At six in the morning, the square is still half asleep. Dawn has arrived, sharp and unforgiving, neither too dark nor too bright. The neon lights stay on, though they're almost no longer needed, humming softly with that low buzz that lingers in your ears for hours. The lined-up boots strike the ground with the same dry, precise sound, each step marked by rhythm. I force myself to keep pace.
Aizawa looks at us the way he always does: eyes narrowed, clipboard tucked under one arm as if it were nothing but a burden. He almost never reads it; I'm pretty sure he keeps it visible just to make us think he's planned everything in advance, when really, he only starts planning once we show up. His voice is flat, colorless. "No stopwatch today. Accuracy counts, not speed. Every mistake is a penalty. Don't step off the line until it's clean."
Precision. Sounds like a nice word, right? For me, it's just a knife in the back. I work on the corners, the thin edges, the air that bends the sound. There's no room for "almosts": either you do it, or you fall.
Beside me, Bakugo lets out a sharp snort, as if the rule were a personal insult. I don't look at him, but I can feel it anyway, the twitch of his fingers, the crack of his knuckles, the rough, uneven rhythm of his breath. For him, speed is everything. The thought of holding it back makes him burn from the inside out.
I stand still. His frustration hits me, but I feel no pity. I don't justify him. I only know this: when he makes a mistake, it won't be a small one. And I'll be there to see it, just as he is with me. (Yes, it's a game of mirrors. Neither of us ever looks away.)
Ahead of us, as we breathe and prepare, the field opens: targets shifting at random, corridors narrowing, twin drones activating at once. A course built for chaos, to break rhythm, to punish any lapse in focus.
Aizawa lets the silence hang, then says plainly, "Bravo Team. Forward."
He never looks at us — as if he already knows who will fall and who won't.
I tighten my gloves until the leather bites into my palms. My heart races, but my breath stays slow and measured. I allow myself nothing else. Beside me, Bakugo trembles; he's ready to pounce, a short fuse. I know he'll be the first to break. And, even though I shouldn't admit it, part of me wants to see it happen.
We enter the course. At first, it seems to go smoothly: narrow corridors, targets popping up and then immediately dropping down. Everything calculated, everything under control.
Then, inevitably, something breaks. Uraraka runs out of time: she was supposed to unload a panel, but she does it a moment too late, and it falls sideways with a crash that drowns out our voices. Iida tries to catch up, but slips on the wet paint on the floor; no one had noticed. Midoriya doesn't notice immediately, too busy muttering numbers, calculations, trajectories that no one can follow amid the chaos.
And then Bakugo does what he always does: he decides that alone is enough and he's more than enough. He rushes forward, explosions from his hands filling the corridor. Smoke rises thickly, the acrid smell of burning dust fills our throats. For a moment, it seems he's right: the drones fall to pieces, bounce off the walls, and go out.
But the field is designed to trick you. The drones don't stay down: they rise faster, doubled in number, with shots coming from blind corners. A flash to the left, another immediately behind us. And the smoke Bakugo has created makes it difficult to see, difficult to breathe.
I keep my breathing steady. You know, it's the only thing that always saves me: inhale, exhale, four and four. I watch them move in the chaos. I see Uraraka trying to get back to her feet, Iida angrily adjusting his glasses, Midoriya who has already pulled out another formula. And I see Bakugo, in the center of the cloud, convinced he has everything under control when in fact it's slipping away.
And then it happens. It's not the usual Bakugo Katsuki, growling and spouting insults just for the sake of it. It's different. I hear his voice cracking, lower, almost a scratch: "Fuck... it's not enough."
He admits it. Not to me, not to us, not even out loud. He admits it to himself, and I hear it. And it's strange to say this, but I stop for a second to look at him. Because that's not the usual anger: it's real frustration. I see his shoulders shaking slightly, his hands exploding, his breathing shallow. It's an image I didn't expect to see.
I don't feel sorry, I don't feel satisfied. You know, it's not my way. But, I'll confess it only here, it intrigues me. It's like seeing a crack in a wall you thought was made of reinforced concrete. Small, subtle, but it's there.
And then I ask myself: what will he do with that crack? Will he keep it hidden, or will he let us jump in too?
I decide. Not for him, not to be noticed. I do it because it's the only right way.
I raise my hand. I tilt the air in front of him, an invisible wedge that opens a precise, clean trajectory. I feel the pressure vibrate against my palm, my face trembles.
He sees it. He looks up and, without hesitation, fires. The shot doesn't scatter: it goes straight into the trajectory I'd prepared for it. The explosion concentrates, cutting through the group of drones in one fell swoop. The gap opens, clean, and the smoke clears for a moment.
Bakugo stops. He turns to me. And I swear, it's not the same look as before. There's no venom, no "I'll rip your head off" feeling. It's a brief look, but full of surprise. As if he's realized I can withstand his fury without falling.
He doesn't thank me, he couldn't. He just growls, but his voice has a different weight:
"Tsk, idiot."
I don't respond. I hold my position, hold my breath. But inside, I know: I helped him, and he knew it.
Aizawa calls us off the course. Same flat tone, same clipboard, still looking too heavy for the hand that carries it.
"Decent time. Too many penalties. Midoriya, stop talking while you calculate. Stay focused. Uraraka, anticipate your movements. Don't wait for the last second. Iida, watch the ground before you step. Bakugo, no control, shots all over the place. Junko... good angle management. We still need work."
That's it. No praise, no softness. It's not his style. We all know that.
We loosen up. The others speak in low voices, adjust their gloves, laugh nervously. I don't. I watch Bakugo.
He lags half a step behind, not catching up immediately. I can see him tense, breathing irregular, gaze darting without settling. This isn't the usual Bakugo, growling, yelling. It's something different, brief but undeniable.
And then I realize what I saw in the smoke: a crack. Tiny, but real. Not the anger everyone knows, but the frustration that hollowed his voice.
I'm not saying I liked it. That wouldn't be true. But it hit me. I didn't think he could crumble like that.
And now, between you and me, I'll admit it: I want to see it happen again.
Common Room, Evening...
The common room feels more relaxed and calm than usual. No training, no timers ticking overhead, for once. Just tables piled high with trays, half-empty glasses, and a few laughs bouncing off the walls.
Uraraka insists I sit next to her. Midoriya has his usual notebook, closed like last time. Iida, meanwhile, is lecturing on how "discipline should be maintained even in free time," though the laugh that slips out immediately gives him away.
Somehow, I end up recounting an episode from my old barracks. During a morning inspection, we had to redo our dormitory three times because the beds weren't aligned to the millimeter. On the fourth round, one exhausted companion tried to measure the distance between bunks with the handle of a mop, as if it were a ruler. The instructor caught him. He said nothing for five endless seconds… then burst out laughing. From that day forward, we called him "the surveyor."
I tell it without changing my tone, straightforward, but Uraraka bursts out laughing and Midoriya leans forward with a broad smile. Even Iida shakes his head, but this time he doesn't protest.
For a moment I look at them and I am surprised: I'm actually making them laugh. It wasn't intended, but it happens. And… I like it, I admit it. I won't deny it.
Then, inevitably, Bakugo's voice comes in. "What the fuck are you laughing at this useless stuff? She didn't do anything, and you're already here treating her like she's someone special."
A brief silence. Eyes flicker between me and him. I look at him, but not for more than a second. My voice remains flat, unwavering: "At least I don't have to shout to be heard."
I say it like that, as if it were obvious. It's not an insult, it's not an open challenge. It's just a cold, precise blade that gives him no satisfaction.
<
He stiffens, hands buried in his pockets, a growl barely held back. For a moment, he looks ready to explode, then he snorts and turns away. He hasn't won.
Uraraka tries to stifle a laugh. Midoriya ducks his head to hide, and Iida coughs, attempting to preserve his dignity.
I return to my drink, calm. I didn't do it to triumph. I did it because I wouldn't let him win.
And the truth? In that quiet, angry silence, I'm having fun too.
Uraraka rests her elbow next to mine, smiling at me as if we'd just won something. Midoriya still keeps his head down, but he doesn't stop smiling behind his glass. Iida, poor thing, starts up the rules again, with his usual serious tone: "Happiness is good, but remember that discipline..." No one really listens to him, and he knows it. But he insists. And in that moment I realize that even this, his persistence in restoring order, does me good.
Bakugo says nothing. No explosion, no scream. He just stands a step back, hands shoved in his pockets. He snorts, like the whole room stinks, but he doesn't move. Planted against the wall, his gaze darts everywhere, the lights, the floor, anyone but us. He doesn't look at us, not at me. And yet… he stays.
And this, believe me, is already an admission for him.
It might not seem like much when you say it aloud. But for him, for someone like him, "staying" is already everything.
And I, I'm telling you this quietly, will keep that in mind.
***
No favors...
The training camp seems more hostile than usual today. I'm not kidding. The walls move before my eyes, the lights flickering on and off at regular intervals, as if a building were experiencing a blackout. But after a few seconds, the power comes back on, only to go out again. Aizawa doesn't explain too much, as always. His eyes are fixed on us, notebook in hand: "Objective: cross. No excuses. No deviation. No failure."
And inside, I tell you, I already knew it would be a disaster. Too many narrow corridors, too many blind corners. The kind of scenario that leaves you breathless.
At first, everything holds up, the team holds up quite well; in fact, Uraraka manages to lift a panel, Midoriya does his calculations under his breath, Iida keeps pace. I keep up the pace too, inhaling, exhaling, raising the Veil at the right moment. Everything seems to be going smoothly.
Then, inevitably, the scene shifts. The lights all go out at once, suddenly, our eyes still not adjusting to the darkness, and a drone larger than the others bursts from the ceiling, a metal beast that slams down with the force of a truck. I feel it before I see it, the air shifting, the noise shattering my eardrums.
I raise my hand to move the Veil, but it's too close. And then, before I can do anything, it happens.
A flash, searing heat just a foot from my face, and metal explodes to the side. Him. Bakugo. He shoves me out of my blind spot, then catches me with one arm. His explosions carve a path through the chaos. I hit the ground hard, knee scraping, but at least I'm whole.
For a moment there's silence, just the smoke swirling and billowing through the air. He looks at me as if waiting for a reaction. I look at him for a second, nothing more. I don't smile, I don't thank him.
And here, I assure you, I see him go haywire. His eyes narrow, his jaw snapping, his breathing shallow. As if he doesn't understand why I don't scream, why I don't tremble, why I don't give him the satisfaction of a thank you.
For me it was simple: he covered me, as he should have. For him… no. He wanted something else.
The field resumes, the drones turn on again, and I get back into the rhythm. I inhale. I exhale. As if nothing had happened. But for him, it certainly hadn't.
Aizawa's whistle cuts the air and freezes everyone in place. The lights come back on, the drones retreat to their pods. The smoke hangs halfway, as if it hadn't yet decided whether to disappear or stay.
We're sweaty, scratched, and disheveled. Uraraka's out of breath, Iida silently adjusts his cracked glasses, and Midoriya clenches his fist as if he's still deep in the unfinished calculation. I keep my breathing, even though the gauze on my wrist is tight and burning.
Aizawa looks at us with a calm heavier than any shout. He doesn't open the folder, he looks at all of us.
"You've finished the course. This is the only good data. The rest…" His voice drops. "…is chaos. Minimal coordinates, individual initiatives. Your strength has become your weakness. At this rate, the team won't hold."
Silence. No one responds. Not even Bakugo, who clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked.
"We'll start again tomorrow," Aizawa concludes. "And I want to see fewer lone heroes and more soldiers in groups. Otherwise, I'll disband you."
He departs, taking his leave. The footsteps echoing on the concrete seem heavier now, and not just from fatigue; they seem disappointed.
I'm adjusting my gloves when I hear a sharp footstep behind me. There's no need to turn around: I recognize it.
"What the fuck is this silence?" He snaps. His voice explodes behind me, even louder than the roar of the drones. "I just saved you, and you don't say a damn thing?"
The entire team stops. Uraraka looks at me with wide eyes, ready to intervene as if she could calm him down. Midoriya remains motionless, his hands half-raised as if he wants to mediate but doesn't dare. Iida coughs his regulation ahem, but remains rooted to the spot. No one separates us. No one stops him.
I turn, and turn my back on him. I don't stop. I keep walking.
"I just saved you, fuck!!" Bakugo continues, his voice scratching. "I pulled you out from under a fucking drone and you don't say a damn thing? Not even a thank you?"
And I remain silent. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I won't give in. The silence, believe me, weighs more than any answer.
I look at him for a moment, then look away. "..." Nothing.
He freaks out. "Speak, damn it! Tell me you'd already be dead without me!"
Silence. Not even a heartbeat missed. Then something twists in my stomach, my breath hitches:
"ENOUGH, BAKUGO!" My voice cuts through the room more than his scream. "I'm tired of your fucking screaming! Tired of hearing you scream like you're the only one who matters in here! You're not the center of the world. You're not the only one fighting. You're not the only one taking risks!"
He stands still, surprised. But only for a moment. Then he growls, his eyes burning into me. "Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You come in here, you act cold, you move silently as if you're superior to everyone! You're worthless without me covering you!"
"Really?" I reply, my voice steady even as it vibrates in my chest. "Because from what I noticed, you couldn't do it alone last time. Without me, those drones would have swamped you, remember? I saw it. Everyone saw it. You thanked me? Not a chance! Did I piss you off for that? NO! And do you know why? Because I knew I'd done my duty, just like you did today. I don't owe you anything!"
A harsh silence. Uraraka holds a breath, Midoriya stares at the ground, Iida seems about to intervene but doesn't dare.
Bakugo clenches his fists, his knuckles white. "You..." he growls, "you piss me off more than anyone else!"
"Perfect," I reply coldly. "Because you're nonexistent to me."
It's like punching him in the face. I see him trembling, his breath ragged, his anger rising too high to contain. He slams the door behind me with such force that the wall shakes.
I remain motionless, my classmates pretending to tidy up so as not to look at me. I breathe in, I breathe out. My heart is still pounding, but my mind is already clear.
And I'm telling you: I don't like being dragged into shouting. But I couldn't let him have it anymore. It was time someone silenced him.
And the truth? It's not that I lacked the words. I simply didn't have them. Because for me, it was simple: he saved me, yes. But it wasn't a favor, it wasn't a gift. It was his duty. We were a team. Teammate covers for teammate, period. There's nothing to be thankful for.
The others half understand. Uraraka looks like she's trying to take my hand under the table, as if I'm the cruel one. Midoriya purses his lips, as if to say yes, maybe a thank you would have helped. Iida shakes his head, but doesn't dare speak.
And inside, I confess to you: I don't like that he saved me. I don't like that I owed him that moment.
I stand there, motionless, the sound of the door still ringing in my ears.