The gym was a dump.
Rusted equipment. Cracked mirrors. The kind of place where old men came to lift weights that had been there since the 1980s.
Perfect.
Izuku set his gym bag down and rolled his shoulders.
Six weeks.
Six weeks of waiting, planning, and watching his arm heal.
The cast had come off yesterday.
Today, the real work began.
He wrapped his hands and stepped up to the barbell.
60 kilograms. Not much. But enough to start.
'Deadlift.'
He gripped the knurled bar, feeling the rough metal bite into his palms.
His stance was wide. Back flat. Chest up.
He pulled.
The bar came off the ground slow and heavy.
His hamstrings screamed. His lower back lit up like someone had poured gasoline on his spine.
He locked out at the top, exhaled, and lowered the bar with control.
One rep.
'Four more.'
By the third set, his hands were bleeding.
The calluses he didn't have yet had torn open, leaving raw pink skin exposed.
He didn't stop.
He wrapped his hands tighter and loaded the bar again.
'Heavier than last time. No excuses.'
He slid his headphones on.
The bass hit first.
Heavy. Distorted. Aggressive.
Phonk.
INTERWORLD's METAMORPHOSIS rattled through his skull, drowning out the world.
The beat synced with his heartbeat.
He gripped the bar and pulled.
Barbell rows came next.
Bent over at a 45-degree angle, pulling the bar into his stomach.
His lats burned.
His traps were on fire.
Sweat dripped off his nose and splattered onto the gym floor.
'This is what it takes.'
Every rep was a war.
Every set was a small victory against the weakness of this body.
He could feel it happening.
Muscle fibers tearing. Rebuilding. Adapting.
His body was screaming to stop, but he pushed through the last set anyway.
When he finally racked the bar, his arms were shaking.
He sat on the bench, chest heaving, and stared at his bloody palms.
'Good.'
Pain meant progress.
The walk home was quiet.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and violet.
Izuku's legs felt like concrete, but he kept moving.
His headphones were still on, the phonk beat a low thrum in his ears.
He turned into the alley shortcut near the convenience store.
That's when he saw them.
Bakugou.
Two extras.
Blocking the alley.
'Of course.'
Izuku didn't slow down.
Bakugou stepped forward, palms crackling with small, controlled explosions.
The smell hit him immediately.
Burnt sugar. Nitroglycerin. Bakugou's signature.
"Oi. Deku."
Izuku pulled his headphones down around his neck.
The music was still playing faintly.
"You've been ignoring me."
Bakugou's voice was tight. Furious.
"Walking around like you're somebody. Acting all high and mighty."
One of the extras snickered nervously.
Izuku just looked at him.
No fear. No anger.
Just cold, clinical assessment.
'Stance too wide. Weight on his heels. Hands up but fingers splayed. Zero guard.'
He could see it all.
Bakugou thought he was intimidating.
But all Izuku saw was a brawler with no real training.
'I could break his knee in two moves.'
Step in. Low kick to the hyperextended joint. Done.
Bakugou's explosions wouldn't mean anything if he couldn't stand.
The thought passed through his mind like water.
Detached. Mechanical.
"What, you go mute now?" Bakugou took another step forward, his hand crackling louder. "Say something, you quirkless—"
"You're in my way."
Izuku's voice came out flat.
No heat. No emotion.
Just a statement of fact.
Bakugou froze.
Izuku took a step forward.
Bakugou didn't move.
For just a second, something flickered in his eyes.
Confusion. Maybe even hesitation.
Izuku walked straight past him, shoulder brushing against Bakugou's.
He didn't look back.
Behind him, the alley was silent.
One of the extras whispered something.
Bakugou didn't respond.
Izuku pulled his headphones back up.
The bass kicked in again, heavy and relentless.
'Keep walking.'
The cold presence in his chest pulsed once.
Approval, maybe.
Or hunger.
He wasn't sure which.
By the time he got home, his legs were barely holding him up.
He dropped his gym bag by the door and collapsed onto his bed.
Every muscle in his body ached.
His hands were still bleeding through the bandages.
But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Bakugou's face.
That flicker of confusion.
That momentary hesitation.
'Good.'
Let him be confused.
Let him wonder what changed.
Because the next time they met, Izuku wouldn't just walk past him.
He'd walk over him.
The shadow in his chest stirred, cold and patient.
Waiting.
TO BE CONTINUED