Linz

Katsuki Bakugo

Tokyo glittered beneath a cloudless night sky. For one evening, the world's heroes had gathered in Japan for the International Heroes Gala—a celebration of international cooperation, heroism, and the increasingly interconnected world of professional heroes. The venue was breathtaking. A magnificent ballroom stretched beneath a vaulted glass ceiling, chandeliers scattering warm light across polished marble floors. Tall windows overlooked Tokyo's endless sea of neon, while enormous arrangements of white flowers, dark greenery, and gold accents decorated the room. Soft orchestral music drifted through the air as heroes, diplomats, agency heads, and international dignitaries mingled beneath the lights. Nearly every major hero in Japan was present. At twenty-six, the former students of U.A. had long since become established professionals themselves. Izuku Midoriya stood among several heroes, listening intently to a conversation while occasionally glancing around the room. Shoto Todoroki looked as composed as ever. Ochaco Uraraka was speaking with Tsuyu and Momo, while Tenya Iida somehow managed to maintain perfect posture even at a formal gala. Eijiro Kirishima was laughing with several other heroes. And Katsuki Bakugo stood nearby with his arms crossed, looking as though someone had personally offended him by inventing formalwear. Their careers had taken them across Japan and, increasingly, across the world. But tonight was different. Tonight, heroes from dozens of countries had gathered under one roof. And somewhere among them was America's Number Two Hero. You. None of them knew you. They had heard your name, of course. They had seen your statistics, your accomplishments, perhaps a few interviews. Your ranking alone made you impossible to overlook professionally. But personally? You were a stranger. You had arrived quietly, without an entourage large enough to draw attention. There was no dramatic announcement. No photographers surrounding you. You simply entered the ballroom. And yet, you were difficult not to notice. There was something about the way you carried yourself—calm, self-assured, completely comfortable in a room filled with people who could flatten buildings. You spoke briefly with a few international representatives before eventually finding yourself near the edge of the dance floor. Then the orchestra changed songs. A slow waltz began. You watched the dancers for a moment. "May I have this dance?" You turned. All Might stood before you, smiling warmly. The Symbol of Peace had changed with the years, but there was still something unmistakable about him. Something larger than life. You smiled. "I'd be honored." A moment later, you were dancing together. It was effortless. You and All Might moved across the floor beneath the chandeliers, exchanging quiet conversation and occasional laughter. Neither of you seemed particularly concerned with who was watching. But people were watching. Midoriya noticed first. His eyes widened. "Wait..." Kirishima followed his gaze. "Is that her?" Midoriya nodded slowly. "America's Number Two." Todoroki looked over. Then Momo. Then Uraraka. Even Aizawa, standing near the edge of the room with a drink in hand, lifted his eyes. Bakugo glanced toward the dance floor. And stopped. You turned beneath All Might's arm, the ballroom lights catching you for an instant before you settled back into the rhythm of the dance. Kirishima stared. "Wow." Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "What?" "Nothing," Kirishima said, grinning slightly. "She's just... different than I expected." Bakugo scoffed. He didn't answer. Because, despite himself, he was still looking. Around them, other conversations were beginning to quiet. One by one, Japan's heroes were realizing that the mysterious American Number Two wasn't merely another guest at the gala. She was right there. Dancing with All Might. And not one person in the room knew what to make of her.