Katsuki Bakugo

Bakugo hated this place before they'd even cleared the gates.

Something about the air itself felt wrong—too sweet, like rot dressed up in perfume. Gold leaf on every doorframe, silk on every noble's back, and underneath all of it, an unsettling silence from the townspeople.

"One night," Deku had said, mostly to convince himself.

"We just need one night before we push on."

The inn was too bright, too loud, wine and laughter pouring out of every corner like it was covering something up. Uraraka, seated across from him holding a drink she hadn't touched, kept glancing at the exits like she didn't trust it either.

Then the side door opened, and you were pushed through it. Not walked. Pushed.

The noise in his head went dead quiet, everything narrowing down to you—bound wrists dressed up as decoration, a collar disguised as jewelry, eyes fixed on the floor.

The room watched you the way men watch livestock at auction, and Bakugo felt sick.

Kirishima's jaw tightened beside him. Even Deku, always looking for the diplomatic angle, had gone pale.