The office of Principal Masanori Kuroda did not look like a place of education. It was a sterile, high-tech command center, filled with the hum of servers and the flickering blue light of monitors. There were no books, no scattered tea sets, only the cold, sharp geometry of a man who viewed the world as a series of assets to be refined.
Katsuki Bakugo sat on a brown leather couch that felt as stiff as a casket. He was slumped, his shoulders pulled inward, a posture that would have been unthinkable a year ago. He looked emaciated, the explosive muscle he had built was fading, replaced by the jagged lines of scars and the hollow look that didn't belong on his face.
He stared at the floor, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. Ever since the League had taken him, ever since Toga had peeled back the layers of his pride with a serrated knife, his mind had been a fractured landscape. Sleep was a battlefield of grey dreams, and his waking hours were a gray fog of mandatory labour.
"You're on time, Katsuki," Kuroda said. The Principal sat behind a desk of black glass, his smile as immaculate and frozen as a mannequin's. "That's another point toward your Rehabilitation Score. It would be a shame to see such a promising asset expelled, or worse, transferred to a judicial facility due to a lack of punctuality."
Bakugo let out a sharp, jagged snort. He didn't look up. "Cut the crap. Just check your boxes so I can go back to scrubbing the gym floors."
"We're here," Kuroda said, ignoring the bite in Bakugo's voice, "to discuss something I'm a little interested in, your quirk. Explosion."
Bakugo's hands, resting on his knees, twitched. His palms felt dry. Unbearably dry.
"Tell me," Kuroda continued, leaning forward. "What was the first thing you felt when you sparked? When you were four years old and that first sparkle hit the air? Was it power? Was it duty?"
Bakugo closed his eyes. The memory used to be gold and thunder. Now, it felt like ash. "I felt... like the sun was in my hands," he whispered. His voice was off, hollow and clinical, devoid of the aggressive rasp that used to define him. "I felt like... the world was a fuse, and I was the flame. Everyone around me... the teachers, the kids, the parents... they saw it, and they called me a 'Saviour.' They said I was meant for the top. I thought... I think I thought I was the closest thing to a god who just hadn't grown up yet."
"And now?" Kuroda's voice was soft, probing like a scalpel.
"Now I think they were just afraid of being blown up," Bakugo said, a bitter, grim smile touching his lips. "They called it greatness because it was easier than calling it a threat. I was a weapon they could use against the dark, so... I continued to follow that path. My path. I wanted it, and I still do."
"A fascinating analysis," Kuroda mused. "But let's get into the mechanics. Your nitroglycerin-like sweat. The kinetic recoil. The heat-sink threshold of your forearms. You've always claimed your power was a matter of will. But will is just the trigger. What is the state of the ammunition?"
Bakugo hesitated. He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to admit it to this robotic man who viewed him as a "refined asset."
"It... it feels heavy," Bakugo said, his breathing becoming shallow. "Like the liquid is sitting in my pores, but it's turned to lead. I can feel the pressure building in my palms, but when I try to let it go... the spark isn't there. It's like my blood turning to glue if it were to spurt out of my body right now."
Kuroda stood up. He walked around the desk, his footsteps echoing on the hard floor. He stopped in front of Bakugo, his shadow looming over the boy.
"The Commission believes you are a pillar of the new 'Refinement' era, Katsuki. A hero who understands the necessity of force. But a pillar must be able to stand. A weapon must be able to fire." Kuroda's smile broadened, showing too many teeth. "Show me. Right now."
Bakugo looked up, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "What?"
"Fire a blast," Kuroda commanded. "A standard ignition. Aim it directly at my chest. Don't worry about the sensors, I've cleared the room for this session. I want to see... 'Dynamite' in action."
Bakugo's heart hammered against his ribs. It was against every rule he had ever known. A student attacking a principal? A hero firing on a civilian? But Kuroda's eyes were cold, demanding obedience.
"Do it, Katsuki."
Bakugo sighed, his head dropping for a second. His mind raced, his instincts screaming. He felt the weight in his palms, the familiar, heavy heat of the nitroglycerin. He pulled his right hand up, his fingers coiling into a claw, his thumb ready to strike the friction-point of his palm.
"Fine," Bakugo hissed. "You want it? You got it."
He lunged forward, his eyes fixed on Kuroda's suit. He triggered the ignition. He pictured the roar, the heat, the beautiful, orange-and-black destruction that had been his signature since childhood.
Ffft.
There was no roar. There was no flash.
Bakugo's hand shook violently. Instead of an explosion, a thin, pathetic cloud of grey smoke drifted from his palm. A few orange crackles, the size of fireflies, popped feebly against his skin, fizzling out before they could even leave his hand. A pile of grey, gritty ash fell from his fingers, dusting the Principal's expensive shoes.
Bakugo froze. He drew in short, heavy, panicked breaths, his chest heaving. He tried again. And again. His thumb scraped against his palm until the skin was raw and bleeding, but all that followed were more sparks and the smell of burnt hair.
Kuroda didn't flinch. He didn't move. He stood there with that same, sickeningly sweet smile, looking down at the ash on his shoes.
"I see," Kuroda said softly. "I guess you've lost whatever connection you used to have. You aren't 'Cataclysm' anymore. You aren't even a spark."
Bakugo stared at his hand, his eyes welling with a hot, desperate frustration. The "Saviour" was gone. The fire was dead.
"For some reason..." Bakugo whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at the Principal, "it's not working. My quirk... ever since I came back it's not been working."
Kuroda reached down and patted Bakugo's head, a gesture of condescending pity. "No, Katsuki. It's not gone. It's more like your body doesn't know how to use it in the same way you did before."
___
Principal Kuroda brought out his journal. He had found out some interesting information today for his studies. Personal studies.
In the annals of the Quirk Science Division, there is a phenomenon documented long before the rise of the modern Hero System, a condition that was recently re-classified as Neuro-Somatic Severance (NSS). In the illicit underground journals of the late 21st century, it was known more poetically as "The Hollow-Point Syndrome."
It is a psychological and physiological paradox, the body continues to produce the biological requirements for a quirk, the fuel, the chemicals, the extra organs, but the mind, shattered by trauma, refuses to pull the trigger.
The Science of the "Broken Spark"
Data from the 2144 Musutafu Longitudinal Study on Survivor Trauma suggests that a Quirk is not merely a biological trait, but an extension of the individual's Ego-Architecture.
For Katsuki Bakugo, his quirk was not just "Explosions", it was the physical manifestation of his superiority, his will to win, and his unshakeable belief that he was the apex of any given room.
When the League of Villains kidnapped him, and more importantly, when they successfully broke the narrative of his invincibility, they didn't just hurt his body. They introduced a "logical error" into his Ego-Architecture.
In clinical terms, NSS occurs when the Limbic-Quirk Integration is severed. The amygdala, flooded with the cortisol of prolonged torture and the shame of "failure," begins to view the quirk as a source of danger or a reminder of the trauma. To protect the host from further psychological collapse, the brain initiates a Somatic Blunting.
Bakugo's body is still producing the nitroglycerin-like sweat. The pressure is there. The potential for destruction is still coursing through his veins. But his "Firing Pin", the mental spark required to ignite that sweat, has been bent by the weight of his own despair. To his subconscious, an explosion is no longer a tool for victory, it is the sound of the world he failed to protect. It is the sound of the chains.
During the Age of Ash, this condition was prevalent among many survivors of the Great Purge and a lot of this study had come from Mutants.
Hundreds of powerful mutants and elemental users emerged from the conflict "silenced." The Commission's early researchers, led by the controversial Dr. Akaya, noted that the more a person's identity was tied to their quirk, the more likely they were to suffer from NSS.
If a man believes his fire is his soul, and that soul is crushed, the fire goes out.
The data shows a 92% failure rate in "Traditional Recovery." Forcing a victim to use their quirk through standard training only deepens the disconnect, leading to permanent atrophy or, in extreme cases, Internal Combustion Syndrome, where the suppressed power eventually erupts inward, destroying the user.
The Re-Forging: A New Motivator
The cure for Neuro-Somatic Severance is never a return to "who you were." That person is dead.
According to the Kuroda Analysis, recovery requires the forging of a Secondary Driving Motivator. The patient must find a reason to use their power that is entirely detached from the ego that failed them. They cannot fight for old "Victory" or "Greatness" anymore, as those concepts are now poisoned by the memory of the trauma.
Instead, they must search for something else. Understanding.
For Katsuki Bakugo, the ash falling from his hands is the physical evidence of his "Hollow-Point." He is a gun filled with wet powder. To spark again, he cannot look back at the "Winner" he thought he was. He must find a new reason to burn. He must learn to ignite his sweat not with the pride of a god.
In the eyes of Principal Kuroda, this is not a tragedy. It is the ultimate Refinement. By breaking the "Hero" out of Bakugo, the system has finally created a blank slate, a weapon that, if re-ignited, will no longer be limited by ego.
___
Katsuki Bakugo sat on the edge of the kitchen table, his hands resting palms-up on his thighs. He stared at them with a loathing that bordered on madness. Just weeks ago, he had stood before Class 1-A, shattered, scarred, and under the influence of the Black Tag, and he had barked at them that nothing had changed. He had told them he was still going to be the Number One Hero. He had looked into their pitying eyes and tried to incinerate their sympathy or hate with his gaze.
Liar, he thought, the word echoing in the hollow chambers of his mind. You're a fraud. You're a weapon with a snapped firing pin.
How was he supposed to climb the mountain if he couldn't even find his footing? The irony of his situation was a jagged glass shard in his gut. He was, for all intents and purposes, Quirkless. The word used to be his favourite slur, a label he threw at Midoriya to keep the "inferior" in their place. Now, it was a mirror. He felt weak, pathetic, and fundamentally broken.
He thought of All Might. The man's absence was a physical vacuum in the school. The "Symbol of Peace" was somewhere in a high-security medical ward, silenced by the very world he had tried to save. And then there was Midoriya.
Thinking of him caused a cold, sharp radiation of anger to flare in Bakugo's chest. It wasn't the hot, explosive rage of his youth, it was something darker, fuelled by the malice that seemed to be the only thing that some valued anymore. How had Deku done it? How had that stuttering, quirkless loser become... whatever it was he was, while Katsuki was reduced to ash?
He wanted to find him. He wanted to scream at him, to demand the secret to his power. But the cold logic of a survivor stopped him. In a confrontation, Izuku would crush him. The realization hurt more than any of Toga's knives.
Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find the silence, but the silence was the most dangerous place of all. Whenever the room grew too quiet, the phantom giggles started.
"Katsuki-kun… you look so much better when you're bleeding."
Himiko Toga's voice whispered in the corner of his ear, so vivid he could almost smell the metallic tang of his own blood on her breath. He felt the cold pressure of a blade against his throat that wasn't there. He reached for his quirk, he begged his body for a single spark, a single roar of heat to drive the ghosts away, but his palms remained dry. His body felt like it was filled with lead. Everything was supposed to go right for him. He was the chosen one. He was the one with the perfect quirk.
He was drowning in the dark.
A sudden, firm pressure landed on his shoulder.
BOOM.
The explosion was violent, instinctive, and loud. A bloom of orange fire and black smoke erupted from Bakugo's right palm, scorching the air and rattling the windowpanes of his dorm room.
Katsuki spun wildly, his heart hammering against his ribs, his teeth bared in a snarl. He expected to see a girl with blonde buns and a knife. Instead, he saw Eijiro Kirishima, stumbling back with his arms hardened into jagged red rock, his eyes wide with shock.
The room was suddenly filled with the scent of burnt sugar. Katsuki stared at his own hand. It was trembling. The smoke was still curling from his skin, a real, vibrant, explosion.
"Whoa! Chill out, Bakugo!" Kirishima said, his skin softening back to its human state. He let out a nervous, breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry man, I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I knocked on the glass to try get your attention, but I guess you were deep in thought."
Bakugo stared at the scorch mark on the wall behind Kirishima. His throat felt tight. I did it. Why did it work then? He looked at his hand again, trying to replicate the feeling, but the leaden weight was already sliding back into his pores. The spark was gone. It had only appeared as a reflex of terror, the principal called it... a "Somatic Override."
"Sorry," Bakugo muttered. The word felt like acid in his mouth. He looked away, his shoulders slumping.
Kirishima's expression softened. He stepped closer, not with pity, but with a steady, grounding presence. "Hey, don't sweat it. Actually, it's awesome to see those explosions are still ready to go. You've been so quiet lately, I was starting to think you were losing your edge. I mean losing some of it might be alright."
Bakugo snorted, but there was no heat in it. "Whatever."
"So," Kirishima said, leaning against the doorframe. "Do you know when they're gonna let you back in the training cycles? The class feels... weird without you blowing stuff up in the background."
Bakugo shook his head slowly. "I need clearance. From the old lady and the Principal. Kuroda... he doesn't think I'm ready for it yet. A I don't think it will be soon."
Kirishima nodded understandingly. He looked out at the lead-grey sky through the window, then back at his friend. "Well, if you can't hit the gym, how about a run?"
Bakugo looked up, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. "What?"
"A run," Kirishima repeated, scratching the back of his neck. "I've been doing these long-distance sprints to boost my stamina. Honestly... I'm not as fast as I want to be. I realized that recently, and if I can't close the distance, my hardening doesn't mean anything. I'm slow, Bakugo."
He looked at Katsuki with a sheepish, honest grin. "I figured you might want to get out of this room. And I could use a pacer. You were always the best at managing momentum."
Bakugo looked at Kirishima. He saw the sweat on his friend's brow, the genuine frustration in his eyes. For the first time since his return, someone wasn't asking him how he felt or why he was the way he was in the past. They were asking him for help. They were treating him like a classmate, not a patient or a criminal trying to reform.
He thought about the ash in the Principal's office. He thought about the giggles in the dark. He looked at his hand, the hand that had just sparked without his permission.
Maybe the survivor could ignore the fuse.
Bakugo drew in a long, shaky breath.
"Fine," Bakugo said, his voice regaining a fraction of its old, gravelly edge. "I'll go. But don't expect me to wait up when your legs give out, Shit-... Kirishima."
Kirishima's grin widened, bright and defiant. "I wouldn't have it any other way, man. Let's move."