The nights at UA were colder than they looked.
Security hummed low across the walls. Guard rotations shifted silently outside. Inside the repurposed wing, the League had been placed like live wire—contained, watched, tolerated.
Darkcreasa knew tension. She'd lived in it.
But this tension?
This was loaded.
Bakugo's body stiffened every time Shigaraki stepped near. His glare sharp, his stance defensive—but his eyes? Haunted.
Todoroki's posture splintered when Dabi spoke. He kept to the far wall like proximity alone could fracture him.
They didn't talk about it.
Didn't acknowledge the history.
But they carried it like shards in their lungs.
And then—night fell.
Darkcreasa felt it in the shift.
Shigaraki didn't call. Didn't whisper.
He moved.
Swift. Silent. Deliberate.
Dabi followed. No jokes. No casual flames. Just purpose.
Toga skipped after them, gleeful silence buzzing beneath her skin.
Darkcreasa didn't question it.
She followed.
She wanted to be wanted.
The hallway stretched long.
Security lights flickered.
Every shadow a heartbeat.
Then—the exit.
Shigaraki raised his hand.
It was time.
Except—
The world exploded in alarms.
Flashing lights.
Blazing sirens.
Steel doors slamming shut.
Heroes burst in from every angle, their formations too perfect, too fast.
They weren't caught.
They'd been expected.
Dabi snarled, fire rushing across his arms.
Toga launched but was intercepted mid-air by Eraserhead himself.
And Shigaraki—
He didn't say a word.
Just turned.
Looked at her.
That look wasn't angry.
It wasn't scared.
It was condemning.
Darkcreasa's breath hitched.
Dabi's fire faltered.
Toga stopped giggling.
And none of them said it.
But she knew.
They blamed her.
She had been too slow. Too eager.
Too obvious.
A liability masked in desperation.
And everything she thought she'd built—
Shattered.
They didn't speak to her afterward.
Didn't ask.
Didn't scream.
Just walked away.
And Darkcreasa stopped speaking, too.
She stopped trying to explain.
Stopped hoping they'd reach out.
Stopped believing there was still something here worth salvaging.
She faded into shadow like a forgotten echo.
Because after everything—
Every mission, every wound, every piece of herself she handed over like currency—
She still didn't have a family.
Just ghosts in borrowed shapes.
———-
Thursday morning felt like a whisper trapped in fog.
UA was quiet this early—too quiet. The birds hadn't started. The sky hadn't fully committed to sunlight. And the courtyard? Empty enough to feel sacred.
Denki sat on his bench.
It had become a ritual.
Ever since the League's arrival, sleep didn't offer relief—it offered reminders. And now, the nightmares didn't wait for sleep. They crept into corners of daylight. Stole breath. Twitched hands. Haunted silence.
His hoodie was pulled tight.
His fingers buried in the pouch like they were afraid to be seen.
That same bench.
That same posture.
This was the place where he could try—try to breathe, try to reset, try to chase sparks back into rhythm.
But this morning—
He wasn't alone.
From the far edge of the path, hidden by morning haze and hedges, another figure approached.
Not loud.
Not deliberate.
Just… slow.
Darkcreasa didn't even notice him at first. She moved like someone half-glued together—wearing silence like a second skin. Her steps were light, her hoodie sleeves long, her eyes unfocused and half-lost behind her bangs.
She was heading to her bench.
The one she always went to when thoughts got too loud.
The one where she could sit and imagine what belonging used to taste like.
And now—
They were about to share it.
Denki noticed her before she noticed him.
Tensed slightly.
Shifted a little to the left—not to escape, but to watch.
Darkcreasa spotted him a second later.
Paused.
Blinking once like she wasn't sure if he was real.
Then—she hesitated.
But still sat.
Not close. Not far.
Just enough to feel the air between them stretch taut.
Neither spoke.
The quiet wasn't awkward.
It was fragile. Like glass. Like lightning trapped in glass.
Denki kept his eyes forward.
Darkcreasa kept hers tilted toward the dirt.
Two ghosts from different stories.
Each trying not to crack.
And somehow—
In all that quiet—
Something unspoken passed between them.
They were both here.
And maybe that was enough for now.
Denki sat a little straighter, pulling his hood forward as if the fabric might somehow shield him from the silence sitting beside him.
He didn't want to speak.
She's League.
That alone should've triggered alarms. Should've kept him wound tight, poised for flight. But…
She wasn't looking at him.
Wasn't posturing.
Wasn't smirking or scheming.
She was just sitting. Head slightly bowed, expression dull in a way that felt familiar.
Like someone running out of something to pretend.
Denki's gaze drifted for half a second—just enough to catch it.
Sadness.
Not villainy.
Not danger.
Just… sadness.
His breath slowed. Not relaxed—just… steadier.
The panic didn't vanish. But it paused.
A branch shifted overhead. Wind brushed his hair.
He stayed quiet.
But his fingers dug deeper into the pouch of his hoodie. Palms curled. He didn't want her—or anyone—to see how badly they still shook.
Darkcreasa noticed.
She didn't stare.
Didn't comment.
Just glanced, once.
Denki didn't see it.
But she saw him.
The way he kept those hands hidden.
The way he leaned slightly away.
The way his eyes never lingered on her.
And quietly, she understood.
He was afraid of her presence.
Not because of who she was—but because of what she represented.
So she didn't speak either.
She just adjusted her posture, pulling her own sleeves over her knuckles.
Two ghosts, side by side.
Each hiding hands from a world that never gave them time to heal.
And somehow—that silence?
It settled like voltage before rain.
(Meanwhile, back in the common room…)
Bakugo stepped into the kitchen like a man resigned to his destiny.
6:42 a.m.
The usual.
No one else up.
Rice not rinsed.
Eggs still chilling like they hadn't signed a contract.
He sighed through his teeth and rolled up his hoodie sleeves.
"Guess it's me… again," he muttered, cracking knuckles like ingredients owed him rent.
But something was off.
Movement.
Small.
Quiet.
He looked over his shoulder—
And Aleasha was curled up on the couch.
Book in hand. Feet tucked beneath her like she hadn't just crossed house lines and settled into enemy territory. The Class-A common room was softly lit, morning sun sketching faint stripes across the pages of whatever she was reading.
Bakugo stared.
Aleasha casually flipped a page.
No greeting. No explanation.
Bakugo narrowed his eyes. "You know this isn't your dorm."
Aleasha blinked up at him. "Oh. Good morning to you, too, Chef Explosion."
Bakugo growled. "Seriously. Why are you always in *this* common room? You're Class-C. You have your own walls."
Aleasha smiled—awkward, airy. A little too quick.
"Oh, you know, ambient vibes. Better couch foam. Spiritually aligned kettle energy. I like the aesthetic."
Bakugo didn't budge. "That sounds like the biggest pile of crap I've ever heard."
Aleasha paused. Swallowed.
Awkward laughter engaged.
"I mean… ha… yeah, totally. No secret reasons. Definitely not hanging out here for someone who's maybe blonde and maybe electrocuted his cereal once."
Bakugo narrowed his gaze so sharply it could've cut toast.
Aleasha buried her nose in the book. "This story's really good. Nothing to see here."
Bakugo didn't press.
Yet.
Because he knew something was off.
Aleasha's pattern wasn't Class-C casual.
It was deliberate.
And Denki?
Denki barely looked at her when she was around.
So Bakugo tucked the question away.
For now.
But he was watching.
Bakugo stirred rice with a level of precision that could qualify as medical. The pan sizzled. The silence stretched.
Aleasha was still curled on the couch, one leg tucked under her, book balanced in her lap like she hadn't just majorly overshared under three layers of deflection. Her "ha-ha-no-big-deal" grin had faded into feigned concentration.
Bakugo kept one eye on the stove.
And the other on her.
Denki?
Clearly the blonde she mentioned.
Electrocuted his cereal? A very Denki move.
Bakugo grimaced. "Idiot probably fried the milk, too."
Aleasha peeked over the edge of her book. She could feel the question bubbling in him.
Bakugo leaned over the counter slightly. "So…"
She froze. Page halfway turned.
"…you crushing on him or something?"
Aleasha choked on air. "What?! No! I mean—no! Absolutely not! Pfft! I just appreciate chaotic breakfast energy in a platonic, non-crush-based way."
Bakugo didn't blink.
Aleasha turned a shade of red no tea could fix. "Besides, he's—he's… he's so obviously into his girlfriend. Like full-blown heart-eyes, thundercloud-simp energy. Which is great! Beautiful! Love that for him! I'm just—I'm just a couch cryptid."
Bakugo raised a brow. "You sure know a lot about him."
Aleasha's laugh was nervous. She lowered her book a fraction like it might shield her secrets. "I just… observe things. Observational talent. C-Class skills."
Bakugo narrowed his gaze. Something wasn't adding up. But she'd already bumped into him twice, and both times he hadn't yelled—hadn't even barked. And she had that way of looking sheepish without actually flinching. Like she wasn't scared of him—just very practiced at pretending she wasn't hiding something.
He took a slow breath and gestured to the book. "What are you reading?"
Aleasha blinked. "Oh! Uh—" She flipped it so he could see the cover.
Lightning and Lace: Quirks, Power, and the Pulse of Potential.
Bakugo frowned. "That's a hero psychology textbook."
Aleasha grinned. "Yeah. I like the parts about internal circuitry and voltage reflex theory. Pretty relevant, right?"
Bakugo turned back to the pan. His jaw flexed.
She was reading about quirk mechanics tied to electrical personalities.
She was sitting in Class-A's lounge every morning.
And she knew way too much about Denki.
Definitely not a crush.
This was something else.
He didn't say more. Just plated rice with casual aggression and made a mental note:
This girl's a walking question mark.
And Bakugo Katsuki doesn't leave questions unanswered.