked at Kirishima, who stood frozen in place, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not handling it,” she said quietly. “He’s breaking.”
Kirishima nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah.”
Mina folded her arms, jaw set. “And I don’t care how much he pushes us away—we’re not letting him do it alone.”
_-_-_
Izuku was in the middle of reviewing patrol reports when his phone rang.
Mom flashed across the screen.
He answered immediately. “Hi, Mom.”
Inko Midoriya didn’t sound like herself.
“Izuku,” she said, voice trembling, “have you heard from Katsuki lately?”
Izuku’s heart sank.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “I haven’t. Not for months.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Mitsuki called me today. She’s… she’s really worried. Katsuki stopped calling. No visits. No messages. Nothing.” Inko’s voice cracked. “She says this has never happened before.”
Izuku pressed his fingers to his forehead. “That matches what I know.”
Silence stretched between them—heavy, loaded.
“Izuku,” Inko said gently, “would you… Would you check on him? Please? Mitsuki gave me the last address she had for him. She doesn’t know if he’s still there.”
Izuku didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I will.”
“I’ll send it to you,” Inko said, relief bleeding into her tone. “Thank you.”
The call ended a moment later.
Izuku stared at his phone as the message came through—an address glowing softly on the screen. Familiar neighborhood. Too quiet. Too far from everything Katsuki used to orbit.
Tomorrow, he thought immediately.
Then the reality hit him.
The hero rankings ceremony.
Mandatory appearance. Mandatory speeches. Cameras. Expectations.
“Tuesday,” Izuku murmured to himself, frustration curling in his chest. “I’ll go on Tuesday.”
He hated the delay. Hated that something as ceremonial as rankings could get in the way of checking on someone who mattered.
But now he had a destination.
And that made all the difference.
_-_-_
The hero rankings ceremony was louder than Shoji remembered it ever being.
Cheers rolled through the massive hall in waves, applause echoing off polished floors and towering screens. Cameras flashed constantly, the air thick with excitement, pride, and barely restrained ambition.
Shoji Mezo stood near the edge of the platform, multiple arms folded neatly, posture calm and composed.
No. 6.
If you’d told his first-year self that one day he’d stand here—top ten hero, respected, steady, visible, unmasked—he wouldn’t have believed you. He let his senses stretch outward, Dupli-Arms catching the whispers, the murmurs, the undercurrents beneath the celebration.
“One For All Hero: Deku—No. 1 Hero!”
The crowd erupted.
Shoji turned his gaze toward the centre as Izuku stepped forward, expression stunned, humbled, and resolute all at once. Shoji felt genuine pride settle in his chest. No one deserved it more.
Rankings followed quickly after.
Lemillion—No. 3.
Todoroki Shoto—No. 4.
Himself at No 6.
Uravity—No. 7.
Phantom Thief—No. 8.
Mt. Lady—No. 9.
Pinky—No. 10.
Shoji nodded quietly at each name.
Then there was a pause.
The announcer hesitated.
“And the No. 2 Hero—Dynamight—”
Silence.
No explosion.
No dramatic entrance.
No scowl or shout.
Just absence.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Shoji felt it immediately—the wrongness of it. His enhanced senses picked up confusion, speculation, and unease.
Bakugou Katsuki never missed ceremonies.
Pride alone wouldn’t allow it.
Shoji’s gaze shifted to the space where Dynamight should have been standing. His jaw tightened slightly.
“Unusual,” he murmured to himself.
Very unusual.
As applause resumed and the ceremony pressed on, Shoji remained still, senses tuned sharply to the undercurrent of concern threading through the hall.
Bakugou wasn’t here.
And everyone felt it.
Something was deeply, unmistakably wrong.
_-_-_
Bakugou Katsuki knew the sound of footsteps outside his apartment.
He knew the rhythm of the stairwell, the uneven creak on the third step, the way voices echoed slightly too loud when people hesitated outside his door. He’d memorised it all over months of isolation, the same way one memorised an enemy’s pattern before a fight.
So when he heard more than one set of footsteps—too many to ignore—his stomach sank.
Shit.
He didn’t bother reaching for the mask.
He was tired. Too tired to pretend anymore.
The knock came sharp and urgent, not loud but insistent, like whoever was on the other side knew he might not open it at all.
“Bakugou,” Izuku’s voice said. “Please.”
That did it.
Bakugou exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, bracing his hand against the doorframe before pulling it open.
The silence hit instantly.
He didn’t need to look at them to know what they saw.
He felt it in the way the air changed—like everyone on the other side forgot how to breathe.
No mask.
No filters.
No hiding.
The scars carved across his face were impossible to miss.
Jagged, uneven lines ran from his jaw up toward his cheekbone, skin warped and discoloured as if it had been burned from the inside out. Fine cracks spread outward, subtle but wrong, like stress fractures in stone. His face looked four to five times older, as if something had eaten away at him slowly and relentlessly. The kind of damage that didn’t heal cleanly.
Izuku froze.
Ochako’s hand flew to her mouth.
Kirishima made a broken sound in his throat.
Mina went utterly still, acid freckles dull against her skin.
Even Iida—always composed, always controlled—stiffened like he’d taken a physical blow.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Bakugou snapped.
The words came out sharp, but there was no heat behind them. No explosion. Just strain. His body felt heavy, baggy clothes hanging off him as if they belonged to someone else.
Izuku took a step forward before anyone else could speak.
“Kacchan…” His voice cracked immediately. “Your face—”
“Don’t,” Bakugou growled, gripping the door harder. “You don’t get to show up unannounced and stare at me like that.”
But Izuku wasn’t looking away.
His eyes—too perceptive, always too damn perceptive—were tracing the scars with horrifying precision. Not just seeing them, but understanding them.
Recognition dawned.
“…Is this from Nabu Island?” Izuku whispered.
Bakugou’s jaw clenched.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
“The fight with Nine,” Izuku continued, voice shaking now. “When you held One For All. For half an hour.”
Bakugou looked down.
That was answer enough.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what did it.”
The sound Ochako made was barely audible—a sharp inhale that turned into something broken.
Kirishima stepped forward instinctively. “Katsuki… the hell are you saying?”
Bakugou let out a humourless laugh and leaned his weight against the doorframe. His legs felt weak. They always did lately.
“I’m saying that borrowing Deku’s stupid god-quirk wasn’t free,” he said. “It burned me out from the inside. Cells. Organs. Quirk pathways. All of it.”
Izuku looked like he’d been shot.
Bakugou finally looked at him.
Really looked.
And yeah—there it was.
The guilt.
Heavy. Crushing. Immediate.
Good.
“And before you start,” Bakugou added, voice rough, “no, it wasn’t your fault.”
Izuku shook his head violently. “It was—”
“I chose it,” Bakugou snapped, sharper now. “I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t ask permission. I took it.”
He swallowed, throat burning.
“The doctors figured it out nine months ago. After tests. After scans. After a lot of long, awkward silences where they tried to soften the blow.”
His mouth twisted.
“Four years,” he said flatly. “That’s what they gave me then.”
Ochako staggered slightly. Iida reached out automatically to steady her.
“Four…?” Mina echoed faintly.
Bakugou nodded. “Four. Maybe less. Depends on how hard I push myself.”
Izuku’s hands were shaking.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, voice barely holding together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bakugou closed his eyes.
Because he’d tried.
Because every time he opened his mouth, the words turned to ash.
“Couldn’t find the right ones,” he said quietly. “Every version sounded like an excuse. Or a confession. Or a plea.”
He laughed again, bitterly. “Didn’t want your pity. Didn’t want you looking at me like this.”
Izuku was crying openly now.
“I was there,” Izuku said, voice breaking. “I asked you to do it. I let you—”
“You didn’t let me do shit,” Bakugou snapped. “I’d do it again.”
The words came out instinctively.
Then softer.
“Still would.”
That only made it worse.
Ochako wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “Eri,” she said suddenly. “Bakugou—what about Eri? She could—”
“Tried it,” Bakugou interrupted.
Everyone froze.
“Nine months ago,” he said. “Right after the diagnosis.”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
Bakugou leaned his head back against the doorframe, staring at the ceiling. “It worked. For about a week.”
Hope flared in their faces—then died as he continued.
“Then it came back,” he said. “Harder. Faster. Like my body snapped back even worse for resisting it.”
He lowered his gaze, eyes dull.
“Doctors think my quirk and One For All clashed at a level Eri can’t permanently rewind, but instead fuel it. Like trying to erase damage that keeps rewriting itself.”
Silence.
Utter, devastating silence.
Bakugou looked at them one by one.
Deku—destroyed by guilt.
Round Face—shattered.
Half-and-Half—tight, controlled grief.
Eijiro—openly breaking.
Pinky—furious and helpless.
Four-Eyes—rigid, horrified.
He’d wanted to scream it at them once.
Back when he still had the energy.
“I wasn’t pushing you away because I didn’t care,” Bakugou said quietly. “I was doing it because I did.”
Izuku covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.
“This is my fault,” Izuku whispered. “I should’ve protected you.”
Bakugou’s vision blurred.
“Idiot,” he said hoarsely. “You did.”
And that was the worst part.
Because Izuku had protected him.
Because Izuku had given him everything—including power he was never meant to hold.
Power that ditched him and went back as soon as it could.
And now Bakugou Katsuki was dying.
_-_-_
It rained the entire morning.
A steady, relentless downpour that soaked through coats and umbrellas alike, as if the sky itself refused to hold back.
Shota Aizawa stood at the edge of the grave, hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slouched in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with grief.
Bakugou Katsuki was dead.
Twenty-seven years old.
No. 2 hero.
Former student.
Problem child.
Survivor.
Gone.
The funeral was small—by hero standards, at least. No grand ceremony. No spectacle. Just the people who mattered.
Class A stood together, older now, hardened in ways they never should have been. Kirishima stared at the coffin like he was daring it to move. Mina cried openly, with no attempt to hide it. Todoroki stood rigid, rain sliding down his face unnoticed.
Eri clung to Mandalay, sobbing into her arms.
Aizawa felt something twist painfully in his chest at the sight.
She’d known.
That was the secret.
She’d tried to save him. Over and over. And failed.
Midoriya stood near the front, Ochako holding him upright as if he might collapse without her. The No. 1 hero title sat on him like a curse—heavy, undeserved, hollow.
Aizawa understood that look.
He’d worn it himself.
“He fought until the end,” Aizawa murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on the coffin being lowered into the ground.
Bakugou had never known how to quit.
That had been both his greatest strength and his fatal flaw.
The war.
The aftermath.
The fragile joy they’d managed to rebuild.
All of it ended here.
Rain struck the earth harder as the ceremony concluded, dirt darkening as it fell over the casket. Aizawa stayed where he was long after others began to drift away.
He’d failed him.
Not as a hero.
As a teacher.
As someone who should have seen the cracks forming long before they became fatal.
The rain kept falling.
And nothing—no quirk, no ranking, no power in the world—could rewind what was lost.