The sun has been slowly setting for a long time, and the camp is filled with the soft, calm sounds of evening: the din of running showers and the shouts they provoke echo down the corridor. I hear bursts of laughter and faint, distant squeals, and the heavy drag of boots on tired feet, the kind that never rests. I'm folding my spare uniform on my freshly made bed when I hear a sudden metallic whistle cut through the air, as if it were some kind of call. Then a siren: three pulses, pause, three pulses.
Uraraka knocks on my door, her voice decidedly alarming: "North line! Everyone to the north line!!"
We're all already in the hallway. Iida runs with an emergency posture, Midoriya adjusts his gloves while repeating in a low voice: "Three pulses, pressure or steam, okay..."
We cross the square at a brisk pace, still a little disoriented. Something must have happened, I think. Perhaps an accident. The smell of hot oil and fresh paint hits me: thick, greasy, with that hint of solvent that stings my nose and sticks to my throat.
I see the maintenance shed trembling slightly before my eyes, and I catch a glimpse of Aizawa in the distance, waiting at the threshold, his gaze steady and calm, without a trace of concern.
"Leak in the pressurized steam pipeline, and micro-debris," he says. "No explosions, but shock waves and burns are possible. Uraraka, lighten the panels. Iida, escort the staff out. Midoriya, map the route. Ino, contain the pressure and dust. Bakugo, cover and close the manual valves. Move."
I nod, the first to cross the threshold. Inside, I can't see anything, just fog and steam. The lights cast halos, the steam hisses like a snake along the wall and rises mercilessly. I inhale four times, exhale four times, and draw a light veil in front of my face: the noise drops a half-tone, the air is less harsh.
Bakugo passes us, as fast as a freshly shot arrow. "Out of my way if you're not needed! Deku, stop talking to yourself and give me an angle that's not from a useless textbook!"
Midoriya doesn't take offense: "We have a main leak on the right side, fifteen meters, sharp turn..."
"I said corners, not poetry!" Bakugo growls, already advancing. Then he turns toward me, but without looking at me: "Recruit, don't stay in front of me. If you cut across my lane I'll smash your face with a finger!"
"Stay to my left and you won't get hurt," I reply. I don't raise my voice. I don't give in. (He's pissing me off.)
The microcrack suddenly shoots a needle of steam. I set the wedge at thirty degrees: the needle bends, glides over an invisible surface, and dies off to the side.
I inhale twice, exhale six times. I shift my wrist ever so slightly, feeling the pressure change in my ears. "Thirty-five," I say.
Iida hauls two unconscious technicians out, coughing. "Clear passage! Uraraka, raise that panel, come on!"
"Okay!" Uraraka lifts the sheet metal four inches, arms outstretched, forehead shining.
"NOT on me!" Bakugo shoots, ducking underneath. "If you drop this thing on my head, I'll be really pissed!"
He's already closing a valve by hand; I can see his white-knuckled grip on the handlebars. The steam changes tone, less intrusive. A sudden bolt thud, but it goes off to the side like a bullet, and Midoriya shouts, "Three o'clock!"
Short wedge, flick of the wrist: the bolt deflects and lands on the ground, a foot's breadth from Bakugo's boots, for the second time. He doesn't thank me.
"EYES WIDE, IDIOT! Too slow."
I don't respond.
"More inclined!" Bakugo shouts behind me. "Thirty-five! Don't make me say it again!"
The pipe vibrates more strongly. My rhythm skips for half a second: the edge of the veil trembles and the needle hits my wrist. It burns like a quick flame.
"Damn!" I blurt out, trying not to panic. I inhale six, exhale two, feel the edge again, turn down a notch. The hiss subsides.
"Keep it at THIRTY-FIVE!" Bakugo growls, turning the second wheel. "Fuck, If you give in now, I'll use you as a stopper, you idiot!"
"It's at thirty-five!" I retort. And it really is. Midoriya confirms with a precise finger: "Thirty-five perfect!"
"Last valve!" Bakugo disappears halfway under the suspended panel. Uraraka resists: "I've got it, I've got it..."
"DON'T GIVE UP!" he shouts, and the sound bounces off the metal. "Five… four…" He rips the wheel: the whistle becomes a long sigh, then dies. The steam frays and falls.
I hold the wedge up until the needle dies completely. Then I turn off the veil. The air is thick, a fog of smoke that smells of wet iron and sweat: my pulse is throbbing and it hurts like hell. Aizawa enters, and we can see his silhouette through the fog, our eyes on the painting.
"Good. Minimal burns, limited damage. Bravo Team, proper execution."
He nods to everyone. He pauses for a moment on me: "Ino, you've kept the angles stable, but watch out for any disruptions in rhythm."
"Got it," I say. My wrist hurts, but I don't look at it.
And a sharp thought crosses my mind: rhythm is always the first to give way. Not the veils, not the blows, but the breathing. You lose it for a second and you're already exposed. Maybe that's why I cling so tightly to counting: numbers, degrees, angles. They don't tremble, but I do. Bakugo rushes past me, still furious. "Let me see."
"It's nothing."
"Don't argue, you idiot!" He grabs my wrist with his hot hand and lifts his glove. The mark is bright red.
"Are you stupid or an idiot?! You don't play with steam!"
"I'm standing up, and everything still seems to work." I try to free my hand, but he squeezes and glares at me, it doesn't hurt more than it needs to.
He pulls a beige gauze pad from his pocket and wraps it too tight. "Hold it up for five minutes. And next time, don't skip a breath or I'll kick your ass, you hear me?!" His eyes blaze with real, not theatrical, anger. It's brutal, but it's a clumsy kind of healing.
"Got it," I say. I say it clearly. "And you close the valve first, so I don't end up cooking myself in the meantime."
The corners of his mouth twitch into a half-smile that would sooner kill than admit it. "Tsk. Next time I won't need you as a shield. So cut it out."
"It's not a shield. It's a trajectory. And you have to give me the numbers, Bakugo."
"I'm giving them to you, aren't I," he growls. "And don't mess up again."
(And I ask myself, for the umpteenth time: what exactly does he want? A duel? A sidekick? Or just someone to keep his noise at bay? I don't understand and I don't really care. As long as he gives me the right numbers, that's enough.)
Uraraka arrives with the first aid kit, Midoriya with his notebook already open (when does he rest, anyway?). Iida closes the scene with his usual instructor voice: "Event closed. Register and then rest." And he throws us bottles of water as if he were handing out military orders.
As I exit the building, the air hits me. Fresh, dry, finally free of that sticky humidity clinging to the walls. The smell of trampled grass mingles with the wet gravel beneath my boots.
The gauze on my wrist is a little tight, pinching at the base, but it holds well. Controlled, orderly discomfort, the kind that almost makes you feel safe, because it reminds you you're still whole.
Fatigue settles over me like a blanket laid across my back. It doesn't weigh me down; it's just the precise measure of what I've spent. And that's fine by me.
Then Bakugo brushes past me without slowing. I feel a brief warmth, like a spark that touches you and then flees. He doesn't look at me; it's no use.
"Tomorrow, at six. And don't make me lose my voice, I don't have time to waste."
The sentence hangs in the air longer than it deserves.
"Don't worry. You'll talk enough anyway," I reply.
And yes, I admit it: I half smile. It's not that he deserves it. It's just that sometimes I just do. (But don't tell anyone, okay?) Inside me, I'm thinking something simple and true. I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I don't like him. But with him in front of you, you can't cheat. And deep down, I don't like cheating.
***
At 6:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, the training yard smells of breakfast: coffee and freshly baked croissants, bacon, and that hint of milk when it boils. A dream breakfast... too bad we're lined up, ready to be bombed.
Aizawa reads from the clipboard as if he were announcing the weather: "Today, tactical pairings. Breach and clear on structure three. Bravo-1: Bakugo–Ino. Support: Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida."
There you go. No comment. I don't look at anyone. I nod once and let out a sigh that no one hears. (Just as well.)
Bakugo snaps his head left and right, then locks his gaze on me, precise as a riflescope, unsure only whether to strike the target. He points a finger at me.
"Don't be a statue. If you clog my aisle, I'll make your head explode."
"Give me clear corners and I won't clog anything up." I don't even look at him.
"Clear corners?" he snarls. "I shout them in your face and you always get them wrong."
I don't answer. I don't even look at him. He knows it's not true, too.
Pause. Then: "And look me in the face when I talk to you, you idiot!" (Sure, Katsuki. Maybe that'll make your anxiety go away, huh?)
Structure Three. It's actually just a rectangle of corridors with three rooms, but inside, it feels like a miniature training maze. Plywood walls that exhale dust with every impact. Booby-trapped doors with concussive charges if you misstep. Cold lights that strip away color until only white and gray remain.
Inside, hostile drones wait for us. Not real weapons, but nasty enough to stagger you. They fire compressed foam projectiles that hit hard, and add acoustic strobes: bursts of noise that stun you more than the blows. (Bad luck, huh?)
This is where my power comes in: airbending. Invisible veils that deflect the foam and dampen the sound. It's not spectacular, but it keeps the rhythm going. (And trust me, if you lose the rhythm, you're already dead… even in training.)
At the entrance, the sign is unpretentious: time limit 2:30. Penalties for missed shots, penalties for missed targets. No poetry, just numbers.
Iida does his part: "Advance order: pair opens, support covers from a distance. Midoriya calls trajectories, Uraraka clears obstacles when something gets stuck. Keep communication brief, please. We're short on time."
"BR-IE-F, understand?" Bakugo articulates, fixing his eyes on me. "Just breathe and don't waste time."
I breathe. I inhale four times, exhale four times. My diaphragm locks into the rhythm like a belt. (And meanwhile I think: concise enough for you, Bakugo?)
Aizawa raises his arm: "Go."
Corridor 1
Door on the left, small concussive charge. I'm on the handle, Bakugo behind my right shoulder. "Three, two..." I start counting slowly.
"Open up!" he shouts over my voice and preempts with a micro-explosion that sends the latch flying. The blow rebounds; I tilt the wedge thirty degrees, my invisible plate takes the impact and makes it slide away, dusting the opposite wall.
We enter. A flash of sound falls from the ceiling, vicious, sharp hertz. I inhale twice, exhale six times, and draw a thin veil. The bang fades, but my ears hold up. (Trick of the trade: if you don't protect your hearing, after three minutes you can't distinguish an order from a whistle.)
First drone on the right: Bakugo opens it like a can of cola split in half. No hesitation.
"Don't stand in front of me, you moron!" he snarls, already at the second door.
"I'm not having it," I reply flatly, and meanwhile I move my wrist a centimeter, just enough to divert the swirl of dust from his vision. (Don't thank me, Katsuki. That's not in your vocabulary.)
Midoriya in his earpiece: "Camera two, target at eleven o'clock, tight angle!"
"NARROW ANGLES, I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE!" Bakugo yells at him. Then to me, as sharp as a command written in capital letters: "Fifteen degrees left. NOW!"
I inhale six, exhale two. I twist the wedge: fifteen. The door swings open with a jolt; the concussive wave slides away like rain on the windshield.
Bakugo comes in firing. The foam blasts comb the void above my head.
Good. (When it's not blowing me apart, it almost seems like a plan.)
Camera 2
The "hostile" drone retreats behind a screen and bounces diagonally. I see it out of the corner of my eye. I prepare the tube for Iida, who has to squeeze through to check the tail.
Bakugo swerves to the right, almost planting himself against me. I don't move.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO STAY IN MY LINE! Do you understand when I'm speaking?"
His voice explodes on me faster than a flashbulb. I feel the heat of his breath, a second too close.
"I kept your line clear. You're the one who cut mine," I reply. My tone is flat, as if I were asking for salt at lunch. The wedge stays up. The drone tries a second shot: I deflect. Dust and foam on the floor. I nod. Iida steps forward and continues.
"If you stand HERE, you'll force me to..."
"To be precise?" I finish the sentence before he does.
His eyes light up: it's the same look he gets when he decides to destroy something just to rebuild it better.
"Are you provoking me, you idiot recruit?"
"No. I'm working."
He takes a half step closer. "Move over."
"Give me a number and I'll move that number, no more, no less."
(Yeah, Katsuki. "Because I said so" doesn't work for me.)
For a moment, we're too close. Obstinacy against obstinacy. In my earpiece, I hear Midoriya holding his breath. Uraraka, softly: "Guys..."
The drone appears at two o'clock. There's no time to play.
"Ten degrees RIGHT!" he roars.
My wrist snaps before he even finishes his sentence. Ten. The shot bounces off the wedge, opening up the perfect trajectory. Bakugo fires. The drone explodes in a shower of foam.
We pause for half a second. Our eyes lock. The anger is still there, but it straightens in his eyes, like a dog who has just found the right leash.
"LIKE THIS," he says softly, almost in a whisper. "Hold it… like this."
I don't answer. I hold on. Without looking at him.
And meanwhile, I'm signing in my head: something clicked inside him. I don't know what, I don't really care, but I saw it. He's hooked on the accuracy of my number. (Call it what you want: I call it an obsession. And it's not mine.)
"Go on," I cut and we resume.