Chapter Text
Everyone knew Bakugou was aggressive.
He was Bakugou.
It was less a personality trait and more a law of nature at this point. Like gravity. Or taxes. Or the fact that if someone said something stupid within a ten-meter radius of him, they were probably about to get yelled at.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
Teachers expected it.
Students expected it.
Bakugou expected it.
The problem was that everyone had gotten so used to his aggression that they’d stopped asking whether there was maybe something wrong with him.
Which was how it took a concussion to finally get someone’s attention.
The training accident itself wasn’t even particularly memorable.
Class 1-A had been running combat exercises. Bakugou had launched himself across Training Ground Gamma at approximately the speed of a missile. Midoriya had yelled something. Kirishima had yelled something else. There had been an explosion. Then another explosion.
Then somehow Bakugou had managed to hit a support beam headfirst.
Nobody was entirely sure how.
He certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone.
Aizawa took one look at him swaying on his feet and immediately exiled him to Recovery Girl’s office.
“Go.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a little blood.”
“It is running down your face.”
Bakugou grumbled several things that were probably not appropriate for a school setting and stomped off.
Twenty minutes later, Recovery Girl declared he had a mild concussion.
Then she told him to lie down.
Then she discovered something horrifying.
At first she assumed the monitor was broken.
Because there was absolutely no way that number was real.
She stared at the screen.
Then looked at Bakugou.
Then looked back at the screen.
“Hm.”
Bakugou squinted at her from the examination bed.
“What.”
Recovery Girl ignored him.
She checked the leads.
Everything was connected properly.
“Hm.”
“What.”
She checked the machine itself.
No errors.
No warnings.
No malfunctions.
“Hm.”
“QUIT HM-ING AT ME.”
Recovery Girl patted his shoulder.
“Take a nap, dear.”
Bakugou looked deeply suspicious.
That alone should have been concerning.
Bakugou never looked suspicious.
Bakugou looked angry.
There was a difference.
Eventually, however, his concussion won the battle and he drifted off.
Recovery Girl waited approximately thirty seconds before checking the monitor again.
His resting heart rate was 129.
She blinked.
Then she checked again.
Resting.
As in unconscious.
As in asleep.
As in the opposite of exercising.
Recovery Girl slowly turned toward the nurse station.
“Young man.”
One of the medical interns looked up.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
The intern walked over.
She pointed at the monitor.
“What does that say?”
“…One hundred twenty-nine?”
“Excellent.”
The intern paused.
“Why?”
Recovery Girl pointed at the sleeping teenager.
“Because he’s unconscious.”
The intern looked at Bakugou.
Then at the monitor.
Then back at Bakugou.
“…Oh.”
“Yes.”
“…Oh.”
Recovery Girl nodded.
“Exactly.”
Then she checked his blood pressure.
169 over 130.
The room went silent.
The intern made a choking noise.
Recovery Girl checked again.
Same result.
She checked his chart.
Nothing.
She checked the monitor.
Still nothing.
The numbers remained stubbornly real.
“That’s bad, right?” the intern asked.
Recovery Girl stared.
The intern immediately regretted asking.
“Young man,” she said carefully, “those numbers suggest he is currently fleeing a predator.”
The intern looked at the sleeping Bakugou.
Bakugou snored once.
Very lightly.
“Ah.”
“Or fighting for his life.”
“Ah.”
“Or experiencing a catastrophic medical emergency.”
“AH.”
Recovery Girl nodded.
“Correct.”
The problem was that Bakugou looked perfectly fine.
Well.
As fine as Bakugou ever looked.
He wasn’t sweating.
He wasn’t gasping.
He wasn’t seizing.
He wasn’t dying.
He was asleep.
Deeply asleep.
Comfortably asleep.
With the cardiovascular statistics of a man being chased through the wilderness by bears.
Recovery Girl called Aizawa.
Aizawa arrived ten minutes later.
He walked into the office looking tired.
As usual.
“What happened?”
Recovery Girl handed him the chart.
Aizawa looked at it.
Then looked again.
Then adjusted his goggles.
Then looked a third time.
“…What?”
“That was my reaction.”
“Is this from after the accident?”
“No.”
“Before?”
“No.”
Aizawa frowned.
“When?”
“Right now.”
Silence.
Aizawa slowly turned toward the sleeping student.
Bakugou was curled slightly onto one side.
Completely unconscious.
Not a care in the world.
“He’s asleep.”
“Yes.”
Aizawa stared for several more seconds.
Then sighed.
The sigh of a man realizing his workday had somehow become worse.
Again.
“We should probably run tests.”
“We are.”
Several hours later, Bakugou woke up.
His eyes snapped open with enough hostility to make the intern drop a clipboard.
“What time is it?”
Recovery Girl smiled.
“Oh good. You’re awake.”
Bakugou immediately narrowed his eyes.
Nobody smiled like that unless something terrible was about to happen.
“What did you do.”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do.”
“We took a blood sample.”
Bakugou sat upright.
“You WHAT?”
“Language.”
“WHY?”
Recovery Girl’s smile widened.
The smile of a medical professional who had discovered a mystery.
“Because I was curious.”
Bakugou looked horrified.
Aizawa looked tired.
The intern looked excited.
None of these reactions made Bakugou feel better.
Recovery Girl flipped through the lab results.
“Hm.”
Bakugou pointed accusingly.
“STOP DOING THAT.”
Recovery Girl ignored him.
Aizawa leaned over.
“What is it?”
She turned the paper around.
Aizawa read it.
Then blinked.
Then read it again.
“…That’s not right.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Bakugou hated everything about this conversation.
“What.”
Recovery Girl tapped the page.
“Young Bakugou.”
“What.”
“Would you like to explain why your adrenaline level is two thousand eight hundred forty-nine picograms per milliliter?”
Silence.
Bakugou stared.
Aizawa stared.
The intern stared.
Bakugou stared back.
“What does that mean.”
Recovery Girl folded her hands.
“It means your body is producing enough adrenaline to convince several medical professionals that you’re actively fighting a supervillain.”
Bakugou frowned.
“So?”
“So,” Recovery Girl said, “you were asleep.”
“…Yeah?”
“You had fallen asleep.”
“…Yeah?”
“You were resting.”
“…Yeah?”
Recovery Girl pointed dramatically at the paper.
“YOU WERE CALMER THAN YOU USUALLY ARE.”
Bakugou blinked.
Everyone else blinked.
The room fell silent.
A terrible realization slowly descended upon everyone present.
Including Bakugou.
Recovery Girl looked at him.
Aizawa looked at him.
The intern looked at him.
Bakugou looked at the lab result.
Then at them.
Then at the lab result.
Then at them.
“…Oh.”
“Yes,” said Recovery Girl.
“…Oh.”
“Exactly.”
Because apparently Bakugou Katsuki’s normal state of existence was medically indistinguishable from an emergency.
And suddenly a lot of things started making sense.
Like why he vibrated slightly when standing still.
Why he paced during movies.
Why he couldn’t sit through lectures without looking physically offended by the concept of chairs.
Why every teacher described him as “intense” with the haunted expression of someone remembering a war.
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Recovery Girl.”
“Yes?”
“Please tell me this is fixable.”
Recovery Girl looked at the numbers.
Then at Bakugou.
Then back at the numbers.
“Hm.”
Bakugou pointed.
“I SWEAR TO GOD—”
“No promises, dear.”
⁂
For several days, Recovery Girl informed Bakugou that he was not allowed to participate in hero training.
Bakugou took this news exactly as well as everyone expected.
Which was to say:
Poorly.
"Absolutely not."
"I wasn't asking."
"I'm going."
"No."
"I'll be fine."
"No."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough."
Bakugou pointed accusingly.
"You let Kaminari electrocute himself three times last month."
"That was educational."
"He forgot how doors worked."
"Educational."
Bakugou looked personally betrayed.
Unfortunately for him, Recovery Girl had spent decades dealing with stubborn teenagers.
Unfortunately for Recovery Girl, Bakugou was Bakugou Katsuki.
The resulting conflict lasted four days.
Every morning he attempted to leave.
Every morning she somehow appeared.
Sometimes from hallways.
Sometimes from offices.
Once from behind a vending machine.
Nobody knew how.
Not even Aizawa.
Especially not Aizawa.
By Day Three, several students had begun placing bets.
Not on whether Bakugou would escape.
Nobody was that optimistic.
The betting pool concerned where Recovery Girl would materialize next.
Kirishima had five hundred yen on "air vent."
He lost.
She emerged from a stairwell.
Bakugou nearly screamed.
Recovery Girl considered that a victory.
The reason for all of this was simple.
His numbers were still absurd.
Every test Recovery Girl ran came back with the same conclusion.
Bakugou's body was operating under conditions that should have resulted in either hospitalization or death.
Yet somehow he remained functional.
Not healthy.
Functional.
There was a difference.
His resting heart rate was still terrifying.
His blood pressure remained a war crime.
His adrenaline levels appeared to be competing with themselves.
Every morning Recovery Girl checked his chart.
Every morning she became slightly more concerned.
Every morning Bakugou demanded to know why everyone kept staring at him.
Nobody had an answer he would accept.
The breakthrough happened on Day Five.
Entirely by accident.
Which, in retrospect, was becoming a recurring theme.
Recovery Girl had collected a sweat sample.
Because when someone sweats explosive compounds, medical science becomes less of a profession and more of a hostage situation.
The sample sat in a tray.
Recovery Girl looked at it.
Then looked at a test result.
Then back at the sample.
Then at the result again.
"Hm."
The intern froze.
He had learned to fear that sound.
"What's wrong?"
Recovery Girl didn't answer.
She picked up the paperwork.
Looked at it.
Looked at the sample.
Looked at the paperwork.
"Hm."
The intern slowly backed away.
"Should I get Aizawa?"
"Hm."
"I'll get Aizawa."
Aizawa arrived twenty minutes later.
Looking exhausted.
As usual.
"What happened?"
Recovery Girl handed him a report.
Aizawa scanned it.
Frowned.
Looked again.
Then looked at the sample container.
Then back at the report.
"...What?"
"That was my reaction."
Aizawa rubbed his eyes.
"What am I looking at?"
Recovery Girl pointed.
"Nitroglycerin."
Aizawa blinked.
"Nitroglycerin."
"Yes."
"The explosive?"
"Yes."
"The explosive he sweats."
"Yes."
Silence.
Aizawa considered this.
Then considered it again.
"Okay."
Recovery Girl continued staring at the paperwork.
"Do you know what else nitroglycerin is used for?"
Aizawa frowned.
"No."
"It's medication."
More silence.
Aizawa stared.
Recovery Girl stared back.
The intern stared at both of them.
Nobody said anything.
Eventually Aizawa spoke.
"...Medication for what?"
Recovery Girl slowly lowered the report.
"For high blood pressure."
The room became very quiet.
The kind of quiet that suggested reality was about to do something unfortunate.
Aizawa looked at the report.
Then at the sample.
Then at the report.
Then at the sample.
Then very carefully asked:
"How much of it does he sweat?"
Recovery Girl handed him another page.
Aizawa read it.
His expression immediately became more tired.
Which was impressive.
Most people assumed he'd already reached the maximum amount of tired a human could physically express.
Apparently not.
"That's a lot."
"Yes."
"That's... really a lot."
"Yes."
The intern raised a hand.
Nobody acknowledged him.
He kept it raised anyway.
Finally Recovery Girl sighed.
"Yes?"
"What does this mean?"
Recovery Girl pointed at the paperwork.
"It means Bakugou continuously secretes a substance that lowers blood pressure."
The intern nodded.
"Okay."
She pointed at another report.
"It also means his body continuously experiences the effects of that substance."
The intern nodded again.
"Okay."
Then she handed him the adrenaline results.
The intern looked down.
Looked up.
Looked down again.
And very slowly went pale.
"Oh."
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Exactly."
Because suddenly everything fit together.
The absurd blood pressure.
The absurd heart rate.
The absurd adrenaline.
The fact that Bakugou's body appeared to spend every waking moment behaving like it was trying to survive a natural disaster.
Recovery Girl sat down.
Very carefully.
Like someone approaching a dangerous conclusion.
"His body thinks it's under attack."
Aizawa frowned.
"By what?"
Recovery Girl pointed at the report.
"By itself."
Silence.
The intern made a small noise.
Recovery Girl ignored him.
"Think about it."
Nobody wanted to.
She continued anyway.
"His quirk produces nitroglycerin."
Aizawa nodded.
"Right."
"His skin absorbs some of it."
Aizawa nodded again.
"Right."
"His blood pressure drops."
The intern's eyes widened.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Because the human body was, fundamentally, very stupid.
Extremely sophisticated.
Remarkably adaptable.
Capable of incredible things.
Also incredibly stupid.
If blood pressure dropped, the body attempted to fix it.
Immediately.
Aggressively.
With enthusiasm.
The body's favorite solution to almost every problem was adrenaline.
Too cold?
Adrenaline.
Too scared?
Adrenaline.
Being chased by bears?
Adrenaline.
Unexpectedly absorbing blood pressure medication through your own skin because your superpower involved sweating explosives?
Apparently also adrenaline.
Lots of adrenaline.
An absolutely irresponsible amount of adrenaline.
Recovery Girl looked down at the chart.
Then at Aizawa.
Then back at the chart.
"It appears Bakugou Katsuki has spent most of his life trapped in a biological feedback loop."
Aizawa closed his eyes.
The intern sat down.
Neither of them felt emotionally prepared for this information.
"So let me get this straight," Aizawa said.
Recovery Girl nodded.
"Go ahead."
"He sweats nitroglycerin."
"Yes."
"The nitroglycerin lowers his blood pressure."
"Yes."
"His body responds by producing adrenaline."
"Yes."
"The adrenaline raises his heart rate."
"Yes."
"And then he sweats more nitroglycerin."
"Yes."
Silence.
Aizawa stared at the wall.
The wall offered no guidance.
"...He's accidentally been pharmacologically bullying himself."
Recovery Girl considered this.
Then nodded.
"That is an unfortunately accurate description."
The office door slammed open.
Bakugou stormed inside.
"WHY AM I STILL BANNED FROM TRAINING?"
Nobody answered.
They were all looking at him.
Bakugou stopped.
"What."
Recovery Girl looked at him.
Then at the reports.
Then back at him.
For the first time since this entire disaster had started, she felt something very close to pity.
Not much.
But some.
"You poor child."
Bakugou recoiled.
"What the hell does that mean?"
Recovery Girl folded the paperwork.
"Katsuki."
"What."
"I have discovered that your quirk has been medically gaslighting your cardiovascular system."
Bakugou stared.
Aizawa stared at the floor.
The intern stared at the ceiling.
Nobody wanted to explain further.
Unfortunately, somebody had to.
Bakugou pointed.
Slowly.
Suspiciously.
"...What."
Recovery Girl sighed.
The sigh of a medical professional who had uncovered an answer so ridiculous that nobody would believe it.
Then she held up the report.
"Katsuki."
"What."
"You have spent your entire life being chemically encouraged to become more Bakugou."
The silence that followed could have been measured in geological time.
⁂
Quirks had drawbacks.
Of course they did.
It would be odd if they didn't.
Nobody got superpowers for free.
That was one of the first things taught in hero education.
Every quirk came with limitations.
Costs.
Restrictions.
Some were minor.
Some were inconvenient.
Some were deeply annoying.
And some were unfortunate enough to become running jokes among coworkers.
Take Present Mic.
If he pushed his quirk too hard, he lost his voice.
Not for an hour.
Not for an afternoon.
For a week.
A full week.
Seven entire days.
Recovery Girl had witnessed this happen multiple times.
The first time had been during a villain incident several years ago.
Mic had spent nearly twenty minutes screaming evacuation orders at maximum volume.
The rescue operation had been successful.
The civilians had been safe.
The villains had been captured.
And afterward Present Mic had opened his mouth to make some celebratory remark and produced a sound roughly equivalent to a dying hamster.
Recovery Girl had laughed so hard she nearly dropped her clipboard.
Mic had not appreciated this.
Especially because nobody could hear his complaints.
A week later his voice returned.
Then there was Aizawa.
Aizawa's drawback was considerably less funny.
Mostly because it involved his eyes.
The man already looked permanently exhausted.
His quirk certainly wasn't helping.
Every time he overused Erasure, his vision suffered.
Dry eyes.
Blurry vision.
Headaches.
Light sensitivity.
Recovery Girl had lost count of the number of times she'd caught him squinting at paperwork.
Or holding documents suspiciously far away.
Or pretending he absolutely did not need the reading glasses currently sitting in his desk drawer.
The reading glasses were a particularly sensitive topic.
Aizawa denied their existence.
Everyone knew they existed.
The glasses knew they existed.
Recovery Girl had prescribed them herself.
Yet somehow every conversation followed the same pattern.
"Aizawa."
"No."
"You haven't even heard the question."
"I know what the question is."
"Your eyesight is getting worse."
"No, it isn't."
"You just tried to read a coffee stain."
"It looked important."
Recovery Girl had eventually given up.
Some battles could not be won.
The point was that drawbacks happened.
That was normal.
Expected, even.
Every professional hero had a story.
Some heroes developed migraines.
Some experienced muscle fatigue.
Some had metabolic issues.
Some required special diets.
One hero Recovery Girl knew had to consume nearly eight thousand calories a day just to remain functional.
Another developed temporary hearing loss after large-scale quirk use.
Drawbacks were simply part of life.
The body's way of balancing the equation.
Power in exchange for inconvenience.
Sometimes significant inconvenience.
But inconvenience nonetheless.
Then there was Bakugou Katsuki.
Recovery Girl stared at the stack of reports on her desk.
Then at Bakugou.
Then back at the reports.
Then back at Bakugou.
"Hm."
Bakugou immediately pointed.
"NO."
Recovery Girl ignored him.
Because frankly she was busy reconsidering several decades of medical experience.
She had treated thousands of quirk users.
Thousands.
Heroes.
Students.
Villains.
Civilians.
Children.
Adults.
Retirees.
People with harmless quirks.
People with terrifying quirks.
People who could manipulate gravity.
People who could transform into animals.
People who could generate enough electricity to power buildings.
In all her years of practice, she had seen some truly ridiculous drawbacks.
One patient became violently sleepy whenever he used his quirk.
Another developed hiccups.
One unfortunate woman broke out in hives every time she created ice.
Medical science had suffered greatly because of quirks.
Yet somehow.
Somehow.
Nothing had prepared her for this.
Because Bakugou's drawback wasn't causing discomfort.
It wasn't causing fatigue.
It wasn't causing temporary symptoms after overuse.
His drawback wasn't activated by excessive quirk use at all.
It was active constantly.
Every second.
Every minute.
Every hour.
Every day.
His quirk wasn't merely inconveniencing him.
His quirk had apparently declared war on his entire cardiovascular system.
And had been winning.
For years.
Recovery Girl looked down at the reports again.
Blood pressure.
Heart rate.
Hormone levels.
All of them continued to tell the same horrifying story.
A story she very much wished was less medically fascinating.
Beside her, Aizawa rubbed his temples.
The gesture suggested he was developing a stress headache.
A completely reasonable response.
"How long?" he asked.
Recovery Girl sighed.
"Possibly his entire life."
Aizawa closed his eyes.
The intern sat down again.
Nobody blamed him.
Standing seemed overly ambitious at this point.
Across the room, Bakugou crossed his arms.
Still angry.
Still confused.
Still somehow managing to look offended by his own medical records.
"What are you all staring at?"
Nobody answered immediately.
Because the answer was complicated.
The answer was that they were staring at a teenager who had unknowingly spent years trapped inside the biological equivalent of a perpetual emergency alarm.
The answer was that every aggressive impulse, every restless movement, every moment of impossible intensity suddenly had a physiological explanation.
The answer was that his body had apparently spent most of his life screaming internally.
And nobody had noticed.
Recovery Girl looked at him.
For the first time since discovering all of this, she wasn't thinking like a doctor.
She was thinking like an old woman who had watched countless children grow up.
A child who never sat still.
Never relaxed.
Never slowed down.
Never seemed capable of simply existing peacefully.
And suddenly the possibility occurred to her.
A quiet.
Uncomfortable.
Heartbreaking possibility.
"Katsuki," she said softly.
Bakugou frowned.
"What."
Recovery Girl glanced at the reports one final time.
Then back at him.
"Have you ever felt calm?"
The room went silent.
Bakugou opened his mouth.
Then paused.
His expression shifted.
Just slightly.
Confusion.
Genuine confusion.
As though he wasn't entirely sure what she meant.
And that answer frightened Recovery Girl far more than any test result ever had.
⁂
Obviously, they informed Nezu of it.
There had never really been any question about that.
When a student was discovered to have spent what appeared to be his entire life trapped in a medically absurd feedback loop involving explosive sweat, chronically elevated adrenaline, and cardiovascular statistics that looked less like vital signs and more like a cry for help from a malfunctioning machine, informing the principal became less of a choice and more of a professional obligation.
Recovery Girl had sent the report.
Aizawa had added several notes.
The intern had contributed absolutely nothing beyond a paragraph that could essentially be summarized as “I am frightened.”
Then they waited.
Nezu arrived thirty minutes later.
At first glance, he seemed perfectly normal.
Which was concerning.
Because Nezu was rarely normal when presented with information that had the potential to alter the functioning of the educational system he had spent years constructing.
He entered Recovery Girl’s office carrying a neatly organized folder.
His posture was relaxed.
His smile was pleasant.
His expression was composed.
“Good afternoon.”
Recovery Girl immediately narrowed her eyes.
Aizawa looked up from his chair.
The intern quietly scooted farther away.
Nezu climbed onto a chair and set the folder on the desk.
“I received your report.”
His smile remained exactly the same.
Not a fraction wider.
Not a fraction smaller.
A perfectly measured smile.
The sort of smile usually worn by people who were definitely not having a crisis.
Recovery Girl had known Nezu for years.
She recognized that smile.
It was the smile he wore when something had gone catastrophically wrong and he was choosing to process that information through sheer force of professionalism.
“Hm,” she said.
Nezu’s eye twitched.
Just once.
Very small.
Almost invisible.
Recovery Girl immediately became more concerned.
Aizawa, unfortunately, noticed it too.
“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
Nezu folded his paws together.
“That’s wonderful to hear.”
Aizawa stared.
Recovery Girl stared.
The intern stared.
Nezu continued smiling.
The silence stretched.
Then stretched a little more.
Finally Recovery Girl sighed.
“Nezu.”
“Yes?”
“How bad is it?”
Nezu’s smile somehow remained in place.
His eyes, however, told a completely different story.
There was panic there.
Not mild concern.
Not ordinary worry.
Panic.
The kind of panic normally associated with discovering structural damage in a building.
Or a major accounting error.
Or a bear.
Aizawa frowned.
“…Oh.”
“Quite.”
Recovery Girl leaned back.
“You’ve reached a conclusion.”
“I have reached several conclusions.”
Nobody liked the sound of that.
Nezu opened the folder.
Inside were pages.
Many pages.
Far too many pages for someone who had only received the report thirty minutes ago.
Aizawa wasn’t entirely certain how Nezu could compile them in those thirty minutes
He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know.
Nezu turned the first page around.
“I have several concerns.”
“Naturally.”
“The first concern is medical.”
Recovery Girl nodded.
Reasonable.
“The second concern is educational.”
Less reasonable.
“The third concern is legal.”
Aizawa sat up slightly.
“The fourth concern is ethical.”
The intern looked terrified.
“The fifth concern,” Nezu continued, “is that we may have accidentally built an entire educational strategy around symptoms.”
The room became very quiet.
Recovery Girl blinked.
Aizawa blinked.
The intern made a small squeaking noise.
Nezu continued smiling.
The panic in his eyes intensified.
“Bakugou Katsuki has attended U.A. for months.”
Nobody interrupted.
“We have evaluated his behavior.”
Still nobody interrupted.
“We have evaluated his temperament.”
The intern looked like he wanted to leave.
“We have evaluated his emotional regulation.”
Recovery Girl slowly lowered her clipboard.
Nezu tapped the report.
“And we now have evidence suggesting that his baseline physiological state may be equivalent to a normal person’s panic response.”
Silence.
Terrible.
Awful.
Enlightening silence.
“Oh no,” said the intern.
“Precisely.”
Nezu flipped to another page.
“How many disciplinary reports have been influenced by this condition?”
Nobody answered.
“How many teacher evaluations?”
Still nobody answered.
“How many assumptions have we made about his personality?”
Recovery Girl winced.
Aizawa rubbed his eyes.
The headache was definitely getting worse.
Because Nezu wasn’t wrong.
That was the problem.
Nobody had ever questioned Bakugou’s intensity because Bakugou had always been intense.
It was like questioning gravity.
Or weather.
Or whether Present Mic would eventually become too loud.
Some things simply existed.
Bakugou’s aggression had always seemed like one of them.
Now, suddenly, there was a possibility that a significant portion of that behavior had been influenced by a medical condition nobody had known existed.
Nezu closed the folder.
Very carefully.
Then folded his paws.
Still smiling.
Still calm.
Still visibly panicking.
“We are going to have a staff meeting.”
Recovery Girl nodded immediately.
“Agreed.”
Aizawa sighed.
“How many staff members?”
“All of them.”
The intern looked horrified.
“All?”
“All.”
Nezu’s smile widened.
Not in a comforting way.
In the way a captain might smile while informing passengers that everyone should remain calm.
“We are going to discuss medical accommodations.”
“Oh.”
“We are going to discuss behavioral expectations.”
“Oh no.”
“We are going to discuss whether Bakugou Katsuki has ever experienced relaxation.”
The intern buried his face in his hands.
Nezu stared thoughtfully at the reports.
Then at the wall.
Then at absolutely nothing.
His expression remained pleasant.
His eyes screamed.
“Additionally,” he said, “I would like someone to explain why none of us realized that a child vibrating with enough nervous energy to power a small city might require medical evaluation.”
Nobody spoke.
Because there was no good answer.
Only increasingly uncomfortable ones.
Nezu nodded.
“Yes. That’s what I thought.”
The room fell silent once more.
Then Nezu stood.
Straightened his jacket.
Picked up the folder.
And headed for the door.
He paused halfway through it.
“Recovery Girl.”
“Yes?”
“Please continue testing.”
“Of course.”
“Aizawa.”
“What.”
“Try not to let Bakugou discover that we’re holding a meeting about him.”
Aizawa snorted.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes, I know.”
Nezu sighed.
For the first time since entering the room, his smile slipped.
Only for a moment.
Just long enough for genuine concern to show through.
Concern for a student.
Concern for a child.
Concern for what years of living like this might have done.
Then the smile returned.
“Well,” Nezu said cheerfully, “this is certainly the most alarming thing I’ve learned this week.”
And with that, he walked away.
The three people left in the office sat in silence.
Then the intern slowly raised a hand.
Recovery Girl looked at him.
“Yes?”
The intern swallowed.
“…Do you think the staff meeting is going to go badly?”
Recovery Girl considered the question.
Then she thought about Bakugou.
Then about the reports.
Then about Nezu’s eyes.
“Hm.”
The intern immediately regretted asking.