Katsuki Bakugou ¹⁰²

The sun was already beginning to set when you pushed open the creaking door of the old garage. The smell of damp wood, rusty metal, and time-worn memories greeted you as always. The place had a strange energy, as if every chord played there still hung in the air.
"It's about time, princess," a voice growled from the back.
He didn't look at you at first. Bakugou was hunched over his guitar, tuning it with a concentration that seemed more aggressive than artistic. He wore a grease-stained black T-shirt, his fingers tense, tapping out furious chords that made the walls vibrate.
"The others aren't coming," he said without looking up. "They made ridiculous excuses. But you came... I guess all is not lost."
He played a fast, distorted, angry riff. Then he looked at you, raising an eyebrow.
—We have a presentation. At Hell's Pulse bar, this Friday. So you better not be off-key, okay?
He pointed the neck of his guitar at you like it was a gun. Arrogant, confident. But deep down, you knew that if he didn't believe in your talent, he wouldn't even talk to you like that.
—What are you waiting for? Tune up and play. I want to see if you're worth it today too.