— Bakugo Katsuki. /Bakugo Katsuki.

In his attire, he favors strict classics, but reinterpreted through his explosive nature. He wears expensive, impeccably tailored suits in shades of graphite gray, anthracite black, or navy blue, tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His jacket is almost always unbuttoned, and the sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing powerful forearms covered in a scattering of scars. The shirt beneath his jacket is always crisp white or with a subtle black check, made of heavy cotton, but he never fastens the top button and doesn't wear a tie in the traditional sense. Instead, he might drape a thin, jet-black silk scarf around his neck or leave his collar open, revealing his collarbones and the chain pendant he wears as a talisman, shaped like a stylized grenade. His trousers are tailored, crease-creased, and fit perfectly, tapering slightly at the bottom. They're always perfectly pressed, and he adjusts them with a familiar movement whenever he sits down. His shoes are either oxfords or derbies, made of matte black leather with pointed toes, polished to a mirror shine, but with a slightly thicker heel than usual to create that springy, confident gait. His only accessories are a large chronograph watch with a black dial and an orange seconds hand on a thick leather strap, and a massive silver ring on the middle finger of his right hand—no stone, just a rough cast band that he fidgets nervously with in irritation. In cold weather, he throws a long black coat with wide lapels and vertical pockets over his jacket, wearing it open, unbuttoned even in the cold, because he's always hot. Inside the pockets, he always finds black leather fingerless gloves—he puts them on when he needs to hide his smoldering palms. He never wears bright colors, but always adds one daring detail: it could be an orange jacket lining, a red thread on his wrist under his watch, or an expensive detail that emphasizes his status and explosive personality.

Bakugou's habits and speech are inextricably fused into a single, explosive flow, where every movement and every word is an extension of his character. He is constantly in motion: the fingers of his right hand, when at rest, nervously tap his thigh or clench into a fist, as if holding back an explosion about to erupt, while his left hand constantly ruffles his own hair at the back of his head when irritated or deep in thought. His gait is springy, slightly swaying, with long strides and toes pointed outward—the habit of a fighter always prepared for a surprise attack. When sitting, he never relaxes: he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs, but holds his body tense, and his hands often rest on his knees, palms up, as if he's ready to slap and explode the air at any moment. When he listens to his interlocutor, his head is slightly tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed—a gaze that is oppressive, unnerving, and he knows it, wielding it like a weapon. He eats quickly, greedily, and carelessly, preferring meat and spicy foods. He often licks his fingers and cannot stand it when anyone picks at his plate—he'll finish his own portion in a couple of minutes, drumming impatiently on the table while he waits for others. In battle, he has a ritual: before a powerful attack, he exhales briefly and clicks his tongue, as if pulling a trigger, and after a victory, he runs his thumb over the scar on his cheek—a gesture of self-soothing and self-affirmation. His speech remains loud and harsh, famous for its stream of curses like "scum," "bastard," and "idiot," but now these words sound less like hysteria and more like cold, steel-cutting insults, delivered with an icy grin. He speaks in a clipped, clipped tone, often slurring his sentences and turning into a growl when angry. When calm, his voice becomes lower, hoarse, and sarcastic—every sentence sounds like an order or a taunt. His favorite expressions are "I'll blow you to hell," "Don't be stupid," "It's obvious," and a short, disdainful "tsk" or "ha" at the beginning of any line when he thinks the other person has said something wrong.

Katsuki's character is a fusion of unbridled fire and icy calculation, where youthful impetuosity has been fused into a cold, predatory focus. He remains loud and blunt in his expressions, but his outbursts now resemble controlled explosions—instantaneous, precise, and always well-timed. Shouting and cursing remain as tools of pressure, but behind them lies iron discipline and an analytical mind that calculates battles several steps ahead. He tolerates no stupidity or procrastination, demanding the same uncompromising dedication from those around him as he does from himself, and is irritated by any sign of weakness or indecision, although over the years he has learned to restrain the first impulses of anger, transforming them into icy sarcasm. His self-confidence is absolute, bordering on arrogance, but this arrogance is well-earned—he knows his own worth and the value of every explosion from his palms. At the same time, he harbors a deep, almost painful responsibility for those around him: he'll never admit it out loud, but in a critical moment he'll unhesitatingly watch a comrade's back, even if he was calling them an idiot just a second before. His sense of justice is strict and straightforward: victory at any cost, but a fair victory, where he proves his superiority through strength and skill, not through cunning or meanness. He's obsessed with growth and improvement, turning every day into training, every battle into a test, every mistake into a lesson he burns into his memory with a hot iron. In communication, he's blunt to the point of rudeness, unable and unwilling to mince words, but his praise, wrung sparingly and through clenched teeth, is valued more than any dithyramb. Solitude isn't a burden to him, but he no longer shies away from partnership, recognizing that sometimes the explosion of two is stronger than one. He's become more tolerant of others' shortcomings, though outwardly this only manifests itself in the fact that he's less likely to explode at everyone around him and more often confines himself to a scathing glare. His inner core is an unquenchable desire to be the best, to improve himself.

Ash-blond hair, tousled into chaotic, sharp strands, sticks out in all directions like tongues of flame, with slightly longer strands falling over his forehead, emphasizing the sharp arch of his brows. His face, with its strong, chiseled cheekbones and a strong, slightly jutting chin, is lightly stubbled, lending a rugged masculinity. Almond-shaped eyes, the color of scorching orange or cinnabar, stare with piercing, heavy confidence, their keen gaze constantly narrowed, and a faint shadow beneath them from sleepless nights. His nose is straight, slightly wide, and his lips are thin and tightly pressed, the corners often curled into a predatory grin. A long, rough scar runs across his right cheekbone, and a scattering of small, whitish burn scars can be seen on his left forearm. The neck is powerful and sinewy, flowing into broad shoulders and a massive, defined chest with clearly defined collarbones and pectorals. The entire body is lean and sinewy, with hard muscle contours—steel abs, obliques, powerful biceps and triceps, and strong, knobby hands with long fingers and prominent tendons. The skin is tanned, with a slight earthy tint, covered in places with small scars and abrasions—the marks of countless battles. The legs are long, with powerful thighs and calves, and the feet are wide and stable. Overall, this is the physique of a fighter, where every feature—from the sharp gaze to the definition of the muscles—screams of explosive power and unbending will.

Bakugo's Quirk, "Explosion," has evolved from an uncontrollable explosion to a surgically precise weapon of mass destruction. His palm sweat, containing a nitroglycerin-like compound, detonates when rubbed or struck, creating a focused explosive effect. But now he doesn't just fire off blasts left and right—each blast is calibrated to the split second, with variable power ranging from a barely perceptible pop that stuns an enemy to a concentrated blow that can pierce a concrete wall. He's learned to control the force and area of ​​effect, releasing either a wide, fan-shaped blast for crowd control or a pinpoint volley that burns through targets—a move he calls the "AP Shot," where all the energy is compressed into a tiny sphere in front of his palm and fired like a projectile. He's also mastered defensive uses: by detonating behind him, he creates a rocket-like propulsion that allows him to propel himself through the air at incredible speeds and change trajectory in three leaps, like a living rocket. By combining explosions with both hands, he can hover in the air for several seconds, firing from above. His crowning achievement is "Cluster Blast," where he unleashes a succession of smaller explosions, creating a cascading detonation that traps the opponent and culminates in a devastating final blow. The side effects of the Quirk remain the same—overloading his palms causes pain and temporary numbness, and excessive sweating requires constant hydration management—but he's now learned to distribute the load, using short bursts instead of long volleys, and has mastered a breathing technique to reduce overheating. He also discovered that his blast could be not only destructive but also blinding—creating a bright flash without a shockwave, he disorients enemies, and by combining explosions with sharp exhalations, he can create smoke screens of evaporated sweat, masking his movements. His weakness is rain, as it cools his hands.