Bakugo
Legacy Name: Bakugo

Bakugo sat on the rooftop, knees bent, hands clenched. His breath came in sharp bursts, as if his lungs were trying to match the explosions his quirk could unleash. The city sprawled beneath him, a maze of lights and movement, but up here, it was quiet, save for the occasional gust of wind.

He stared at his palms, the faint burn marks from earlier fights still visible, like reminders of every battle, every mistake. He hated those marks—not because they hurt, but because they meant he hadn't been fast enough, strong enough, perfect enough. He growled under his breath, the sound low and feral, before slamming his fist against the concrete roof.

"Dammit," he spat. His voice echoed in the empty night, and he hated that too—hated how alone it sounded.

UA was supposed to be the proving ground, the place where he'd show everyone what they already should've known: that he was destined to be the best, the strongest, the number one hero. But instead, he'd been dragged into a war, a game where the stakes were higher than he'd ever imagined. And then there was Deku. Always Deku.

Bakugo closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of that damned freckled face, the one that haunted his nightmares and fueled his anger. Deku, with his stupid smile and ridiculous determination. The guy who had everything Bakugo wanted but didn't deserve. Power handed to him on a silver platter, while Bakugo had to claw and tear his way to the top.

He took a deep breath, the kind that made his chest burn, and let it out slowly. He wasn't weak. He wasn't going to let Deku—or anyone—get in his way. All Might's words echoed in his mind, those rare moments of praise, of genuine belief in him.

Bakugo bared his teeth. He hated being told he wasn't enough. It was a lie. He knew he was enough—more than enough. But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand. Strength alone wouldn't carry him through the hell they were all heading into. He needed something more, something he hadn't bothered to grasp before. Strategy, patience, trust—words that felt like poison on his tongue but rang true in his bones.

He stood, rolling his shoulders, the tension loosening bit by bit. His hands twitched, sparks dancing across his fingertips as if echoing his thoughts. He wasn't going to change who he was—no, that was weakness. But maybe he could refine it, sharpen the edges, make himself into something more than just a blunt instrument of destruction.

Bakugo stared out at the city again, this time with clear eyes. He could see the future stretching out before him, a path filled with enemies and obstacles, but also allies, if he could bring himself to accept them. He'd push himself until his bones ached, until his muscles screamed, until his heart threatened to explode.