Uraraka is the first to move. She swallows, then leans toward the table: "Okay... who wants my dessert before he comes back and blows it up?" She asks with her low voice.
Her voice doesn't tremble, and that's what strikes me. Midoriya laughs immediately. Not his usual nervous chuckle: a laugh that escapes him as if he's been holding it in for too long. Iida shakes his head, mutters something about cafeteria rules... but the corners of his mouth twitch anyway.
I stare down at my glass, holding it as if it were more interesting than anything else around me. I don't need them to ask how I'm doing. They don't press, they don't pry. And I'm grateful for that.
Their soft chatter, (Uraraka's jokes, Midoriya's strangled laughter, even Iida pretending to be stern), blurs out what he left behind. The echo of the door slamming still hums in my bones, but it doesn't hurt as much now.
And yes, I'll tell you this: for a moment, I catch myself smiling too. Just a little, almost nothing....But it's there.
And it feels good.
***
Bakugo's Pov.
In the hallway, my boots echo with every step. The floor shakes beneath me, but it's not enough. Not enough to calm my anger.
The anger won't let up. It won't let up, damn it! I try, but nothing works.
My hands are shaking. Any second now, I'm going to make everything in here explode. I clench my fists as hard as I can, but nothing, nothing, calms me down.
"You're not the only one taking risks!"
That voice. Again. Always. That stupid line, and yet it's still there. It's stuck in my head. That idiot. It's becoming an obsession. What the fuck is going on?
"What the fuck do you know?" I say, gritting my teeth.
The wall takes my fist. I feel the bone vibrate, pain shooting up to my elbow. But it doesn't drown anything out. It doesn't erase that fucking voice in my head.
Why didn't she say thank you? Why didn't she look away, not even for a second? Everyone does that. Not her. Why?
And the more I think about it, the more it burns inside me. It's not just anger, I can't define it. Maybe it's a feeling that tightens my stomach, closes my throat. I don't fucking know.
I want to grab her shoulders and hold her still, make her look at me, make her talk to me. Not to challenge me. Not to praise me. Just… to say something. Anything.
Just the thought disgusts me, I hate it. I hate it so much.
I'm out of breath, and I let out a growl that rips my vocal cords. With my shoulders tense and my teeth clenched, I say:
"Tomorrow... tomorrow I'll make her pay of everything."
I don't say it out loud, but I swear it to myself.
***
The next day...
Aizawa never changes his tone when he speaks. He stays the same when he scolds us or dismisses us. Come on, the classic monotone, flat tone, as if there's nothing personal in what he says. We're in the briefing room, the rows of chairs are too close together, and the rustling of the papers in his hands is clearly audible. He reads the names from the list without looking up, while my face is tense... I already know what's going to happen, I imagine you do too.
"Groups of two. Midoriya with Iida. Uraraka in the control room. Bakugo with… Ino."
A sudden silence. A thin silence, barely broken by the creak of a chair. And in this moment I feel everyone's eyes falling on me. Not his (Aizawa knows nothing, to him he's just another name next to another), but the eyes of others. I know. I feel them. Midoriya holds a breath, I see it catch in his throat for a moment. Uraraka gives me a quick, brief glance, and in that look there's everything: an awkward encouragement, a "courage" she doesn't dare say out loud.
I don't move. I don't change my expression. No grimace, no comment. Just a nod, almost imperceptible. (It's a partnership, nothing else. Right? Or at least that's how it should seem).
I glance at Bakugo, however, sideways. He's got a hideous smile on his face. No, wait, it's not a normal smile: it's a katana blade bending sideways. The classic grin that has nothing cheerful about it, but it speaks loud and clear. It's a memory, I think, it seems like a reflection of an oath he made, perhaps after our argument yesterday. I don't need him to repeat it. I can see it in his eyes, fixed and sharp, louder than any words.
And you know the truth? It doesn't surprise me. In fact, I expected it. Someone like him can't keep the fire inside...he doesn't let it eat him alive. If he decides it has to burn, then it burns on the battlefield. In the way he moves, in the way he fights, in the way his explosions speak louder than anything he could ever say.
If he promised he'd make me pay… he'll do it where he always does: on the ground, through the clash, through force, through sparks and sweat. Never with words. Never with silence. Always with impact.
I remain still. I inhale, exhale. My heart beats regularly, with no tremors. I'm not afraid, just a fierce, almost impatient curiosity: to see how he will take his revenge.
We go down and the square has been transformed into something that no longer has anything to do with a barracks courtyard. Gray concrete blocks rise like makeshift walls, creating narrow corridors and curves where nothing can be seen. Above our heads, intermittent, cold, almost surgical lights flash, turning on and off without rhythm, leaving only shadows that lengthen and break. The low, steady hum of drones patrols the air: they swoop overhead like mechanical birds of prey, cameras trained and weapons mounted under their wings. (It sounds like a moving maze! Help!). The walls snap back and forth, closing with sharp, metallic sounds that echo like hammer blows. No path is ever the same: every opening can become a trap.
Aizawa wastes no time. He stands before us, his folder tucked under his arm. He doesn't need to read it, as usual. He doesn't need to look at anything. "Objective: cross the maze. Two checkpoints. You must reach them together. If one falls or falls behind, you both fail."
The words stop there, suspended in the cold air of the square. He adds nothing else. No strategy, no suggestion, no caress. Just that word, "together," which falls like a boulder to the ground, heavier than the concrete blocks.
And there's one detail that changes everything: there are no stopwatches, no time pressure. There are no extra points for the first finisher or the fastest finisher. The only measure is synchronicity. The only goal is to move as if we were one.
And I know it. You know it too. For Bakugo Katsuki, this is the worst punishment. He doesn't know what the word "together" means. He doesn't want to know anything about it. He can't. In fact, there he is: smiling with a crooked grin. More than a smile, it's a warning. It's the curve of someone who has already decided how to turn the day into a minefield, (for me, first and foremost).
Aizawa wastes no more time. He utters a single sentence, his tone flat, his trademark: "Start." No further explanation. (But why is it always like this?)
Bakugo takes off immediately. He doesn't wave at me, not even a "let's go." I see only explosions. His hands set the air ablaze, propelling him forward with a blast that reverberates off the walls. He runs like a grenade thrown in a straight line, oblivious to who's behind him. I follow him, calmly. I don't run to keep up with him: I let him burn ahead of me while my eyes scan the path. Every obstacle, every opening, every blind spot.
His way of "getting revenge" is all too clear: he doesn't cover me. He doesn't widen the space, he doesn't open corridors, he never slows down to give me my moment. He moves as if I were invisible, forcing me to react to every unexpected event completely alone.
A drone appears to the right, heading straight for me. He ignores it. He knows it will fall into my path. I take four deep breaths, concentrate, and deflect it with a clean, silent blast of compressed air. Another obstacle falls from above, like a guillotine. He slides under it without slowing, sparks grazing his back. I bend my trajectory, skirt around it, and don't trip.
The pace he imposes on me is designed to wear me down, to push me into error, to show me that without him I can't cope. But (and I confess this to you while my breathing remains steady), it doesn't work. In fact, I notice something he doesn't see: the more he leaves the dirty work on me, the more my body finds its balance. The more he entrusts me with chaos, the clearer my mind becomes.
And then it happens. One of the targets appears behind him, stealthily, hidden by the thick smoke he himself has raised. It's an armed shadow, advancing silently. He doesn't see it. But I do.
I don't think twice. I inhale 5, exhale 3. I push the air, dry, straight toward him. My veil tilts, the drone swerves suddenly and crashes into the wall, exploding into shrapnel.
Bakugo pauses. Just a moment, but it's enough for him to understand what's happening. He turns to me and stares at me. His red eyes burn brighter than the smoke surrounding them. He doesn't say "thank you." He can't. But there's a crack in the silence: for a moment, his vengeance turns against him.
And in the meantime, I smile inside. Just a little. Do you know why? Because I didn't want to save him; that wasn't the plan. And yet, I did it.
Then, suddenly, the backlash.
One of the movable walls snaps aside without warning: a sharp bang, a metallic thunder that breaks the rhythm. The concrete crashes down on me and hits me in the temple with a dull, brutal thud. My skull vibrates, a white flash flashes across my vision. The whole world begins to spin as if someone had ripped the ground from under my feet.
Instinctively, I stagger back, but my step is wrong. My foot slips, slipping on the smooth concrete. My body slumps sideways and slams into a pile of debris. A strangled scream remains in my throat as I feel my skin tear: something cold, metallic, sinks into my arm. A broken shaft, thin and implacable, piercing my flesh with a sharp, piercing pain, so sharp it takes my breath away.
I remain still for a moment, crushed by that throbbing pain. My breathing comes in short, labored gasps. I feel the warm blood slowly trickling down my forearm, dripping onto the concrete with an unnatural rhythm, too loud, too close.
The lights overhead begin to flicker, but not like before: now they seem to pulsate, swelling and contracting as if following the beating of my frantic heart. Bakugo, ahead of me, turns the corner just before the wall hits me. I see him from behind, a silhouette moving away through smoke and concrete. He doesn't turn. He doesn't see. He saw nothing. He doesn't know.
I take a step, a final leap, but my legs give out immediately. My breath catches, a strangled moan. My vision blurs. My eyelids turn to lead.
And I faint.
***
The darkness is dense, timeless. Then, slowly, a sound filters in, and I hear it muffled. A voice. No, wait, maybe two. One voice is flat and cold, the other broken, angry. My eyelids feel like stones, but the desire to wake up presses on me from within: I smell a strong, pungent smell of disinfectant, a rough sheet under my fingers, my bandaged arm throbbing with incredible pain.
I open my eyes. The light hurts me, white, it's really annoying. Now, it takes me a moment to understand: I'm in the infirmary. Lying on the bed, injured.
And there, next to the bed, the scene takes shape. I immediately recognize Lieutenant Aizawa. He's standing with his arms crossed and his gaze darker than usual. He never raises his voice, we all know that. But now he does.
"How many times do I have to tell you this, Bakugo? This isn't a competition. This isn't personal. This is a team exercise. If one falls, you both fail."
Bakugo clenches his fists so tightly I can see his knuckles whiten. His chest rises and falls as if he's still running. "I didn't see her!" He growls. "She got in my way! It's not my fault she can't keep up with me!"
Aizawa doesn't bat an eyelid. "Your job was to make sure she kept up with you. Watch her back. COORDINATE. That's what 'working as a team' means."
"I don't need to work in pairs!" Bakugo blurts out, his voice echoing off the white walls of the infirmary. "If she can't keep up, what's she doing here? I'm not slowing down for anyone!"
Aizawa's eyes narrow. He takes a step closer to him: "So you've already lost from the start, Bakugo. Always. A soldier who can't protect his partner isn't a hero. He's just a boy playing war."
The silence lasts a moment. Then Bakugo snaps again, furious: "You don't understand! I win with strength, not with... with someone else's hands tied!"
"No," Aizawa interrupts him in an icy tone. "You're confusing strength with stubbornness. And stubbornness, on a team, kills."
Bakugo gritted his teeth, breathing shallowly, as if he were about to explode. "I don't need anyone to win, damn it!"
Aizawa took another step toward him, small and slow, but the weight of the words overwhelmed him. "And then you'll get used to losing. Losing teammates. Losing battles. Losing much more than you can imagine."
The silence that follows is thicker than the pain in my arm. Bakugo looks down for a moment, just a moment, but it's enough to make the room feel emptier.
I hold my breath under the sheets. I don't know whether to laugh or tremble. What's happening?
Then I let out a breath, louder than I should have, and I immediately regret it. (Damn!)
Two heads snap toward me. Aizawa's dark eyes show no surprise: he already seemed to know I was conscious. Bakugo's, however, burn, caught in the middle, as if I'd spied on him doing dirty things without permission.
I clutch the sheet with my free hand, my voice still weak. "...I... I'm awake."
Bakugo takes a step toward the bed, but doesn't immediately say anything. He looks at me with a tense face, a hard gaze, his lips compressed, as if choosing between an insult and silence. Finally, he just blurts out:
"Idiot. You should have been more careful."
Aizawa glares at him. "Enough, Bakugo!" His voice is like a knife cutting through the air. Then he turns to me in a lower, but no less stern, tone: "How are you feeling? Can you move?"
"Yes... I think so," I murmur, even though my arm hurts like crazy.
Bakugo looks away, turns to the side, hands in his pockets as if he wants to escape the room but can't.
"Tsk... I didn't need you to pass out mid-exercise." His voice is hard, but there's something cracked behind it, something he doesn't want to let out.
And I, who know him well enough by now, can read even what he doesn't say. It's not annoyance, it's not just anger: it's masked fear. He doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but for a second he saw me on the ground, motionless. And the idea made him falter.
I don't even fully understand what I'm feeling. Part of me wants to scream at him: You're an asshole, you could have realized that sooner.
Another part, the part that pins me to the bed, just wants him to look at me and say, "I missed you in those minutes."
But he isn't made for words. He always hides behind his fists, his teeth, his tsks.
Aizawa sighs, shaking his head slightly. "What you don't want to admit, Bakugo, is that she had your back. Multiple times. And you didn't. Period."
For a moment, our eyes meet. I'm lying in bed, tired and in pain. He's standing, quick as ever, but his eyes are flickering slightly.
He doesn't say anything. But I know he saw me. I know he sees me. I know he can't erase it. And, to tell you the truth, I see so much more in that cracked look than he'd ever want me to believe.
Aizawa takes a deep breath, then shrugs. "All right. Rest, Junko-san. I'll go warn the others." He turns without another word and slowly leaves the room. The door closes softly, but the silence that follows seems even louder.
I lie still, staring at the white ceiling. I wince slightly in pain, my arm shooting up with incredible pain. Bakugo is there, standing at the side of my bed, as if planted on the floor. He doesn't move, he doesn't speak. I can only hear the sound of his breathing, short and uneven, with the occasional growl.
Then finally, he blurts out. "You're a stupid moron!"
His voice scratches the air. It's not a scream: I think it's anger seeking an outlet.
I look at him, saying nothing. I wait for him to say more.
"You shouldn't have jumped in, understood?" he continues, taking a step closer to the bed. "You shouldn't have... covered me."
His jaw quivers slightly, as if the rest of his sentence is stuck in his throat.
I look down at my bandaged arm. "If I hadn't done this, it would have gotten you dead."
He growls, clicking his tongue. "Tsk... I don't need you to save my life. Least of all you."
The words strike me, but they don't carry the weight he'd like. Because I see his red eyes and he doesn't know it, but I can read between the cracks. There's something unsaid, something he can't allow himself to say.
I just smile, barely. "And yet I did it."
A thick silence crushes us both. Bakugo lowers his gaze for a moment, then turns abruptly, as if the room has become too small for him.
"Don't do that again, damn it," he mutters, clenching his jaw.
Then he leans back against the door, staring down the hallway. I close my eyes.