The West Gate of UA High School was no longer an entrance, it was a throat of fire and twisted rebar. The dust from Meteor's impact hung in the air like a shroud, thick with the smell of pulverized concrete and the copper tang of blood. Through the haze, the silhouettes of the League of Villains emerged like demons crawling out of a fresh grave.
"Hold the line!" Vlad King's roar was a wet, guttural sound as he stepped into the light of the fires. He didn't hesitate. He slashed his own wrists, his Blood Control quirk turning the crimson spray into jagged, hardened lances that whipped through the air, pinning a group of lesser Nomu to the scorched earth.
Beside him, Shota Aizawa moved like a flicker of shadow. His capture scarf was a living thing, snapping out to pull a debris-trapped teacher to safety before he pivoted, his eyes glowing a fierce, terrifying red.
High above, Kazuo Hoshikawa, Meteor, hovered with his hand raised, the air around him distorting as he began to pull another fragment of the heavens down toward the campus. But before the gravity could buckle the earth a second time, Aizawa's gaze locked onto him.
The gravitational pressure vanished instantly. Meteor gasped, his body suddenly heavy and mortal as he began to drift downward, his quirk extinguished.
"You're not dropping another pebble on my school," Aizawa hissed, the blood vessels in his eyes beginning to burst under the strain of holding back a man who commanded the stars.
The battlefield became a symphony of carnage. Dabi stepped forward, his blue flames turning the falling rain into a localized storm of scalding steam. He laughed, a dry, papery sound, as he unleashed a wave of fire toward Vlad King. "Look at you, teachers. Dying for a bunker that's already a tomb! Let's see if your blood boils as fast as the water in Yokohama!"
The heroes were being pushed back. The sheer number of Nomu, combined with the precision of Meteor's opening strike, had left them fractured. But then, the ground near the front line seemed to ripple.
A figure burst through the solid concrete, Mirio Togata. He didn't have his usual boisterous grin, his face was a mask of grim, professional focus. He lunged through a Nomu, his fist solidifying at the last second to shatter its jaw, before he pivoted to stand back-to-back with Aizawa.
"The students?" Aizawa grunted, his eyes never leaving Meteor.
"Secure," Mirio panted, his chest heaving. "Iida and Yaoyorozu are managing the headcount along with the student representatives of the other classes and the second and third years." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "But Aizawa... the cell wing. Bakugo is still there. He's isolated."
Aizawa nodded, his mind a whirlwind of tactical data. But as he scanned the chaos, Muscular shattering a reinforced wall, Twice creating a tide of clones, Spinner leadings a charge, a cold, oily dread began to pool in his stomach.
He looked at the wreckage. He looked at the villains.
"Where is Shigaraki?" Aizawa's voice wasn't a question, it was a realization that tasted like ash.
He looked toward the East side of the school, connecting the jagged pieces of the last twenty-four hours.
The news broadcast... the public's reaction... the 'Saviour' narrative.
His internal monologue became a frantic, dark spiral, Shigaraki doesn't just want to destroy UA. He wants to dismantle the idea of it. He saw the videos. He saw how the world is looking at Bakugo, the boy who 'tried' to stop Midoriya. The boy the public is currently branding a martyr.
And to Aizawa Shigaraki would already know of the truth if he was the one who leaked them. So instead of just murdering a new potential saviour... Shigaraki Tomura wanted a new recruit.
Aizawa's pupils dilated. If Shigaraki kills the students in the bunkers, he's just a murderer. But if he takes Bakugo... if he captures the 'Saviour' that the public spinning their careless narratives on... he doesn't just win the battle. He wins the narrative. He takes the one person the public is starting to trust and turns him into a trophy.
He's not here for the carnage. He's here for the prize.
"Mirio!" Aizawa screamed, his voice cracking with a rare, visceral panic. "The cell wing! He's not attacking the school, he's hunting 'Cataclysm'!"
Aizawa looked toward the East Wing, imagining Shigaraki's decaying touch on the reinforced doors of the prison block. The thought of Bakugo, unstable and having just lost the touch of his dreams, and legally designated a villain, falling into Shigaraki's hands was the final nail in the coffin of Hero Society.
"He's going for the martyr!"
Aizawa turned to run, breaking his line of sight with Meteor. Above them, the gravity returned with the force of a falling mountain, and the sky began to scream once more. But Aizawa didn't look back. He was already sprinting toward the dark, quiet halls of the prison wing, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, Not him. Not now. Not like this.
___
The cell wing was a sterile echo chamber buried deep beneath the school. It was silent, save for the rhythmic, distant pounding that filtered through the thick concrete, the battle outside, which Bakugo had not been able to focus on. He sat on the edge of the cot, head hung low, a cold, cloying sickness coiling in his gut.
He shouldn't be sick. He had an explosive, hyper-metabolic quirk that burned off common ailments before they could take hold. He was a perfect specimen. Yet, the illness was there, a deep, pervasive weakness that felt less physical and more spiritual. It was the taste of grief, the slow, agonizing realization that he had personally destroyed the one thing he had ever truly wanted.
I broke the promise, he thought, staring at the floor. The anger was a fading fire now, replaced by the choking smoke of resignation. He had always believed in his destiny to be the Number One, a belief so pure it bordered on religious faith. Now, that faith was dust, and he was the one who had ground it under his heel.
He thought of his father, standing in the grey room, twisting his hands like a wet rag. The sight of his son chained like an animal, being viciously demeaned by his wife, and still, the man had not spoken a single word in his defence. Bakugo found the man and his cowardice utterly contemptible. And his mother? He no longer knew how long the hatred had been simmering beneath her designer suits, since birth, perhaps?
What the hell is left? The question was a hollow echo. His home was not a home. His career was a crime. He was too young, too uneducated outside of heroics, to use the immense power and intellect he had cultivated. He was a perfect weapon with no target, a masterless samurai with no code left to follow.
The distant, frantic alarm bells should have been a clue. The violent thudding outside should have been a trigger. But Bakugo was so lost in the debris of his own internal collapse that it took him far too long to register the sight, a swirling, shadowy portal of purple and black had opened in the middle of his sterile cell.
Shigaraki Tomura stepped out, followed by the maniacally grinning schoolgirl, Toga Himiko.
The surprise was not immediate. It hit Bakugo like a slow-motion wave, giving him just enough time to clamp down on the initial shock. He instantly wiped the genuine surprise from his face, replacing it with the familiar, ingrained mask of incandescent rage. He tried to surge up, but the sickness and the suppressant cuffs held him down, making the effort futile.
"What the hell do you want, scum?" he spat, the words flat and weak.
Shigaraki chuckled, a dry, grating sound, and crouched down until his eyes were level with Bakugo's. He was wearing his coat, but his expression was wide, exposed, and unnervingly calm.
"How are you doing here, Cataclysm?" Shigaraki's voice was casual, like an old friend checking in.
"Fuck off and get away from me, you piece of shit," Bakugo wheezed, straining against the cuffs.
Shigaraki ignored him, his hand slowly rising, his five fingers spread wide, hovering mere millimeters from Bakugo's face. Bakugo flinched, a primal, involuntary twitch of terror, but he immediately crushed the reaction, keeping his scowl fixed.
Shigaraki laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that was far more unsettling than his usual snarl. He dropped his hand, settling it on his own knee. "Relax. I'm not here for an execution. I'm here for recruitment."
Toga giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that grated on Bakugo's ears.
"WHAT?!" Bakugo roared, the sound echoing off the bare walls, a desperate, final stand of his dignity.
Shigaraki leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Look around, hero. You have no options left. UA is crumbling and the heroes want you in a cell because it's easier than admitting they failed you. With all your talent, all your drive, your career is a footnote. It's over because you let your head go for one moment."
Bakugo listened, and the cold truth of the words cut through the last vestiges of his denial. The promise was broken. His mother wouldn't love him. His father wouldn't stand for him. His legacy was "Cataclysm."
He ignored the villain. That's what the man standing in front of him was, a villain... but it was only a day ago his own homeroom teacher had come in with police officers to tell him that he was the same.
That he would be joining the sinking ship that All Might would tear a hole in.
Bakugo didn't want that, it was supposed to be slander against him. But it seemed his reality was changing.
Shigaraki raised his hand and, with a slow, deliberate touch, rested his thumb on the metal of Bakugo's left cuff. The steel instantly began to corrode, peeling away in dark, flaking rust until the heavy bracer fell to the ground, leaving a red ring on Bakugo's wrist.
Shigaraki offered his carefully intact, five-fingered hand to Bakugo. "Join us. You want to make an impact? You want to break the system that betrayed you? We're offering you a front-row seat. We're offering you power."
Bakugo stared at the hand, an offer of dark salvation. He was alone. So alone.
With a ragged, desperate scowl, he raised his freed hand, and the faintest, weakest explosion he had ever conjured went off, blowing a puff of smoke between them.
"I will never join scum like you!" he screamed, his voice strained and thin. "I have only ever wanted to be a hero!"
Shigaraki tilted his head, his fingers immediately going to his neck. Bloodlust, cold and overwhelming, began to leak off him like a foul scent, and his eyes went wide with a predatory satisfaction. He took a slow, menacing step closer.
"A hero," Shigaraki repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Such a boring word."
Before he could take another step, a swirling warp gate opened behind him, and Kurogiri's misty form materialized. "Tomura Shigaraki! Someone is coming! Now!"
Shigaraki's eyes flashed with annoyance. He grabbed a handful of Bakugo's shirt, hauling the weakened boy halfway off the cot. He dragged him toward the portal.
"Well," Shigaraki sneered, his breath hot in Bakugo's ear. "I'm sure you'll make a strong Nomu."
The door to the cell block burst inward with a crash. Eraserhead stood there, his eyes glowing red, his capture weapon already lashing out. But it was too late.
The purple portal swallowed Shigaraki, Toga, and the terrified, struggling body of Katsuki Bakugo, vanishing a split-second before Aizawa's scarf could touch them. The cell was empty, save for the faint scent of ozone and the heavy steel of the shattered door.