Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The target's neck broke with a brittle crack, sharp yet muffled, like a twig snapping beneath a boot in the dead of night.

Katsuki lowered the body silently, its weight slumping with the finality of death. His gloved hands stayed steady—rock-solid, unshaken—despite the adrenaline surging through him like liquid fire. Four down.

Clean kills.

No witnesses.

Twelve minutes, zero complications.

That made four tangos—military speak for targets—eliminated in the last hour. Professional. Efficient. Just like Delta Force trained them. As the U.S. Army's elite counterterrorism unit, they were the best of the best, pulled from Rangers and Special Forces, trained to operate in the shadows where conventional forces couldn't go.

"Viper Two, sweep that room," he hissed, his voice a low growl cutting through the stillness. He gestured sharply to his second-in-command, Lieutenant Kirishima, who nodded and slipped into the gloom. Night vision and thermal contact lenses they wore cast the abandoned apartment complex on Sarajevo's outskirts in a sickly green haze, shadows stretching long and jagged across bullet-scarred walls. Each hole told a story from the '92 siege, constellations of violence frozen in concrete. Graffiti layered like archaeological strata: Serbian over Bosnian over Croatian, a living memory of hatred that never quite healed.

The air hung heavy—stale cigarette smoke curling into the sharp sting of gunpowder and the musky tang of alpha sweat lingered like a predator's mark.

Too fresh, Katsuki thought, his prime alpha senses dissecting every layer despite the military-grade suppressants dulling their edge. A gift, or a curse, that let him read the battlefield like a bloodhound, his nose could tell a story most betas would miss.

"Clear," Kirishima called back, his tone clipped but laced with urgency. "Boss, you need to see this shit."

Katsuki moved like a panther, each step deliberate, muscles taut as coiled steel. He crossed the threshold, and the room hit him like a gut punch. This wasn't some insurgent shithole cluttered with crumpled maps and spent shells. It looked like a goddamn war room. Walls plastered with high-res satellite imagery—crisp topographical lines snaking across half a dozen territories, pinned with color-coded markers plotting escape routes, choke points, and sniper nests. It screamed military training, not the sloppy desperation of local fanatics.

Across the room, surveillance photos of the hostages stared back, their blindfolded faces frozen in grainy terror. Each image was tagged with grid coordinates, timestamps, and scrawled notes in multiple languages. Evidence of meticulous, ongoing tracking that had Katsuki's jaw tightening, as a muscle ticking beneath the surface.

His eyes drifted to the long metal table that dominated the space, strewn with humming laptops, encrypted sat-phones, and dossiers bound with surgical neatness. Screens flickered with live security feeds, rotating through grainy shots of streets and compounds, while a server rack buzzed in the corner, its cooling fans a soft drone against the silence.

His hand hovered over one of the laptops, where schematics for local infrastructure glowed on a screen—power grids, water lines, transit routes. His military academy training kicked in automatically: load-bearing calculations, structural weak points, blast radius estimates. If they had explosives, the southeast corner would collapse inward. Probably only seventeen seconds to clear the building if detonation started.

He scanned the documents, the clean formatting and comprehensive detail leaving no doubt that it was intel from a source that operated on a far higher tier than the local groups he'd faced in the area. A chill worked his way down his spine, and he bristled with alarm. The sleekness of the equipment, the organization, the level of intel—none of this aligned with what he'd been briefed on.

He'd expected the base to be crude, hastily arranged, the way most insurgent camps were. Local terrorists don't operate like this. This was organized, funded, and meticulously planned—they must have a military connections and deep pockets.

Not a hideout, he realized.

A fucking command center.

He caught reflected light from the corner of his eye, a doorway leading into a smaller side room, partially concealed behind a rack of lockers. Katsuki shifted silently, moving toward the door, his instincts urging caution. He nudged a half-hidden door with his boot, revealing a side room that stopped him cold. An arsenal gleamed under dim fluorescent light—rows of polished rifles, submachine guns, and grenade launchers racked with care.

He automatically scanned the equipment, noticing the radiation signature was wrong—subtle, but enough for his brain to immediately flag it. These weren't just conventional weapons. Ammo crates stamped with Cyrillic and kanji insignias yawned open, spilling rounds like deadly confetti, but the isotopic markers suggested something far more sophisticated. Tactical vests, night optics, and comms gear hung ready for war—these weapons were top-shelf, military-grade, and imported.

He exhaled slowly, a mix of frustration and unease building as his hand gripped the edge of a crate, his instincts prickling with the realization of just how wrong this mission had turned out to be. His mind raced, piecing together the clues, his attention returning to the maps, the dossiers, the endless streams of live surveillance data. Someone was playing a larger game, far beyond the localized chaos his team was trained to handle. And judging by the contents of this room, they had walked right into the crossfire.

"Looks like we're dealing with way more than local muscle," Kirishima said, rifling through a stack of shipping manifests. His gloved fingers paused on a page. "These shipping manifests... weapons coming in from Russia, bio-research materials from Japan—shit's way above these punks' pay grade." He flipped another document. "Kats, look at this. Intercepted communications mentioning 'DLF'—ever heard of that?"

Katsuki's eyes drifted back to the space, strewn with humming laptops and bound dossiers. One document caught his attention with a classification he didn't recognize:

     [CLASSIFICATION: GENESIS-G7]
     SHIPMENT MANIFEST - [REDACTED] INDUSTRIES
     Origin: Kyushu Prefecture, Japan
     Contents: Pharmaceutical compounds (experimental)
     Destination: [REDACTED]
     Handler: Dr. [REDACTED]
     
     Note: Enhanced variants. Stage 3 trials.
     Secondary compounds showing anomalous quantum signatures.
     Report discrepancies immediately.

     [BIOHAZARD - SPECIAL HANDLING REQUIRED]

His jaw tightened, the biohazard notation made him prickle with unease. This wasn't some local operation. Their intel suggested this was just another Balkan separatist group holding hostages for ransom, but these weapons and shipping manifests linked to at least three different organizations... "Get photos of everything. Command needs to—"

His comm suddenly crackled to life.

     OVERLORD: "Viper Actual, status report."

Katsuki pressed his earpiece, voice flat and professional. In the field, callsigns replaced names—Viper for his team of operators, Overlord for command.

     VIPER-1: "Four tangos neutralized. New Intel 
              discovered suggests broader operation.  
              Thermal shows activity approximately 
              one-klick northeast, matches the profile
              we've identified."

A pause stretched too long, heavy with unspoken weight. In that silence, Katsuki heard everything: political complications, jurisdiction battles, his operational authority about to be stripped. Katsuki's prime instincts prickled, that sixth sense honed by years in the field screaming a warning.

     OVERLORD: "Copy. Be advised—your mission
               parameters have shifted. The British SAS
               team will now be inserting to your position.
               You and their team will run a joint extraction."

Fuck. The British Special Air Service—SAS—were the US Delta's counterparts: prime operators, ghosts of the battlefield, elite of the elite. Ten years since West Point, six years of Delta operations, and he'd earned the right to run his own show. Under other circumstances, Katsuki would respect that. But right now? Every prime instinct roared as territorial fury clawed up his throat at the thought of another team muscling in on his mission, foreign alphas in his operational space triggered millions of years of evolutionary imperative. The implant's chemical leash strained against his primal need to violently establish dominance.

     VIPER-1: "Sir, respectfully, my team has this op
              under operational control. We don't need—" 

Don't need more alphas in the mix. Don't need competing chains of command. Don't need—

     OVERLORD: "This isn't a request Bakugo. New intel
                confirms Japanese and British interest. This is
                now a multinational operation. SAS lands in ten.
                Call sign 'Charlie'. Get ready and make it work."

The line went dead. Katsuki bit back a snarl, acutely aware of his team's eyes boring into him.

Four alphas—regulated, not primes—all on suppressants, all hand-picked for their ability to work together despite biological imperatives. They'd trained together, bled together, learned to function as a unit despite how they had to fight their alpha natures always pushing for dominance. And now they were being forced to integrate with another alpha unit on the fly. He could smell their tension, sharp and electric, even through their suppressants. 

“Orders, boss?” Kirishima asked, voice careful but edged with the same unease Katsuki felt. Kirishima's steadiness reminded him of Helmand Province—that IED that tore through their convoy, Eijirou dragging him forty meters under fire. "Heroes don't leave heroes behind," growled through blood-filled teeth. Some bonds were forged in blood and never broke.

“Package up the intel,” Katsuki snapped, trying his best to clamp down on the rage boiling in his chest. “Burton, chart our route to the target building. We’ve got company inbound.” He keyed his comm again, voice steady despite the storm inside.

     VIPER-1: "All Viper elements, heads-up: SAS joining the op. Maintain discipline.”

Acknowledgments crackled back professional and curt, but the undertone was unmistakable. No alpha liked their hunt crashed mid-stride, especially not with foreign predators sniffing around.

His hand drifted to his neck, fingers brushing over the faint outline of the suppressor patch on his neck. Stay in control. This reminder wasn’t new; it was protocol. All Alphas in high-stakes military ops were required to wear suppressant patches to dampen the pheromones that could signal their rank, status, and intent to others. Prime alphas like him needed more than patches—those whose natural dominance and strength pushed their instincts into overdrive—a standard patch wasn’t enough.

Instead, a specialized military-grade suppressant was implanted directly into the neck, just under the skin in addition to the patches they also wore. The implant released measured doses over time, keeping his pheromones in check and senses finely tuned but restrained. The high-grade military formula ensured he wouldn’t compromise the mission or alert hostiles by scent alone.

Without the suppressant, a prime alpha’s instincts and pheromones could create a security risk, attracting too much attention in the field. These suppressants weren’t commercially available; only high-tier operatives had access to such implants. And the implant wasn't something Katsuki could simply remove or turn off at will.

“Nine minutes out,” Burton’s voice cut through his thoughts, followed by a soft, telltale thud in the distance.

Katsuki looked up. The distinctive whump-whump-whump of a stealth helicopter pulsed through the night as it approached the complex. He shifted to cover, peering through a shattered window as six black-clad figures fast-roped from the hovering bird. They hit the rooftop in practiced unison, dropping from the hovering chopper silent as wraiths. 

Katsuki's nostrils flared involuntarily despite the military suppressants they were all wearing, catching the faint, foreign alpha scent wafting towards his team—sharp, potent, a challenge in the air. Too many predators in one space. His senses prickled with the warning that his team felt it too, their postures tightening, hands hovering near triggers. They all knew the unspoken rule: Alphas worked best in tight units, and with more added to the mix, territory lines became blurred. The instinct to dominate and establish control hummed beneath the surface, even restrained as it was.

The lead SAS operative made his way toward Katsuki, his movements precise but unhurried. The man removed his helmet with a casual flick and extended a gloved hand, his demeanor calm but his gaze sharp and assessing. "Captain Harrison, 22nd Regiment," he introduced himself, voice smooth as a blade. “Hear you’ve got some hostages that need a lift."

Katsuki gripped the hand, firm and unyielding, sizing up the Brit as he fought the instinct to assert dominance. Harrison’s alpha scent, almost as potent as his own, filled the space between them. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken challenge. He’s testing me, Katsuki clocked, his eyes narrowing. Sizing up the American alpha, seeing if I’ll keep my cool or lose it.

"Captain Bakugo, Delta," Katsuki began, tone even but edged with authority. "We’ve got thermal signatures confirming three hostages. Complex is heavily guarded. My team was about to—”

“Excellent. We’ll take point on the extraction,” Harrison cut in, barely allowing Katsuki to finish. “Your team can hold the perimeter, provide security and—”

"Like fuck you will." Katsuki's voice dropped, a guttural edge slicing through the open air. His team shifted behind him, a ripple of instinct responding to his aggression. The alpha in him bristled at Harrison’s presumption, at the arrogance of this foreign officer trying to take control of his operation. Harrison was pushing, and Katsuki’s hindbrain roared to shove back.

This was about more than tactical leadership—it was about proving that Japanese discipline could stand equal to British arrogance, that American integration didn't mean American submission.

Suddenly a memory flashed back to when he'd been fourteen, bloodied and furious after a training exercise gone wrong. The other military brats had ganged up on him—four against one—he'd fought like a demon, breaking one boy's nose and another's wrist before they'd finally pinned him down, forcing his face to the dirt.

"Yield," they'd demanded, twisting his arm until something popped. "Just say it, Bakugo. Say you give up." He'd spat bloody defiance instead, earning himself three cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder. 

Later, as his mother's steady hands reset his shoulder, he’d told her about the training and the fight.

"They think I'm mean," he'd muttered. “But I knew what we needed to win.”

Mitsuki had ruffled his hair roughly, he'd expected a lecture on restraint, on teamwork, on all the things military parents were supposed to value. The things his dad had coached him through when he first presented. Instead, she'd gripped his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze—the same crimson eyes that stared back at him every morning.

"You held," she'd said, pride etched in every line of her face. "Even when they broke you, you held."

"They wanted me to yield,” he'd replied through gritted teeth.

Her smile then, sharp and fierce and approving had seared itself into his memory. "Bakugo-ke wa dare ni mo fukuju shinai," she'd said first in Japanese, the language of family truth, before switching to English.

"Bakugo's bow to no one," she'd told him, voice low and certain as scripture. "Not to other alphas. Not to pain. Not even to death itself." She'd tightened the bandage around his ribs with practiced efficiency. "Remember that when the world tries to break you again. And it will try, pup. Again and again. This is gaman—enduring the unbearable with dignity. For the Bakugo name."

The memory faded as quickly as it had surfaced, but the lesson remained burned into his bones.

“This is our op. You want to help, fine. But my team leads.” His words were clipped, each one punctuated with restrained fury.

Harrison’s eyes narrowed, and for a beat, silence reigned as both men locked eyes, neither willing to back down. The surrounding air thickened with pheromones, both teams instinctively tensing, hands unconsciously drifting toward weapons. Katsuki sensed the warning signs in his own team’s posture, the way they readied themselves, subtle but unmistakable. Exactly what Command was worried about, he thought distantly, that analytical part of him observing the territorial standoff through the lens of tactical logic. Too much testosterone, too small a space.

Harrison’s expression hardened, but his tone remained smooth, controlled. “Perhaps,” he said, voice carefully measured, “we should take a moment and discuss this professionally.”

Earlier in his career, Baghdad: His hands shaking as he applied a fresh suppressor patch, radio chatter about "unacceptable alpha aggression" still ringing in his ears...

Katsuki forced himself to breathe, pulling in a slow, deep inhale as he fought to suppress the primal fury clawing at his control. Control. Years of training pulsed through him, discipline snapped into place, forcing his body to heel. He’d led enough missions to know when the stakes demanded restraint, no matter how much his instincts rebelled. He exhaled slowly, releasing a shred of tension.

“Fine.” His voice was a low rumble, barely more than a growl. “Let’s talk tactics. But understand something—those are our hostages. This is our mission. You want to play, you play by our rules.”

Harrison held his gaze for a fraction of a second too long, then gave a curt nod. But Katsuki didn’t miss the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of the man’s mouth—too knowing, too smug. Katsuki’s gut twisted. He’s holding something back. The Brit knew more than he was letting on, and that set every alarm bell ringing. His mind flashed to the layers of classified intel and careful omissions that often accompanied joint ops like this one. What aren’t they telling me about this operation?

Suppressing the growl that threatened to rise, he forced his focus back to the mission. He adjusted his suppressor patch, feeling the prickling tension along his neck ease slightly as the patch steadied his pheromone levels. Around him, he could sense the barely restrained energy of his own team, their pheromones subtle, but tinged with unease. They feel it too, he noted. Something about this setup is off.

He adjusted the gun strapped to his shoulder and stretched his neck again as he tried to focus on the mission. But deep in his hindbrain, prime instincts howled a warning: This is going to end in blood. 

"Three high-value targets," Katsuki said, spreading detailed surveillance photos across the makeshift planning table. Ten minutes until go-time, and the combined Delta-SAS briefing hummed with barely contained energy. "Two American aid workers—Dr. Sarah Rio, medical researcher, and James Foster, humanitarian logistics. Third is Margaret Whitmore, British diplomatic attaché."

What he didn't say, what made his prime instincts scream: Whitmore was an omega. The scent profiles in her file made that clear, though it wasn't officially documented. In the world of international intelligence, an omega diplomat was both asset and liability. Their enhanced control over pheromones made them exceptional negotiators, but also targets.

Harrison nodded, studying the building schematics. "Our intel suggests the group holding them isn't just your standard Balkans separatist cell."

"No fucking shit," Katsuki growled, pushing forward the documents they'd found. "These shipping manifestos link to at least three different organizations. Russian arms dealers, Japanese pharmaceutical companies—" He caught Kirishima's warning look. Calm. Professional. "Break it down for us, Lieutenant."

Kirishima stepped forward, tablet in hand. "What looked like a simple ransom grab is actually part of something bigger. These separatists? They're hired muscle for a multinational black market operation. Weapons, drugs, human trafficking—all moving through the Balkans while the region's still destabilized from the wars."

"The hostages stumbled onto it," Harrison added. His scent shifted like he was finally sharing what he knew. "Dr. Rio's medical aid group discovered irregularities in pharmaceutical shipments. Drugs that didn't match their labeling. She started asking questions, got too close. Foster and Whitmore were separately investigating UN humanitarian shipments being used to move weapons across several countries."

Now it makes sense, Katsuki thought. The CIA's involvement, the joint operation, the political powder keg they were sitting on. Post-war Sarajevo was supposed to be stabilizing, a symbol of international cooperation. Instead, someone was using the reconstruction efforts as cover for a massive criminal enterprise.

"Timeline's accelerated," Harrison continued. "Whitmore managed to get a message out. They're moving the hostages tonight, probably to split them up. We lose them now—"

"We lose the whole operation," Katsuki finished. And three innocent people die. "Layout's simple. Three floors, basement level, but the second level is where thermal shows the hostages. Main entrance here, secondary exit here. Guards posted in patterns suggesting military training."

He felt his team shifting behind him, adrenaline rising. They'd done this dance before—breach, clear, secure. But usually without any other foreign operators muddying the waters. Usually without an omega hostage triggering every alpha protective instinct in a half-mile radius.

"My team takes point on the breach," Katsuki said, daring Harrison to object. "Your shooters provide overwatch from these positions. Once we confirm hostage locations, we move in synchronized. Quick, clean, quiet. Questions?"

Harrison's team radiating competing energy, but their commander just nodded. "One thing you should know," he said quietly. "Whitmore wasn't just investigating shipping fraud. She's MI6, deep cover. If they've broken her..."

Fuck. Katsuki didn't realize she was an MI6 intelligence officer. No wonder the Brits sent their best, the insurgent group had no idea about her designation since the omega was undercover, not just randomly taken on a random trip. If the terrorists come to realize what they had, if they'd already started interrogation tactics...

Katsuki's hand went to his neck again. The familiar motion caught Harrison's eye.

"Going to be a lot of competing scents and pheromones in there, Bakugo. You and your team steady?" Katsuki could read the calculated question of his authority and control in between the lines of the seemingly innocent question.

Katsuki bit back a snarl. "We're fucking professionals. Worry about yourself and keep your people in check."

"Right." Harrison's slight smirk again. "Remember, we need at least one of them alive. Intelligence value."

I know how to do my fucking job, Katsuki wanted to growl. Instead, he just nodded. "Time check. Seven minutes. Get your team in position."

As the SAS team moved out, Kirishima stepped closer. "Boss... that omega diplomat. If they're hurt..."

"We stick to mission parameters," Katsuki snapped. But his own instincts were already churning at the thought. "Burton, check everyone's patches. I want suppressant levels maxed."

He turned back to the schematics, memorizing angles and distances, but his mind kept spinning. An omega spy. Multinational criminal conspiracy. Too many alphas, too many competing priorities, too many ways this could go wrong. And under it all, a clock ticking down to whatever the terrorists had planned for their captives.

Focus. Control. Mission first. 

He keyed his radio. "All teams, comms check. Two minutes to breach."

The acknowledgments came in—clear, professional, ready.

Katsuki took one last deep breath, letting the familiar pre-mission calm settle over him. He was Delta Force. He was in control.

     VIPER-1: "Viper Actual to all teams: Execute."

SARAJEVO TUNNEL SYSTEM - 0347 HOURS

The night vision cast everything in ghostly green as Katsuki Bakugo led his team through the warren of tunnels beneath Sarajevo. Three hostages, two American aid workers and one British diplomat. Eight hours since confirmation of location. Sixteen minutes until the deadline.

     VIPER-1: "Charlie Team, status?"

Katsuki whispered into his comm, the words barely a breath. His team of the other four alphas moved like shadows behind him, their suppressant patches visible on their necks in the dark.

Two years ago, Tehran: The base commander's voice. "Last chance, Bakugo. One more incident..."

     CHARLIE: "Hold position. Local asset approaching checkpoint."

The clipped response from the British SAS commander made Katsuki's nostrils flare involuntarily. Even through the patches, he could smell the foreign alphas positioned throughout the tunnel network. British SAS, local special forces, and his own team, all coordinating on this extraction. Too many alphas in an enclosed space—multiple prime-grade operators in a confined tunnel system meant competing territorial instincts barely held in check by chemical suppressants and professional discipline.

The air itself felt volatile, each breath carrying competing dominance markers despite their military-grade patches. His team was rock-solid, bonded through years of combat and mutual trust. But mixing units always created tension, especially when political oversight had forced joint operations between territorial predators. He was in control. He had to be.

The tunnel air hung thick with mold and something else—the metallic tang of old blood. They'd found signs of other victims who hadn't survived their captivity. It made his skin crawl, made his instincts raging to hunt down every last terrorist and—

"Movement ahead," Sergeant Wolf whispered from his three o'clock. "Two tangos, armed."

Katsuki held up a fist, and his team froze. The guards passed their junction, AK-47s held loose, talking quietly in Serbian. The moment they cleared the corner, Katsuki gave the signal. Two of his team moved like reapers, combat knives finding throats with silent surgical precision. No sound but the soft thud of bodies being lowered to the ground.

     VIPER-1: "Charlie actual, we're thirty meters from target. Confirm go-order."

Static crackled. Then:

     CHARLIE: "Negative, hold position. Local asset reports additional hostiles in—"

A scream cut through the comm—high, female, terrified.

The sound hit Katsuki like a physical force. Omega. Female. In distress.

His world sharpened instantly. Then gunfire erupted from the direction of the target room.

     CHARLIE: "They're executing the hostages! All teams, go now!"

Katsuki was moving before the order finished, his team falling into formation behind him. The tunnel bent right, opened into a larger chamber. Two terrorists spun toward them, raising weapons. Katsuki's MP7 barked twice. Clean headshots.

More gunfire ahead—the SAS team engaging from their position. The acrid smell of cordite filled the air, mixing with something else. Something that made Katsuki's pulse spike.

Blood. Omega blood.

Every sense kicked into overdrive—not supernatural, just prime alpha biology heightened by the sound and smell of an identified threat. Suddenly every detail burned with preternatural clarity: The precise location of each alpha in the tunnel system, their individual scent signatures cutting through the suppressants. The minute variations in air current that meant movement ahead. The specific pitch of the omega's terrified heartbeat—too fast, growing irregular. His brain calculated trajectories and threat assessments with savage efficiency trying to identify the best route to the safe house entry point. 

They continued to move in silence through the darkened underground tunnels, the air thick and heavy with dust and damp. Katsuki took point, his senses heightened, each nerve sparking with alertness as he led his team through the cramped corridor. Every creak, every faint scuffle of movement seemed amplified. Behind him, the steady presence of his team was a grounding force, their unwavering loyalty a quiet promise as they approached one of the underground entry points that would lead them above ground into where the hostages were being held.

This is it, he thought, mind racing as he mentally mapped the path ahead. Get in, get them out. No mistakes.

He glanced back, taking stock of his team’s focus. Eijiro’s jaw was set, eyes sharp and attentive. Burton’s gaze met his, a silent acknowledgment of the high stakes ahead. They moved as one, slipping through the shadows, weapons raised, each step calculated and precise.

“Stay tight. No one breaks formation until we reach the stairwell,” Katsuki ordered under his breath, keeping his tone steady and even. The tension in the air was palpable, like the moments before a storm broke. He could feel his instincts pulsing beneath the surface, pushing at the edges of his control. Not yet. Hold it together. Mission first.

The tunnel led to a rusted door, its paint peeling and barely visible in the dim light. Burton took a position beside it, hand on the handle, waiting for Katsuki’s signal. Katsuki gave a sharp nod, and Burton eased the door open, revealing a cramped stairwell leading up to the ground floor.

“Clear ahead,” Burton whispered.

Katsuki led them up, one step at a time, his body moving in sync with the steady rhythm of his breathing. They reached the ground floor of safe house—a wide storage area with stacks of crates and barrels, shadows stretching across the floor in fractured lines. Katsuki raised a fist, signaling for silence, his senses straining as he scanned the room.

Keep moving. Don’t stop now, he reminded himself, muscles coiled, ready to spring into action. They’re close.

His hand drifted to his neck, pressing against the faint outline of his suppressor patch, a familiar, grounding sensation. Even with it, he could feel the instincts simmering, kept at bay but still there, waiting. As the weight of his instincts pressed on him, he forced his mind back to the mission. This is about control. This is about getting them out.

“Move,” he ordered, voice barely above a murmur. The team spread out, their movements soundless as they took down isolated guards on this floor with lethal efficiency. Based on the guards dispatched in the tunnels, Katsuki assumed there would be guards at each entry point and on every level. He kept his gaze focused, his mind calculating every step, every turn as his team finished clearing the bottom level. 

They reformed before moving to the stairwell their intel confirmed led to the second floor, and Katsuki gave his team one last, assessing look. Burton met his gaze, a fierce confidence in his eyes, while Eijiro gave a brief nod, his jaw clenched with anticipation. Katsuki felt a surge of pride, tempered by the cold calculation that came with missions like this. They were his responsibility, each one of them depending on his lead, and he would see this through. Failure isn’t an option.

“Second floor entry,” he said, keeping his tone authoritative. “On my mark, we breach. Clear all hostiles, secure the hostages. No mistakes.”

His team nodded, no hesitation, no questioning. They trusted him, and he’d give them every reason to keep trusting him. Katsuki counted down silently. Three. Two. One.

They burst onto the second-floor corridor, the faint flicker of fluorescent lights casting a sickly glow over the worn walls. Shadows danced along the cracked paint and broken tiles. Katsuki moved forward, his weapon raised, every muscle coiled, his mind a perfect, controlled machine as they advanced.

“Hostile, eleven o’clock,” he murmured, catching movement in the corner of his eye. His aim snapped up, and with a single, controlled shot, the guard dropped as brain matter covered the wall behind him. Katsuki’s eyes flicked forward, his team sweeping through the corridor, dispatching threats with calculated, lethal precision. Every movement, every shot, felt like an extension of his own.

We’re close, he thought, feeling the pressure build as they neared the target room. Get in. Get them out. No mistakes.

Finally, they reached the main door where he could hear another fire fight, and he held up three fingers, counting down. This is it. No going back now.

Three. Two. One.

They burst into the room, and all hell broke loose.

One hostage—a woman, mid-thirties—lay slumped on the ground, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath her. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut, a split-second flash of failure that he forced down as he took in the rest of the scene. One down. Keep moving. His gaze snapped to the far side of the room, where the British diplomat—an Omega—was pressed against the wall, a terrorist’s gun held to her head, his grip firm and unyielding. The third hostage, another aid worker, struggled against the grip of a second terrorist.

Chaos erupted around him. The SAS team had dropped two terrorists but were pinned down, taking fire from an elevated position in the shadows. The local special forces—meant to secure the perimeter—were nowhere to be seen. The situation had unraveled in an instant, the perfect plan falling apart.

Time fractured, every detail crystallizing in brutal clarity. Katsuki felt it happening—the fragile barrier of control he’d fought to hold splintering, like a dam about to burst. Not now. Hold it together. Keep it together.

But the familiar surge rose up, clawing through him, unstoppable. He’d felt this before, in Baghdad, in Tehran, moments when his instincts had taken over, drowning his control in a flood of red.

Focus. Protocol. Stand down, the rational part of his mind screamed, but that voice was a whisper drowning beneath the rising tide.

The suppressant patch on his neck simply stopped working—overwhelmed by the surge of natural hormones flooding his system. No smoke, no drama. Just the sudden, terrifying clarity as the chemical leash snapped.

Years of elite-conditioning, twenty-eight years of controlled fury, all shattered in a single moment. His heightened senses cataloged every threat with brutal clarity: seven other Alphas in the room, pheromones thick in the air despite their failing suppressants. Three points of weapons fire. One Omega bleeding on the floor, another with a gun to her head. His mind screamed restraint, strategy, formation, but it was no match for the roar of his instincts, a primal drive pounding through his veins.

Each breath stoked the fire burning inside him, his chest heaving as he tried, one last time, to hold back. His vision narrowed, locking onto the terrorist holding the Omega hostage, her fear thick in the air, fueling the fury building in him. The urge to protect, to destroy anything that dared to threaten his mission, to surge up with brutal force.

They’re mine to protect, he thought, and the words were instinctive, raw. Mine to save.

He felt his team behind him, felt their presence in the corner of his mind, and for a fleeting second, he thought of them—of his responsibility to lead, to keep them safe. But the thought flickered and faded, drowned beneath the tide of red flooding his mind.

His last coherent thought wasn’t of the mission, wasn’t of his career, wasn’t even of his team.

It was his mother's voice, sharp and certain: Bakugos bow to no one.

Not to other alphas. Not to terrorist scum threatening innocents under his protection. Not even to the chemical leash around his neck that was supposed to keep him human.

It was a detached observation, distant and surreal, as if watching himself from afar. So this is what falling feels like.

And then, in one terrifying, liberating instant, he let go—surrendering to the primal force within him, the fierce, unrestrained need to protect, to destroy, to reclaim control by any means necessary. The implant's chemical cocktail meant nothing against millions of years of evolutionary imperative as his prime instincts roared to life, drowning rational thought in pure, predatory purpose.

As he lunged forward, his team sprang into action, intercepting every other threat that surrounded them.

To his left, Eijiro surged toward the other hostage struggling in the terrorist's grip, his rifle raised. In one smooth motion, Eijiro fired, the shot clean and silent. The terrorist crumpled, releasing his hold on the hostage as Eijiro moved in to secure them, his gaze flicking back to Katsuki in silent acknowledgment.

Burton, taking cover near the doorway, had his sights on the elevated sniper before Katsuki could even register the threat. He fired a precise shot, the sharp crack echoing through the room as the sniper went down, dropping from his perch in a silent, lifeless heap. Burton immediately shifted his aim, scanning the room for any other threats, but his gaze kept drifting back to Katsuki, something uncertain flickering in his eyes.

"Bakugo, left side!" The SAS commander was shouting something else from behind him, his team having caught up, but Katsuki couldn't hear him over the roaring in his ears. His grip tightening on his weapon, every muscle coiled with intent. But as he closed the distance, the terrorist’s gaze flickered to him, and Katsuki saw the split-second decision flash in the man’s eyes—the choice to pull the trigger, to end the Omega’s life in one last act of defiance.

But Katsuki was faster.

Time seemed to fracture into crystalline slow-motion as he moved. Not left. Straight center, zeroing in on the terrorist holding the omega diplomat. His MP7 was empty. Didn't matter.

     The terrorist's eyes dilated with understanding—

          pupils expanding like ink drops in water.

The terrorist's finger tightened a hair on the trigger, but Katsuki was already there. Not teleportation, just speed beyond normal human capability, enhanced reflexes unleashed by desperate necessity. 

His hand closed around the terrorist's wrist, crushing bone with a sickening

                    c r u n c h

Splintered fragments tore through skin in a jagged mess of blood and bone. The gun fell, clattering distant and meaningless as the terrorist's mouth opened in shock, eyes widening with the understanding that death had found him.

Katsuki's other hand found their throat. Gripped, fingers digging in—

"BAKUGO, stop! We need him alive for—"

The sound that echoed in the room came in three parts: cartilage compressing like wet paper, vertebrae separating under force with a grinding pop, the final snap like a branch breaking in winter silence.

2.3 seconds total.

The body crumpled to the ground unceremoniously and the hostage omega fell forward, gasping.

The SAS captain Harrison's protest died mid-word.

Katsuki spun, chest heaving, eyes wild and unfocused, searching for more threats. The room reeked of alpha pheromones—his team, the British team—all of them setting each other off in a storm of raw, primal dominance, thickening the air with tension and blood.

The remaining terrorist had released his hostage, hands raised in surrender. The SAS team was securing him, but they were watching Katsuki now. He could smell their wariness, their recognition of an alpha losing control.

"Stand down, Captain," his lieutenant said firmly. Wrong move.

Katsuki's lip curled, a growl building in his chest. These other alphas were in his space, threatening his authority, when there was an injured omega—

The crack of a rifle shot snapped him back. The surrendered terrorist had pulled a hidden pistol, gotten off one shot before the SAS team put him down. The bullet caught one of the British alphas in the arm.

And Katsuki broke.

What happened next came in flashes. His team trying to restrain him—Kirishima's shoulder dislocating as Katsuki threw him off. The SAS commander shouting for sedatives. The omega diplomat screaming as pheromones flooded the room. A concrete support beam cracking when someone's back hit it too hard. Old pipes groaning under stress. Concrete dust cascading from ceiling impacts.

Red. Everything red.

When awareness returned, he was on his knees, three empty sedative injectors on the floor around him. His team's medic was treating the wounded hostage. The SAS commander was calling for immediate evac, voice tight with controlled fury. Two of his own team members were down, groaning—he'd put them there.

Medical protocol demanded immediate evacuation to Ramstein Air Base for "Prime Officer Briefing." Military speak for: you fucked up so monumentally that Congress is going to want answers.

The mission was technically successful. Two hostages saved. Intel secured. Target terrorists eliminated.

Three career-ending sedatives. Seventeen minutes of lost time. One dead terrorist who should have been interrogated. Two injured teammates who might never look at him the same way.

The sedatives dragged him further under, but Katsuki knew. He knew this was his last mission as team leader. He'd finally gone too far.

As he was transported he could only catch glimpses and snippets of medical readouts that flashed through his fading consciousness: heart rate 187 BPM, cortisol levels 340% above baseline, adrenaline saturation critical. Numbers that would end careers, break treaties, rewrite protocols.

His last thought before unconsciousness: At least the omega survived.

At least I didn't fail everyone.

Darkness.

Then electronic beeping—sharp and insistent.

Chemical sweet coating his throat. Latex. Antiseptic burning his nostrils like acid.

Pain at the base of his skull—surgical, precise, violating.

Eyes wouldn't open. Or couldn't. Something holding them—no. Just exhaustion. Sedatives. How long—?

The beeping accelerated. His heartbeat. Too fast. They'd notice.

Slow it down. Control. But control meant—

Memory slammed back: the tunnel, the omega's scream, the snap of bone under his hands.

His team. Fuck. His team.

The first coherent thought: antiseptic over blood, beta medical staff, and the lingering chemical sweetness of sedatives. Military hospital. Again.

Movement brought fresh awareness of violation. IV lines snaked from both arms like plastic veins, the one in his left hand already pulling when he shifted. EKG leads crawled across his chest like digital parasites, their adhesive burning against skin still raw from decontamination scrubbing. A catheter tube disappeared under sterile sheets—when had they—? Drainage tubes emerged from beneath surgical dressings at his neck, weeping pink fluid into collection bags marked with his blood type and a biohazard symbol he didn't recognize—some kind of warning that seemed more complex than standard medical protocols.

He tried to move, found his wrists secured to the bed rails with restraints designed for prime strength—military-grade titanium alloy, not the leather straps they used for standard patients.

Rage flooded through him like molten metal. Restrained like a fucking animal. Caged like some rabid beast they couldn't trust. The titanium bit into his skin as he tested the bonds, every instinct screaming to rip them apart, to break free, to show them what a real alpha could do when pushed too far. His unregulated strength strained against the alloy until the bed frame groaned in protest.

His throat felt raw, probably from the intubation tube they'd shoved down his throat while he was unconscious. Had they violated every part of him while he couldn't fight back? Fragments of memory flashed: the omega's terror-scent, bones breaking under his hands, his own team trying to restrain him...

"Ah, you're awake, Captain Bakugo."

A beta doctor—Korean-American by her accent—approached with the calculated movements of someone accustomed to handling dangerous patients. Her latex gloves snapped as she pulled them tighter, reaching for a penlight that she aimed directly into his pupils without warning. The beam felt like ice picks drilling through his hypersensitive optic nerves, making him flinch against the restraints.

Her scent carried no fear, just clinical detachment and the metallic tang of medical instruments. She pressed a digital stethoscope against his chest, the cold metal deliberate against still-tender skin. "Cardiac rhythm irregular but stabilizing. Respiratory function within prime parameters." Her fingers probed the surgical site at his neck with efficient pressure, checking suture lines and drainage. "Extraction site healing without infection. No signs of neural rejection."

Used to handling volatile alphas, then. Probably one of the specialists brought in when the Enhanced Alpha Program had first gone mainstream, back when the military had started internally recruiting prime designations for their specialized combat units.

"How long?" His voice came out rough.

"Eighteen hours. We had to keep you under while the suppressants cleared your system." She made notes on her tablet. "Your pheromone levels were off the charts. Highest I've seen since that incident in Tehran."

Tehran. Another clusterfuck.

"The implant?" Katsuki asked, already knowing the answer from the tender spot at the base of his neck where the military-grade regulator had been embedded for the past six years. The device that had allowed him to walk the perfect line between augmented capability and controlled restraint.

The doctor set down her tablet, meeting his eyes with clinical directness. "We had to remove it. Your readings were dangerously irregular, the interaction between the implant and your natural hormone levels was creating unstable spikes. Command ordered immediate removal."

Katsuki's jaw clenched. Without the military-grade suppressant implant, his status as a Prime Alpha would be... complicated. The device wasn't just about dampening aggression—it was about precise calibration of his prime physiology. The implant had allowed him to push past normal human limitations while maintaining perfect control, giving him the strength of three men and senses sharp enough to detect a heartbeat through concrete walls. All carefully tuned and regulated to serve operational requirements.

"How long?" he demanded.

"Minimum two weeks for full detox," she said, pulling up his charts. "Your system needs time to reestablish its natural baseline after years of suppression. You'll experience heightened sensory awareness, increased territorial responses, stronger instinctual reactions. Given your Prime status, the effects will be more pronounced than for standard alphas."

She hesitated, then continued more gently. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you need to understand what you're facing. Your senses will be sharper—scents, sounds, even visual stimuli will feel more intense. The fluorescent lights will probably burn your eyes. Other alphas' pheromones will trigger fight-or-flight responses your body hasn't felt since adolescence. Your territorial and protective instincts will be harder to control—simple proximity to other alphas may feel like physical aggression. Your physical capabilities may fluctuate unpredictably between prime strength that could shatter bones and crashes that leave you weaker than baseline human."

"I know how to handle myself," Katsuki growled. He'd been one of the first in his West Point class selected for the Enhanced Alpha Program—had volunteered for the experimental implants when most candidates had balked at the invasive technology. The military's carefully crafted solution for weaponizing designation biology.

"This isn't about handling yourself, Captain. This is about your body readjusting after years of chemical and neural regulation." She checked something on her tablet. "Your implant wasn't just suppressing aggression, it was fine-tuning your enhancement to military specifications. Those enhancements don't just disappear with the implant, but they will be harder to control."

She tucked the tablet under her arm. "Once you're cleared for duty and receive new orders, we can discuss reinsertion of the implant. But it has to be done through proper military channels since these aren't standard suppressants available to civilians. The tech is classified, as you know."

Katsuki stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Fucking military and their control-freak bullshit. They'd spent millions—hell, probably billions—developing their precious implant technology, engineering some chemical miracle that performed a delicate balancing act in prime alpha biology.

What a crock of shit... except for the part where it actually worked.

The implants suppressed everything "problematic" about being a prime alpha—the territorial rage that made him want to tear apart anyone challenging his authority, the aggressive pheromones that could give away positions during stealth ops, the dominance behaviors that made working with other alphas a goddamn nightmare. All while amplifying the physical gifts that made alphas like him so fucking valuable to them. Prime strength? The implant refined it to precision force. Heightened senses? Suddenly they had surgical focus rather than the sensory overload that had nearly driven him insane during his first rut.

It was almost elegant, if you could ignore the part where they were basically drugging soldiers to make them more compliant. A marvel of biochemical engineering that created the perfect weapon: one with abilities bordering on superhuman, but with the discipline to deploy those abilities with cold fucking efficiency rather than alpha rage. The implant was an amplifier, turning the raw, unpredictable power of prime alpha physiology into something the military could point at a problem and say "fetch."

Years of careful calibration, millions in research, all dependent on military technology he no longer had access to. All revoked with a single signature because he'd broken protocol saving a hostage's life. Without it, he wasn't just losing control—he was losing the capabilities that had made him elite, while being left with all the primal instincts the implant had been designed to manage.

Just fucking perfect.

"Recommendations?" he asked, military decorum still governing his response despite the chaos of his body.

"Stay in open spaces when possible. Maintain distance from others, especially other alphas. Regular exercise will help burn off excess energy. Meditation or other focusing techniques may help with the sensory overload." She wrote something in his chart. "And Captain? Don't fight the adjustment process. The more you try to suppress these responses, the harder they'll hit when they break through."

The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd spent his entire career proving he could control his alpha nature through discipline and technology. Now he had to learn to work with it instead.

"Is that why Command kept me sedated? The adjustment?"

She nodded. "The sudden removal of high-grade regulators can be... intense. Especially for someone with your capability level. We needed to monitor the initial hormone cascade in a controlled setting." A pause. "I don't know all of the details of your situation, Captain. I just know what I was ordered to do."

Katsuki closed his eyes. He'd spent his entire career fighting to prove that Japanese discipline combined with American military excellence could produce the perfect operator. Now here he was, restrained like a rookie who couldn't control his instincts.

A commotion at the door interrupted the doctor's next words. Katsuki's acute hearing caught a familiar voice arguing with the MPs stationed outside—deep and insistent, but with an undertone of genuine concern rather than aggression.

"I don't care about your protocols. I was on his team in Sarajevo. I'm his second-in-command, for Christ's sake!"

Eijirou. Katsuki felt something loosen in his chest. The doctor glanced at the door, then back at Katsuki with a raised eyebrow.

"Your lieutenant is persistent. He's been here every six hours since they brought you in."

"Let him in," Katsuki said, the words coming out rougher than intended. Then, with forced professional distance: "I need to debrief with my team."

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. "Not too long though. You're still under medical observation." She moved to the door, exchanged a few quiet words with the guards, and stepped aside.

Eijirou Kirishima burst through the door like a man fighting his way back from drowning. His usually immaculate red hair stuck up at wild angles, still wearing yesterday's fatigues with sleeves rolled back and combat boots unlaced. Dark circles under his eyes, three days of stubble, the particular exhaustion that came from refusing to sleep until your brother was safe.

"You're awake." The words came out rough, cracked with relief. His grin split wide and desperate, showing too many teeth—the same fierce expression he'd worn dragging Katsuki's bleeding ass through Helmand Province six years ago. "About damn time. You had us all scared shitless, man."

"Lieutenant," Katsuki acknowledged, falling back on rank to mask the relief he felt seeing a friendly face. "Status report."

Eijirou rolled his eyes as the doctor slipped out, giving them a moment of privacy. "Seriously? You've been unconscious for eighteen hours after going full berserker in Sarajevo, and the first thing you want is a status report?" His expression softened. "How about 'Hey Eijirou, thanks for making sure those hostiles didn't put a bullet in my back while I was losing my shit?'"

"That what you're calling it now?" Katsuki's mouth quirked slightly. "Losing my shit?"

"Well, the brass is calling it an 'enhancement regulation failure leading to protocol breach,' but that's a mouthful." Eijirou pulled up a chair, straddling it backward. "It was pretty intense, man. I've seen you in combat plenty of times, but this was... different. When that omega screamed, it was like something just snapped. Never seen you move that fast, even after the implant."

Katsuki's chest tightened with something that had nothing to do with the medical equipment. Six years since Helmand—IED blast that shredded their convoy, Katsuki pinned under twisted metal with his femoral artery painting the Afghan sand crimson. Eijirou had crawled through forty meters of sniper fire, hands slick with blood, dragging him to cover while bullets sparked off concrete inches from their heads.

"Heroes don't abandon heroes," Eijirou had rasped through punctured lung tissue, his own blood mixing with Katsuki's in the dust. Three bullet wounds, collapsed lung, broken ribs—and the stubborn bastard had refused medevac until Katsuki was stable and loaded first.

Red Riot doesn't leave his brother behind. Ever. That kind of loyalty transcended protocol, rank, even survival instinct. It was family forged in gunfire and sealed in shared blood.

Katsuki frowned, trying to piece together fragmented memories. The hostage situation had been standard until they'd found the omega—beaten, terrified, her pheromones screaming distress. Then... nothing but red rage and the feeling of bones breaking under his hands.

"The team?" he asked, dreading the answer. The question tasted like ash in his mouth. Had he hurt any of his own people in his frenzy? The thought hit him like a physical blow—he who had sworn to protect them, who had led them through countless operations without losing a single good man. What if his uncontrolled rage had turned on the people who trusted him most?

Shame burned through him, hotter and more corrosive than the rage. A leader who couldn't control himself was worse than useless. 

"We're good," Eijirou assured him quickly. "A little rattled, maybe, but nobody blames you. That particular terrorist cell had it coming after what they did to those hostages." His expression darkened. "The omega was bad, but there were others. Some had been... working on them for days."

Katsuki nodded grimly. He remembered the smell of old blood, the lingering stench of fear.

"What's the fallout?"

Eijirou ran a hand through his already messy hair. "That's... complicated. Mission-wise, we completed all objectives. Hostages rescued, intelligence gathered, tangos neutralized. Technically a success."

"But?" Katsuki prompted, sensing the hesitation.

"But politically? It's getting messy." Eijirou lowered his voice. "The enhanced operator angle has leaked to the public. Not the specifics, but enough. One of the hostages talked to local press, mentioned American soldiers with 'unusual abilities.' Social media grabbed it and ran. Now there's all this speculation about 'super soldiers' and 'military enhancement programs.'"

He grimaced. "The Designation Equality Movement is having a field day. They've organized protests outside three military bases already, claiming the government is 'weaponizing designation biology' and 'consolidating power through alpha militarization.'"

Katsuki snorted. The DEM had been a thorn in the military's side for years, a loose coalition of activists ranging from reasonable advocates for designation rights to radical fringe elements who believed all military use of Prime and augmented individuals should be banned. They had no idea what they were talking about. The enhanced program wasn't about power, it was about using natural abilities to protect people who couldn't protect themselves.

"Let them protest," he muttered. "Doesn't change the fact that we saved those hostages."

"Yeah, well, it's got Congress's attention now." Eijirou's expression grew serious. "There's talk of fast-tracking that Enhanced Registration Act that's been stalled in committee. Using Sarajevo as a case study for why 'enhanced individuals require additional oversight.' Word is they're also accelerating some kind of specialized assessment program, something about 'alternative deployment strategies for unstable assets.'"

Katsuki's hands clenched, the restraints creaking under suddenly increased pressure. Politicians using his mission to advance their agenda, to justify tracking and registering people whose only crime was being born different. He'd seen where that kind of thinking led in other countries—the designation segregation, the mandatory suppressants, the systemic discrimination masked as "public safety."

"Congress can't possibly think registration will actually change anything," he growled. "I was already tagged, monitored, and implanted with their fucking tech."

"Logic isn't exactly their strong suit," Eijirou agreed. "But they're scared. The general public has always known about alpha, beta, and omega designations—it's just basic biology. But enhanced and augmented soldiers? That's something else entirely."

Katsuki nodded grimly. Most people understood the designation basics: alphas with their greater physical strength and dominant pheromones, betas making up the majority with their balanced traits, and omegas with their heightened emotional intelligence and ability to influence through subtle pheromonal cues. Society had long since integrated these biological realities—they were just variations of human, like eye color or height. No segregation, no special treatment beyond accommodations during heats or ruts.

Prime designations, though—alphas and omegas whose biological markers were exponentially more potent—those were rarer. Maybe one in ten thousand. People who were naturally faster, stronger, more sensitive to stimuli. Their existence wasn't hidden exactly, but neither was it widely discussed outside scientific circles and military recruitment programs.

"The general public has known about enhanced soldiers for years, but in this vague, action-movie kind of way," Eijirou continued. "They think we're like comic book super soldiers with genetic engineering and experimental drugs. The reality of the implant tech, the specialized training for primes, the way we've harnessed natural designation traits for tactical advantage—that's all still classified. But Sarajevo cracked the door open, and now everyone's peeking through."

Eijirou leaned forward, lowering his voice further. "Command is in damage control mode. They're highlighting how primes and augmented soldiers saved the hostages, trying to spin it as a positive. But the anti-military crowd is pushing hard on the 'dangerous alphas with too much power' angle."

Katsuki's jaw tightened. He couldn't care less about the politics—he was a soldier, not a politician. He followed orders, completed missions, protected civilians. The rest was background noise. But if the Enhanced Registration Act passed, it wouldn't just affect military operatives like him. It would impact every prime designated individual in the country, most of whom were just trying to live normal lives despite biology that made them different.

The worst part was the conflation happening in public discourse—people weren't distinguishing between regular designation dynamics, prime individuals with their naturally heightened abilities, and augmented soldiers with military training and implants. They were lumping it all together into one threatening package, feeding conspiracy theories that had been lurking on the fringes for years.

"The rest of the team?" he asked, deliberately steering away from politics.

Eijirou brightened. "Everyone's intact. Denki's been monitoring the digital fallout, you know how he gets with his algorithms and social media tracking. Says the narrative is 'fractured but manageable.'" He mimicked Denki's more technical way of speaking. "Mina's been running interference with her intelligence contacts, trying to contain the more classified details."

His smile turned fond. "They've both been asking about you non-stop. Denki's probably already got a 'welcome back from the dead' party planned at O'Malley's once you're cleared."

Despite everything, Katsuki felt a flicker of warmth. His team, his people. Four years together through the most classified, high-risk operations the military could throw at them. Eijirou as his second-in-command and close-quarters combat specialist, Denki handling cyber intelligence and comms, Mina with her unparalleled skills in intelligence analysis and human assets. They'd formed a bond that went beyond professional respect into something like family—though he'd sooner get shot than admit that out loud.

"Tell them to hold off on the party," Katsuki said. "I've got a congressional hearing in three days. Doubt I'll be in a celebrating mood."

Eijirou winced. "Yeah, about that... it's going to be intense. Joint oversight committee. Representatives from State Department, DoD, and the Intelligence Committee. Closed session, but still, they're bringing out the big guns."

"Let them," Katsuki's lip curled in a snarl. "I've got nothing to hide. I did my job, I completed the mission, and saved the hostages."

"I know that, man." Eijirou's expression was unusually serious. "We all do. But just... be careful in there. This isn't just about Sarajevo anymore. There are people who've been looking for an excuse to shut down the Enhanced Alpha Program for years. They see you as their perfect ammunition."

Politics. Always fucking politics. Katsuki had never cared for the congressional posturing, the budget battles, the endless debates about regulations. He'd signed up to serve, to protect, to use his natural abilities for something that mattered. Let the politicians argue about oversight committees and international protocols—he'd be in the field, doing the work that actually kept people safe.

The door opened before Katsuki could respond, the doctor returning with a stern expression. "Time's up, Lieutenant. Captain Bakugo needs rest."

Eijirou stood, clapping a hand on Katsuki's shoulder. The casual physical contact would have been unthinkable from anyone else—even with suppressants, most people instinctively maintained a careful distance from prime alphas. But Eijirou had never seemed intimidated by Katsuki's designation, had pushed past his defenses from their first meeting at West Point.

"I'll check on you tomorrow," he promised. "Try not to terrorize the medical staff too much in the meantime."

"No promises," Katsuki muttered, but there was no heat in it.

As Eijirou left, the doctor returned to Katsuki's bedside, checking the restraints with clinical efficiency.

"You're quite popular today. You also had a call from Tokyo," the doctor added. "Minister Mitsuki Bakugo."

Fuck. His mother would be pissed.

The comment hit him like ice water, washing away the last traces of rage and shame to leave cold tactical assessment. Japan's Minister of Defense didn't appreciate international incidents involving her son, especially ones that threatened the delicate alliance networks she'd spent years constructing. Every alliance treaty, every defense agreement, every careful diplomatic bridge she'd built between Japan and the US military—all of it now compromised by his loss of control.

After her decorated military career, she'd pivoted to politics with the same ruthless efficiency she applied to everything, including parenting. Now she commanded Japan's entire defense apparatus with an iron fist in a silk glove, negotiating security treaties one day and dressing down generals the next. And her son had just become a liability to everything she'd worked to achieve.

One incident could undo decades of progress in international designation integration.

"How the hell does she know? The mission—" he started.

"Is still classified, of course," the doctor cut him off. "But when you're the Minister of Defense with top-level clearance across multiple allied nations, walls tend to be more... permeable." She adjusted his IV. "And when the incident involves her son and threatens to derail tomorrow's security council meeting, she tends to notice."

Katsuki rolled his eyes, a gesture that did nothing to hide the tension radiating from him. His mother had practically engineered him for military excellence—one of the pioneers in enhancement research, her work on alpha designation biology helping lay the groundwork for the very implant technology they'd put in her son. Her early research into quantum-biological interfaces had been classified above his clearance level, but he'd heard whispers. The perfect soldier from the perfect bloodline, built on secrets he wasn't allowed to know. And now he'd fucked up on an international stage.

"Great. Another crack in her perfect vision of diplomatic excellence," he muttered. "I'm sure she's already strategizing how to spin this to the Prime Minister."

The doctor checked his restraints. "We'll need to keep you under observation for another twelve hours. Protocol."

Protocol. Everything in his life came down to protocols, procedures, careful systems to keep the alpha contained. And none of it had mattered when it counted.

The doctor's expression softened slightly as they checked the doorway. "I understand, Captain. I shouldn't say this, but just... be prepared. The people questioning you in that hearing won't see a soldier who saved a hostage. They'll see a weapon that went off-script." She hesitated. "And your mother's position only complicates things. The Minister of Defense can't be seen having a son who's... unstable."

A weapon. That's what the bureaucrats saw when they looked at him—not a man who'd sacrificed normalcy to serve his country, not a soldier who'd pushed his body beyond natural limits to protect others. Just another asset in their arsenal, to be regulated and contained.

"Tell me something I don't fucking know," Katsuki growled, turning his face away. The political chess game his mother excelled at had always been a battlefield he couldn't quite navigate. He'd much rather face actual combat over the diplomatic minefields she walked with ease. "And I know what I've done. I've saved more lives than any committee member will ever know about. If they want to question my methods, they're welcome to try."

The doctor merely nodded, detaching the monitoring equipment before moving toward the door. "Rest, Captain. The next few days will be challenging enough without sleep deprivation."

Whatever came next—the hearing, the political fallout, the possible end of his career—he would face it with the same determination that had carried him through Special Forces selection, through Delta Force operations, through missions that had broken lesser men.

Defiance crystallized in his chest, cold and sharp and unbreakable. They could restrain him, drug him, strip away his implant and his rank and his authority. They could make him a political liability, a cautionary tale, a weapon too dangerous to wield. But they couldn't change what he was at his core.

Enhanced or not, implant or not, he was still Katsuki fucking Bakugo.

The best they'd ever trained, the most effective operator in their arsenal, the man who saved lives while politicians played their games. And he'd be goddamned if he'd apologize for doing exactly what they'd designed him to do—protect the innocent, eliminate the threat, and complete the mission at any cost.

A soft knock interrupted his nap. A different suit—his handler he assumed, who had the bearing of someone that delivered bad news for a living—entered carrying a sealed folder marked with congressional insignia.

"Apologies, Captain Bakugo," the man said, his tone carefully neutral. "I've been instructed to inform you that you've been cleared for discharge pending your appearance before the Joint Congressional Oversight Committee. In three days, 0800 hours."

Katsuki's heightened hearing caught the subtle emphasis on the word 'oversight.' Not a standard debriefing. Not a routine mission review. Sounded like a fucking trial disguised as a hearing.

"Pentagon?" he asked, voice rough, although he already knew the answer would be worse.

"Hart Senate Office Building. Room 216. Full committee session." The suit placed the folder on the bedside table without making eye contact. "Your dress uniform has been pressed and will be delivered to your quarters. A car will collect you at 0700 an hour before your hearing."

The folder's weight looked heavier than it should, containing his future, his career, possibly his freedom. Hart Building meant this wasn't just military brass—this was senators, congressmen, the kind of people who saw soldiers as assets to be managed or threats to be contained.

After the handler left, Katsuki stared at the folder for a long moment without opening it. Whatever was inside would only confirm what he already knew: his actions in Sarajevo had set something in motion that was far bigger than one botched extraction.

The next twelve hours crawled by in a haze of clinical violation. Psych evaluations where beta doctors asked him to rate his "aggression triggers" on a scale of one to ten. Blood work that required three different phlebotomists—the first two had flinched when his unmasked alpha pheromones hit them, hands shaking too hard to find the vein. Endless questions about his suppressant use and enhancement responses, each answer cataloged in files marked with classification levels he'd never seen before.

Through it all, his phone buzzed with encrypted messages he couldn't answer. His mother's diplomatic channels. His father's worried texts. Command frequencies cycling through priority codes. Everyone wanting explanations he couldn't give, answers he didn't have, reassurances he couldn't provide.

When they finally discharged him—"medical release pending administrative review"—the same beta handler from earlier drove him to his DC apartment in a government sedan with diplomatic plates. No uniform, no credentials, no weapon—just civilian clothes that felt like a costume and strict orders to maintain a low profile. The handler's hands had trembled slightly when he'd signed the discharge papers, his beta biology recognizing a predator even through the medication's lingering effects.

The drive through DC felt surreal. The government sedan's interior felt like a prison. Every synthetic surface, every air freshener molecule, every vibration from the road surface hit his reactivating alpha senses like a physical blow. The handler's beta biology projected anxiety in pheromone patterns Katsuki could read like billboard text—elevated cortisol, adrenaline aftershocks, the metallic tang of someone who'd spent too long in a medical facility.

By the time they reached his building, his body was running a low-grade fever as his immune system tried to process whatever cocktail they'd mainlined into him. The discharge papers crumpled in his grip, his fine motor control still shot to hell from the neurological monitoring. Standing required conscious effort—his enhanced muscle fibers were still recalibrating to normal movement patterns after weeks of forced stillness.

The handler left him at his building with a reminder: hearing in three days. Until then, maintain routine. Stay visible. Act normal.

The key turned in his apartment lock with a soft click.

Normal. Right.

Katsuki stood in his doorway for a long moment, hand still on the deadbolt, scanning the interior like he was breaching hostile territory instead of coming home.

Home. The word felt wrong in his mouth. This place had always been temporary—a DC assignment, a convenient address between deployments, a government-subsidized box to store his civilian clothes and collect his mail. Now, stripped of his clearance, his weapons, his team, it felt more like a safe house. Or something more constricting if he thought too hard about it.

Muscle memory had him checking sight lines and defensive positions before he'd even kicked off his shoes.

The space felt smaller than he remembered. Cleaner. More... civilian. The furnishings were regulation sparse—standard-issue couch, functional dining table, the kind of impersonal efficiency that screamed "temporary military housing." Nothing that couldn't be packed and shipped in under two hours. Nothing that suggested the man who lived here had any intention of staying.

But his scent was everywhere now. His scent, not the chemically neutered version he'd maintained for years. Every surface, every piece of fabric, marked with the pheromone signature of an unmedicated alpha prime. The couch cushions where he'd collapsed after particularly brutal training sessions. The kitchen counter where he'd gripped too hard during suppressant crashes. Even the air itself carried traces of his presence—raw, unfiltered, honest in a way that felt both liberating and terrifying.

He moved through the apartment like he was conducting a security sweep, checking corners and windows out of habit, but also... avoiding something. The reality, maybe. That this place—this sterile, temporary box—was all he had left of his old life.

The home gym called to him from the spare bedroom, but he resisted. That was his usual refuge, the place where he could burn off frustration and maintain the illusion of control. Tonight, it felt too much like running away.

CNN was already running breaking news banners about "unspecified incidents" involving American special forces in Eastern Europe. Social media exploded with conspiracy theories about "super soldiers" and "enhanced operatives," trending hashtags like #ReleaseTheSarajevoFiles and #AlphaConspiracy. A senator from Nebraska had called for "comprehensive review of military enhancement programs," citing unconfirmed reports from Balkan intelligence sources.

His operational radio crackled with updates from other agencies, FBI counterintelligence monitoring online chatter, CIA damage assessment teams coordinating with international partners, State Department officials fielding calls from at least six allied nations. All of it swirling around one incident, one mission, one moment when his control had snapped.

And he had to sit silently, unnamed, unacknowledged, watching his career fucking implode in real time while trapped behind tinted government glass.

HOUR 37 POST-DISCHARGE - 0200 HOURS

Katsuki stood under the scalding shower in his high-rise, letting the water pound against tense muscles. The heat cascaded over the sculpted planes of his back, steam rising to fog the glass while he pressed his forehead against the cool tile. In a normal post-mission routine, he'd be starting his decompression cycle now. Shower. Protein shake. Review mission logs. Begin preliminary report.

Instead, he had three days of enforced inactivity. Three days to pretend he was just another DC professional while waiting for judgment from people who had never seen combat, never made split-second decisions with lives hanging in the balance, never felt their biology screaming to protect a threatened omega while enemy combatants closed in.

The heat should have been unbearable, now his hypersensitive nervous system craved the pain, needed something strong enough to cut through the sensory chaos. Suddenly, his fist connected with the tile, not hard enough to break it but enough to send a satisfying shock of pain up his arm. Even that sensation felt different without the implant—sharper, more immediate. Every nerve ending seemed exposed, raw, the implant's carefully calibrated dampening effects gone.

The apartment felt wrong without his gear. No weapons to clean, no intel to process, no next mission to plan. Just empty spaces and expensive furniture—stage props for a character he'd never actually inhabited.

Fuck this sterile government safe house. Every surface chosen by contractors to maintain his cover as some international security consultant. Italian leather furniture still bore warehouse tags because no one actually lived here. Even the kitchen was a lie, just meal prep containers his handler delivered like he was some caged animal in a zoo.

It was the kind of place expected of someone with his cover—international security consultant, independently wealthy, frequently traveling. Another prop in the endless performance of being a functional member of society.

Without the implant's sensory dampening, the apartment's artificial nature hit him like a physical assault. His enhanced hearing cataloged every fucking sound: Beta couple in 7B arguing about money. Alpha executive three floors up marking territory through conference call dominance—pheromones seeping through ventilation like chemical warfare, triggering territorial responses that made his muscles coil for violence. Omega mother in 6C below, stress scent sharp enough to cut glass as she tried to soothe a crying baby whose hunger-distress calls made every protective instinct in his DNA scream.

Normal people. Living their normal fucking lives. Never knowing that two floors above them, a weapon designed for war was mapping their biological signatures, calculating threat assessments, fighting every instinct that said defend-protect-eliminate.

Time for him to remind himself who the apex predator was in the building.

He forced himself through the familiar routine: Protein shake that tasted like copper pennies, neurochemical cascade fucking with his taste receptors. Compression wear that felt like sandpaper against hypersensitive skin. His body temperature spiked randomly, forcing him to strip off his shirt, then crashed minutes later until he was shivering in the scalding shower.

Laptop open to the mission report form that had defeated him five times already. Cognitive fog made him forget simple words, he had to look up "chronological" because the letters kept rearranging themselves like alphabet soup. 

The cursor blinked like a heartbeat monitor for his dying career.

Delete. Fuck that medical textbook bullshit.

Delete delete delete. Career suicide in two sentences.

Fuck this doublespeak garbage. He grabbed the laptop—

CRACK. The screen spider-webbed under enhanced grip pressure. Seventeen-hundred-dollar military-spec laptop, reduced to electronic shrapnel.

Stared at the words. Deleted them too.

Blank document. Cursor blinking. His enhanced hearing picked up his own heartbeat, too fast, too irregular. Even his body was writing the report he couldn't.

Truth was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not with CNN spinning fairy tales about "enhanced accountability" and politicians using his blood-soaked hands to advance their registration agendas.

Six years of chemical control. Six years of pretending biology could be negotiated with, reasoned with, controlled through pharmaceutical fucking compliance. All of it lies. His alpha nature hadn't been suppressed—just sleeping, waiting for the right trigger to tear through every safeguard they'd built.

His phone lit up with missed calls he couldn't answer: Unknown number with Japanese prefix—probably his mother's diplomatic back-channels. Two calls from his father he couldn't risk because surveillance would be all over family communications. A group text from his team he couldn't respond to without compromising their positions.

Political isolation in real time.

A text from Denki broke through his encrypted channels:

Boss, digital scrub complete. Your location stays dark. Some weird traffic in the system though - queries coming from places that shouldn't know we exist. Genesis related?

Genesis. The same pharmaceutical classification from those Sarajevo manifests. Someone was using the chaos from his mission to search for connections on him. Now his security clearance was suspended. Handler monitoring communications. Diplomatic passport flagged. They were cutting him loose piece by piece, severing every connection that made him useful while keeping him trapped in their system.

His phone buzzed again. Unknown number, probably another base commander—they were like sharks now, circling the story without quite finding its center. "American Special Forces Show Excessive Force." "International Incident in Sarajevo." "Questions Raised About Alpha Operators."

None of them had his name. None of them ever would. His entire existence was classified, redacted, hidden behind layers of security clearances and non-disclosure agreements. While bureaucrats rewrote his fucking history, he was stuck watching from the sidelines.

HOUR 38 - 0300 HOURS

In normal times, he'd be halfway through his report by now. Planning his next deployment. Instead, he found himself pacing. Thirty-seven circuits around the apartment and counting, each circuit bringing him past the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the glittering city below. His enhanced senses cataloged every surface now marked with his unregulated pheromones—the leather couch crushed where his grip had been too tight, the marble countertop showing stress fractures from his palm prints, the door handle twisted at an wrong angle.

The city sprawled below his windows like a tactical map. A million lights, a million civilians sleeping peacefully because warriors like him stood watch. Except now he was the threat they needed protection from.

He pulled up the news on his destroyed laptop, no wait, he'd put his fist through that screen. The backup tablet showed BBC, running footage of the Sarajevo streets. Speculation about which units were involved. Diplomatic statements expressing "concern" about American military activities in the region.

A new headline caught his eye: "Senate Committee Advances Enhanced Registration Bill Amid International Tensions." The article detailed renewed momentum for legislation that would require all enhanced and prime individuals—military or civilian—to register with the government. The Sarajevo incident was mentioned specifically as evidence of "the need for greater oversight of enhanced individuals in positions of authority."

Katsuki's lip curled in disgust. Politicians using his mission failure to advance their agenda, to justify more control over people whose only crime was being born different. He'd seen where that kind of thinking led, the quiet discrimination that still permeated some parts of society despite decades of supposed progress.

He slammed the laptop shut, unable to stomach any more. His pulse thundered in his ears, a steady drumbeat of rage that would have been chemically muted just days ago. Without the implant, every emotion felt like a physical force, a storm system moving through his body with devastating intensity.

A notification popped up on his phone—his father trying to video call. Masaru Bakugo was the only person who might understand this, a male omega who'd defied tradition to marry a female alpha. Who'd taught his alpha son about control, about channeling power, about finding balance.

Katsuki's finger hovered over the answer button, torn between his instinctive need for his father's wisdom and his pride's demand to handle this alone. He didn't answer though, just let it ring through. Not tonight. Not when the rage and shame were still too fresh, not when his control felt like a house of cards ready to collapse at the slightest breeze.

A new headline caught his eye: "Senate Committee Advances Enhanced Registration Bill Amid International Tensions." The article detailed renewed momentum for legislation that would require all enhanced and prime individuals—military or civilian—to register with the government. The Sarajevo incident was mentioned specifically as evidence of "the need for greater oversight of enhanced individuals in positions of authority."

Katsuki's lip curled in disgust. Politicians using his mission failure to advance their agenda, to justify more control over people whose only crime was being born different. He'd seen where that kind of thinking led, the quiet discrimination that still permeated some parts of society despite decades of supposed progress.

He slammed the laptop shut, unable to stomach any more. His pulse thundered in his ears, a steady drumbeat of rage that would have been chemically muted just days ago. Without the implant, every emotion felt like a physical force, a storm system moving through his body with devastating intensity.

A notification popped up on his phone—his father trying to video call. Masaru Bakugo was the only person who might understand this, a male omega who'd defied tradition to marry a female alpha. Who'd taught his alpha son about control, about channeling power, about finding balance.

Katsuki's finger hovered over the answer button, torn between his instinctive need for his father's wisdom and his pride's demand to handle this alone.

He let it ring through. Not tonight. Not when the rage and shame were still too fresh, not when his control felt like a house of cards ready to collapse at the slightest breeze.

HOUR 39 - 0400 HOURS

"Fucking biological warfare," he snarled at his reflection in the window. His own scent had saturated the apartment now—every surface marked with unregulated alpha pheromones that screamed territorial ownership. Prime alpha without chemical leash. Apex predator reclaiming his space.

Sleep was impossible. His enhanced nervous system burned through REM cycles in fragments—seventeen minutes here, twenty-three there, jolting awake every time he thought he heard team comms or omega distress calls. Dreams of tunnel systems and blood-scent mixing with antiseptic.

The home gym called. Only place in this government showcase that felt real.

The pull-up bar beckoned. Katsuki stripped off his shirt, the cotton suddenly unbearable against his hypersensitive skin, and moved through sets mechanically. His reflection caught in the mirrored wall—golden skin gleaming with sweat, muscles shifting beneath the surface like tectonic plates, a controlled explosion of power contained in human form. The body that had been fine-tuned by the military to be the perfect weapon, now operating without its safeguards.

Without the implant's regulation, his enhanced strength spiked and crashed like a broken weapon system. One moment he was bending the pull-up bar with unconscious grip pressure—steel groaning under approximately 2,800 PSI of force. The next moment he could barely complete a standard rep as his nervous system crashed and burned through whatever neurochemicals powered prime enhancement.

Without the implant's regulation, his enhanced strength fluctuated unpredictably—one moment requiring careful control to avoid bending the metal bar, the next struggling to complete a rep as his system crashed. The implant had been designed to smooth out these peaks and valleys, to maintain optimal operational capacity at all times. Now his kitchen counter bore the marks of his frustration. There was subtle dents in the marble where he’d gripped too hard, catching himself, he forced his hands to relax. 

Dawn found him still training and no closer to peace. The city was just waking up—traffic sounds, coffee shops opening, early joggers hitting the streets. He was sweat-soaked, muscles screaming, but his enhanced physiology was finally finding some kind of equilibrium. Not stable, never stable without chemical assistance, but functional. Dangerous, but functional.

Sun rose over the Capitol dome like it was mocking him. That gleaming symbol of democracy where politicians would debate his worth in two days. They'd question the ethics of enhancement protocols without understanding their necessity, debate the accountability of alpha operators without comprehending the threats they faced.

Fuck their judgment.

The first day after his discharge passed in a haze of withdrawal symptoms and raw nerves. Every sound too loud, every scent too strong, every emotion too intense. The beta neighbor's coffee grinder three units away felt like artillery fire. The omega mother's lullaby two floors below triggered protective instincts that left him pacing and snarling at shadows. Initially, he avoided the news, avoided his phone, avoided anything that might trigger the building rage that simmered just beneath his skin.

His meal prep service delivered at exactly 0900—organic, macro-balanced, everything an elite operator needed. He ate mechanically at his kitchen counter, each bite timed according to his metabolic requirements, deciding to scan diplomatic feeds on his secure tablet. Japan's defense ministry issued a carefully worded statement about "international cooperation" and "proper protocols." His mother's influence, threading the needle between allied solidarity and protecting Japan's designation integration policies.

The second day he forced himself into a morning workout. Old habits die hard, even without a mission to prep for. He ran the building's emergency stairwell—thirty-two floors, full combat load simulation using weighted vest and boots. The other residents' scents created a layered map of the building's inhabitants: anxiety, coffee, cleaning chemicals, the lingering trace of an alpha executive's cologne from 15B. His body responded to each scent marker with territorial awareness he hadn't felt in ages.

The apartment felt like a cage, each pristine surface a mockery of the chaos churning inside him.

Too quiet—his newly heightened senses picked up every tiny sound: the hum of the refrigerator, distant traffic, the muffled lives of neighbors carrying on as if his world hadn't just imploded.

Too civilian—each piece carefully chosen to maintain his cover as just another DC professional. But right now, he felt anything but professional.

It actually pissed him off how much he hated it—this apartment that could have been in London or Tokyo or Qatar, each one identical in its soulless perfection. Identical furniture chosen for practicality rather than preference. Identical emptiness that echoed his footsteps back at him. Identical sense that none of it was real, none of it was his, all of it just another prop in the endless performance of being "under control."

His phone buzzed:

Boss, caught wind of Senate committee fast-tracking DSF protocols. Vote scheduled for next week. They're using Sarajevo as case study. -M

Mina. Always the intelligence analyst, always three steps ahead of the political machinery. The Designation Security Framework—legislation that had been stalled in committee for two years, suddenly accelerated by one mission gone wrong. Every augmented individual in America would be required to register with the government, submit to regular monitoring, face restrictions on where they could live and work.

A digital cage for anyone born different.

Another message, this one from Eijirou:

Team's solid, man. Nobody's talking, nobody's blaming you. We're family. Always.

He didn't feel like he could really process the support. He felt like he needed to move, to act, to do something other than wait for judgment while his body adjusted to operating without chemical restraints.

News alert from his secure feed: "Senate Armed Services Committee Announces Emergency Hearing on Enhanced Military Personnel." The subheading: "International Incident Raises Questions About Oversight of Super-Soldier Programs."

Super-soldiers. Like something out of fucking comic books, not the careful scientific reality of designation biology and military enhancement protocols.

By the third day, the worst of the physical symptoms had faded, leaving behind a clarity that was almost painful in its intensity. His senses had somewhat stabilized at their natural prime levels—still far beyond normal human capabilities, but no longer fluctuating wildly. His strength had found its equilibrium more or less, allowing him to navigate the world without fear of accidentally crushing whatever he touched.

But with that stability came a new kind of fury—the cold, calculated rage of a soldier benched while threats still loomed. The impotent frustration of a weapon left to gather dust while the battle continued elsewhere.

Then his secure line rang, the encrypted phone his handler definitely monitored. His father's name flashed on the display, and Katsuki's acute hearing automatically started cataloging background audio for surveillance signatures.

Fuck it. They were already cutting him loose.

"Katsuki." His father's voice was gentle as always, carrying that particular timbre omega parents used to soothe troubled children. But Katsuki could hear the careful modulation, Masaru knew this line wasn't secure. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine." The lie came automatically, but his jaw clenched against the sudden urge to break, to let his father's omega presence work its biological magic. Without the implant dampening his responses, every instinct screamed for comfort, for the parental soothing his alpha nature craved in moments of vulnerability. His father would hear the strain despite his best efforts.

"Your mother... she's worried, but she's doing what she can," Masaru's tone was careful, carrying decades of military family understanding, navigating between his mate's fierce pride and his son's equally fierce independence. "She knows how these things work."

"Of course she does. She's angry I'm sure," Katsuki muttered, running a hand through his hair. the words carrying more weight than he intended. His mother's reaction would be complicated, he could imagine the rage at hiss perceived failure warring with political pragmatism about how to handle the fallout.

"She's both." A pause, heavy with understanding. "The omega hostage... did they survive?" His father cut straight to what mattered, understanding the instincts that had triggered everything.

Katsuki's grip tightened on the phone—too tight. The military-grade case cracked under unregulated pressure as emotional regulation failed him. Of course his father would cut straight to that—an omega himself, Masaru understood the instincts that had triggered Katsuki's rage. His father had spent years helping him understand and channel his alpha nature, especially after choosing to mate with Mitsuki, a female alpha whose dominance matched her son's. Masaru had taught him that strength wasn't just about power, but about control and understanding. 

"She survived. They all did. Mission successful, technically." The words came out strained. His free hand gripped the marble countertop, leaving finger-shaped stress fractures in the stone. Success on paper, failure in every way that mattered.

"You've always protected people," Masaru said quietly. "Even when it cost you. That hasn't changed."

Katsuki closed his eyes. His father's understanding cut deeper than judgment would have. 

"The weight you carry..." his father continued, voice heavy with years of watching his son shoulder impossible expectations. "It's not just military training. It's who you are."

The words hung in the air. Katsuki had no answer. The cost was still mounting—his career, his control, his carefully constructed balance between two worlds. His hypersensitive senses picked up his own stress pheromones saturating the apartment, the scent of an alpha barely holding it together. Every word from his father's gentle voice made his control crack a little more.

"You're not sleeping," his father continued, his omega intuition picking up what Katsuki tried to hide. "I can hear it in your voice. The same tension you carried before leaving for West Point. Before every major decision, when you tried to shoulder everything alone."

"I'm fine." But the words lacked conviction. His father had always seen through his defenses, even before he presented as an alpha, even through years of military training and chemical suppression.

"You've been 'fine' since you left Japan. Always fine. Always in control. Always alone." Masaru's voice held years of concern, of watching his son choose solitude over connection, discipline over understanding. "But you don't have to be. Not with us. Not with me."

Katsuki's jaw clenched, fighting the sudden urge to break, to let his father's omega presence soothe him as it had when he was young. But he wasn't young anymore. He was a Delta Force operator, a prime alpha, a soldier caught between duty and nature. "I have to go."

"Katsuki—" His father's voice held everything he couldn't handle right now—understanding, concern, unconditional love that asked nothing in return. The kind of acceptance he'd spent his whole life proving he deserved.

He ended the call, but his father's words lingered in the too-quiet apartment. Always alone. By choice, by training, by the demands of his position. But now, with his senses sharp and unfiltered for the first time in years, the solitude felt heavier than ever.

His phone buzzed again—a message this time. His father, refusing to let him retreat completely:

"Remember what I taught you. Strength isn't just about control. It's about understanding yourself enough to know when to hold on and when to let go. Call when you're ready. We'll be here."

Another buzz. Denki this time:

Boss, monitoring Congressional chatter. Hearing's been classified above standard levels. Whatever they want to discuss with you, it's bigger than mission review. Stay sharp.

Then Mina:

International response getting weird. Japan's pushing back against augmented oversight proposals through diplomatic channels. Russia's suddenly interested in "designation cooperation agreements." Something's moving beneath the surface.

Katsuki stared at the messages, his heightened senses picking up his own scent shifting—grief and gratitude mixing with determination. His team still watching his back, still feeding him intel, still treating him like their leader even when he'd failed them. His father had always understood him better than anyone, had helped him navigate being an alpha son to an alpha mother, a Japanese soldier in American forces, a powerful being requiring careful control.

But right now, that understanding hurt more than judgment would have. Because his father was right, he had been alone. By choice, by necessity, by the weight of expectations from two cultures and his own driving need to prove himself.

The political machinery was already in motion, gears turning to use his failure for purposes he couldn't see yet. And now, facing whatever came next, that solitude felt less like armor and more like a prison of his own making—one he'd have to break out of if he wanted to survive what was coming.

The time remaining before the hearing fell into a rigid, lifeless pattern, each moment a battle between discipline and his newly unleashed instincts. He pushed his body past exhaustion, trying to burn out the restless energy surging through him without the dampening effects of chemical control. Forced down precisely measured meals, though everything tasted too intense now, each flavor an assault on his sharpened senses. He continued ignoring the calls that kept coming, his mother’s name flashing on the screen like an accusation.

Sleep, when it came, was a joke. Only delivering brief, haunted snatches of rest plagued by visceral memories that he could no longer chemically suppress. The scent of omega blood, sharper, more gut-wrenching than he’d allowed himself to remember. The sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground, each impact echoing with the knowledge that he had lost control. The crack of bones breaking beneath his hands, a sound that used to mean victory but now screamed failure.

The media coverage had metastasized overnight. CNN ran a panel of "experts" discussing the ethics of enhanced designation integration in military operations—three beta academics and a retired general who'd never worked with prime alphas. Fox News ran a segment on "alpha accountability" featuring talking heads who'd never seen combat but had strong opinions on those who had. Social media exploded with even more speculation about "super soldiers" and government experiments, hashtags like #AlphaThreat and #MilitaryOverreach trending alongside calls for increased regulation of enhanced individuals in public service.

MSNBC ran a special report: "The Alpha Problem: When Biology Meets Military Power." The chyron beneath a stock photo of soldiers read: "Are Enhanced Soldiers Too Dangerous for Democratic Society?"

His knuckles ached with phantom bruises, his neck itched where the implant had been, his forearms remembered the impact of being restrained by his own team. The marks had faded, but his mind held onto them, counting each one like rosary beads of failure.

Katsuki decided to avoid any more coverage, throwing his energy into training instead. The home gym became his sanctuary, the one place where his enhanced strength could be unleashed without consequence. He pushed himself past normal human limits, testing the boundaries of his unregulated capabilities, mapping the new topography of his body.

Pull-up number forty-seven when the flashback hit—tunnel darkness, omega fear-scent, blood under fingernails. His grip slipped, enhanced strength failing as his nervous system confused past and present. He dropped, landing in a combat crouch, scanning for threats that existed three days and a thousand miles away.

"Fuck." The word came out ragged. Hour 72 post-incident. The trauma specialists said flashbacks peaked at 72-96 hours. Right on fucking schedule.

He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall—crimson eyes burning with intensity, golden skin flushed with exertion, every muscle defined and purposeful. The physical embodiment of lethality. The military had spent millions developing the perfect enhancement protocols, the perfect implant technology, the perfect training regimen to produce soldiers like him. And now they wanted to throw it all away because of one mission where he'd done exactly what his biology had been designed to do—protect the vulnerable at any cost.

Fuck their narrative. They'd turned him into a weapon then acted shocked when he pulled the trigger. Classic military bullshit—build a killer, then clutch pearls when killing happened.

His phone chimed with a calendar alert—12 hours until the hearing. Until he would stand before men and women who had never faced the horrors he had encountered, never made the sacrifices he had made, never felt the weight of lives balanced on split-second decisions.

“Fucking suppressants,” he snarled at his heightened reaction. Let them judge him, let them question his methods, his control, his worth. He had given everything to his country—his normalcy, his peace of mind, his very body rewired to serve their purposes. He had become the weapon they needed, the shield they demanded. And he would be damned if he'd apologize for doing exactly what he was made for.

The morning of the hearing arrived, and it seemed as though time was slipping past his attempts to prepare, to plan, to find some way to prove he wasn’t the liability they all thought he was.

Katsuki stood before the mirror, shoulders squared, spine straight, eyes locked onto his own reflection. This ritual he knew by heart—had performed it before every major inspection, every congressional briefing, every moment when perception mattered more than reality.

Dress white shirt, pressed to regulation standards. Collar tabs aligned at perfect 90-degree angles. Sixteen-and-a-half-inch neck, thirty-four-inch sleeve, fitted to eliminate any fold or wrinkle that might suggest imperfection.

Each ribbon bar placed with millimeter precision. Purple Heart earned in Kandahar. Bronze Star with Combat V from Tehran. Silver Star from the classified operation in Myanmar. Thirty-seven ribbons total, representing a career most operators would never approach. Each one earned in blood, validated by sacrifice, authenticated by missions that officially didn't exist.

Captain's bars, polished to mirror finish. Airborne wings aligned perfectly above the ribbon rack. Special Forces tab, Delta Force combat patch, Ranger tab—the trifecta that marked him as elite among the elite. Full dress uniform sat on him like armor, every medal, every commendation aligned with obsessive accuracy. His hands moved mechanically, adjusting his collar for the hundredth time, checking every detail because details were all he had left to control.

The soldier in the mirror looked perfect. Regulation. Controlled.

The alpha underneath was barely contained, pheromones betraying tension no uniform could hide.

"Tch." The sound escaped him—frustration at his own reflection, at the faint scar where the implant had been, at the way his scent betrayed everything his posture denied. Another day of politics and power, of secrets and lies, of games played in the spaces between nations. Another day of being the perfect soldier, the perfect weapon, the perfect fucking specimen on display.

His phone buzzed, and the interruption made him bare his teeth reflexively—another thing he couldn't fully control anymore. His father's message glowed on the screen:

“Remember what I taught you about control. It’s not about suppression. It’s about acceptance.”

“Easy for you to say, old man,” Katsuki growled, deleting the message with more force than necessary. He didn’t need fucking philosophy. Not from his father, not from anyone. He needed focus. Discipline. The same iron will that had dragged him from Tokyo to West Point to Delta Force, proving everyone wrong at every step. Proving he could be more than just another Alpha slave to his instincts.

Then Burton, usually the quiet one:

Sir, formal statement: Operation was textbook until political complications arose. Personal statement: fuck them all. You saved lives. That's what we do. What we've always done. Semper Fi, Captain.

His delta team, his father. And his pack reaching out. Supporting him when the military was ready to throw him away, when politicians were using his mission to advance their agendas, when the whole fucking world wanted to debate his worth based on thirty seconds of uncontrolled instinct. 

The car waited below, the beta driver standing at attention. Today, he would face the board, the CIA, all the quiet powers that would dissect his failure like scientists studying a disappointing specimen. They'd weigh his value against his liability, decide if a prime alpha who couldn't keep his shit together was worth salvaging.

“Perfect,” he muttered to his reflection, checking one last time. “Controlled.” His lip curled at his own bitter tone. "For now."

The apartment door locked behind him with a finality that made his teeth ache.

The elevator doors opened on an omega mother with her pup—couldn't be more than three, clutching a stuffed rabbit with the focused intensity only children managed. The child's scent was pure innocence, unmarred by designation or fear.

The mother's eyes widened, recognizing him despite the civilian clothes. Her scent spiked—fear/protection/submission—as she pulled her child closer. Not from him specifically, but from what he represented. Alpha. Prime. Dangerous.

"It's okay," he said, voice deliberately soft, stepping back to give them space. The child looked up at him with curious eyes, no fear yet, no learned wariness.

The mother nodded, herding her pup inside, but he caught her whispered prayer: "Please don't let them take her when she presents."

The doors closed between them, but her words stayed. Every parent's fear now—would their child be deemed too dangerous? Would the registration acts expand, the testing requirements multiply, until designation meant ownership by the state?

He'd fought to protect people like her. Now he was the threat she shielded her child from.

The hearing couldn't come fast enough.

The beta driver straightened, opening the door without comment, without curiosity, without any sign that he knew he was serving a man whose career was circling the drain. Today he would learn if there was a way forward, if there was any path through the seething, relentless rage that burned in his veins without restraint.

Today, he would find out what happened to Alpha operators who couldn't pretend to be anything other than what they were.

The walk to the SCIF felt like a march to execution.

Two armed Marine guards escorted Katsuki through four separate security checkpoints, each requiring different biometric scans—retinal pattern, palm geometry, DNA verification, and quantum-encrypted authorization. Level Seven clearance for a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, which was higher than most combat operations he'd run in the past decade. Whatever this hearing was really about, it felt far beyond a standard mission review or conduct assessment.

Without suppressants, Katsuki's enhanced senses cataloged everything with brutal clarity: gun oil and combat pheromones from the Marines flanking him, stale coffee and anxious sweat from the beta aide hurrying past with classified folders, and ahead—the heavy mixture of command-level pheromones seeping from behind closed doors. His dress uniform felt too tight across his shoulders, every medal now a weight pressing him down like small anchors.

"Final checkpoint, Captain," the Marine to his left stated, professional but with the subtle wariness that all military personnel now showed around alphas with implant "irregularities."

The final security door required both retinal scan and voice authorization, plus a quantum-encrypted key card that the senior Marine inserted into a nearly invisible slot. Overkill for a standard disciplinary hearing, Katsuki noted. He cataloged the anomalies—extra guards in non-standard positions, signal jammers installed in the ceiling corners, quantum encryption keys on the tablets being carried by staff. This wasn't just about him anymore.

Control. Focus. Breathe.

The Pentagon's Delta Sector—unofficially known as "Shadow Wing" among operatives—housed the most classified hearings and briefings related to Special Access Programs. Program directors and senior intelligence officers who passed through these halls controlled the dark machinery of American power projection through classified ops that officially didn't exist.

And now they've dragged my ass here over one fucked-up extraction. This has to be about something bigger.

The door opened to reveal a conference room designed to intimidate. Sleek black walls absorbed sound, quantum jammers hummed at a frequency only enhanced hearing could detect, and the conference table was a massive slab of polished obsidian that gleamed under precisely positioned lighting. It had the affect of leaving panel members' faces partially shadowed while keeping the chair opposite them fully illuminated.

The room hit him like a wall—four alphas and one beta, their scents marking territory even in this sterile government space. General Remy's dominant presence commanded the center position, her silver hair sharp under the fluorescent lights, stars on her epaulets catching light with each micromovement. The familiar face of Colonel Walsh—beta neutrality almost a relief amid the cocktail of aggressive pheromones. Colonel Chen, whose enhanced alpha biochemistry was barely contained by high-grade suppressants, watching Katsuki with that same cryptic interest from their previous encounters. Two others he didn't recognize that seemed like a naval intelligence officer and an Air Force general, but their scents marked them as heavy hitters in the intelligence community.

A holographic display behind them showed various global time zones: DC, London, Tokyo, Moscow, Beijing. Six video feeds remained dark, but the implication was clear—others were watching, representatives from allied intelligence services waiting to weigh in on whatever this hearing actually concerned.

International incident, then. Fucking perfect.

Katsuki sat ramrod straight in the offered chair, fighting every alpha instinct that screamed to challenge, to dominate, to refuse submission to this panel of judges. His hindbrain registered them as territorial threats, competing alphas encroaching on his authority, but ten years of military discipline held the reaction in check. Barely.

"Captain Bakugo." General Remy activated additional security protocols with a deft movement across her integrated console. Sound dampeners hummed to life, another layer of protection against surveillance. "Before we begin, be advised this hearing operates under Special Access Program protocols per Executive Order 13982 and the International Designation Security Compact. Nothing said here exists outside this room."

A subtle reminder that he wasn't just any operator who'd lost control. His status as a Japanese national serving in U.S. special operations made every incident an international concern, especially after the Marrakesh Agreement of 2019 that formalized how allied nations shared enhanced soldiers.

"Let's cut to the chase," she continued. "The Sarajevo operation was a clusterfuck of historic proportions. Would you care to explain why you disobeyed a direct order from the SAS commander during the extraction phase?"

Katsuki's jaw clenched until he tasted blood. Through the window behind the General, he could see the Potomac River glittering in the morning light, the world continuing with its normal routine while his career hung in the balance. Somewhere in Tokyo, his mother would be starting her day at the military research facility, probably already working damage control through her networks in the JSDF.

"With respect, ma'am," he began, keeping his tone neutral despite the rage simmering beneath his sternum, "I made a tactical decision based on rapidly deteriorating conditions. The MI6 omega operative was showing signs of pheromonal distress that indicated immediate threat to life. SAS Captain Harrison's extraction plan would have—"

"A tactical decision?" Colonel Walsh cut in, his beta status a deliberate choice for this panel as someone who could question an alpha prime without triggering instinctual challenges. "You broke formation, ignored explicit orders in the chain of command, killed a high-value target we needed for interrogation, and then—let me be absolutely clear about this—physically assaulted three allied operators who attempted to follow the mission protocol.”

The door opened after another security scan. A new scent cut through the room, an expensive perfume layered over beta neutrality with just a hint of something sharper, more dangerous. The CIA operative slipped in with silent precision, taking a position against the wall. Her cropped silver hair framed features that reminded Katsuki of Intel officers he'd worked with in Tokyo—sharp, calculating, seeing through every defense.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, placing a quantum encryption key into the room's central security system. "I was on a secured call with our attaché in Moscow. The Russians are... particularly interested in recent events."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Russian interest meant this went beyond a botched mission. Their intelligence services had been aggressively recruiting enhanced individuals since the Geneva Designation Accords had prohibited direct military acquisition of "prime assets" without consent and oversight.

"Captain Alexandria Garaki, Central Intelligence Agency," General Remy introduced her with a nod. "She's here representing our intelligence community's interests in this matter."

Multiple agencies. International observers. Full quantum security. What the actual fuck is going on?

"The omega hostage was in immediate danger," Katsuki continued, his fingers digging into his thighs under the table where the panel couldn't see. "Her pheromonal signals indicated—"

"The omega hostage," General Remy interrupted, bringing up classified files on the main display with a wave of her hand, "was being handled according to established protocol by the SAS extraction team. Your intervention actually increased the risk to all hostages by disrupting the operational tempo." She tapped her tablet. "This isn't your first incident, Captain. Baghdad. Tehran. Even controlled training exercises. Your pheromone readings are consistently above acceptable parameters for fieldwork."

The unsaid accusations hung in the air: unstable, dangerous, uncontrollable. All the things the military claimed enhanced designation integration had overcome. All the things that critics of alpha integration into special operations had warned about for decades.

The CIA operative who arrived late stepped forward, inserting another security key. The displays shifted, showing a complex web of international connections that made Katsuki's stomach clench. 

"This issues goes beyond an isolated incident, Captain," She said, her voice carrying a hint of regret. "The hostage situation was part of a larger operation involving multiple nations' interests. Your... lapse in judgement... has complicated several ongoing investigations across three continents."

She spread surveillance photos across the secure display—masked figures at shipping terminals, quantum signature readouts from enhanced individuals, complex diagrams of organizational structures stretching from Eastern Europe to Southeast Asia.

"That 'high-value target' you executed," she continued, "was our primary link to a network spanning seven countries. The Japanese Defense Ministry had assets in place following related subjects. British intelligence was running parallel operations through MI6. The Russians had their own interests in the region's designation trafficking. You didn't just compromise a mission, Captain. You destabilized a delicate international balance at a time when enhanced designation tensions are at their highest since the Cold War."

The room temperature seemed to drop further. Katsuki had known the mission was sensitive, all hostage extractions involving enhanced individuals were,but this scale of international cooperation...

"The Japanese government," She continued, activating another layer of security protocols that made the air crackle with quantum interference, "is particularly interested in your case. A Japanese national serving in U.S. special operations is already unusual. One who demonstrates prime alpha characteristics that supersede chemical regulation? That raises serious questions about cross-continental integration in elite units."

One of the dark video feeds flickered—someone in Tokyo watching, probably military intelligence or his mother's research division. Katsuki's spine stiffened further.

"My mission success rate—"

"Is exceptional," Colonel Chen cut in, leaning forward with the intensity that had earned him the nickname “Shark” among special forces operators. Unlike the others, his scent carried no judgment—only curiosity, like Katsuki was a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. "Your tactical abilities, combat scores, and leadership qualities are all in the top percentile of enhanced operators globally. Which is precisely why we're having this conversation instead of processing your immediate discharge."

Katsuki's pulse quickened. Not a discharge hearing? He caught the CIA operative's slight smile. They're playing an angle. What the fuck aren't they telling me? 

"The problem," Chen continued, bringing up more classified files that showed pheromone analyses and neural scans taken during Katsuki's post-mission medical evaluation, "isn't your capabilities. It's control. Specifically, your alpha response in high-stress situations involving omegas in distress or competing alpha presence in your operational space."

He exchanged glances with General Remy, some unspoken communication passing between them. "We've seen this pattern before in exceptional alpha primes. Raw power and potential without the neural architecture to fully regulate it. Your implant was state-of-the-art, yet you burned through its suppression capacity in seconds once the omega showed distress signals."

Remy nodded slowly, entering another security code that brought up files with classification levels Katsuki had never seen before—quantum-encrypted designations that pulsed with colors rather than standard clearance markers.

"There's a program," she said, her voice dropping to the tone commanders used when revealing need-to-know information. "Highly classified, even by our standards. Specifically designed for cases like yours. Alphas with too much potential to waste, but too volatile for conventional unit integration."

The CIA operative's hand moved to her pocket as another security key emerged between manicured fingers. Whatever this program was, it clearly interested multiple agencies.

"What kind of program?" Katsuki asked, mouth suddenly dry. His instincts prickled at the undercurrents in the room—too many hidden agendas, too many knowing looks passed between these career officers.

"That's classified until you're evaluated," Walsh said, his beta neutrality finally slipping to reveal mild antipathy. "But I'll be blunt—it's this or a disgraceful discharge that would compromise international military cooperation. Your psychological evaluation indicates progressive instability, not improvement. Traditional suppression therapy isn't working on your biochemistry. You're a liability to any conventional team, no matter how impressive your service record."

The CIA operative addressed the dark video feeds with practiced diplomacy. "All interested parties are in agreement. The program represents the best option for maintaining viable international cooperation while addressing the asset's unique challenges."

Asset. Not officer. Not soldier. Fucking asset. The term burned through Katsuki's professional composure, a red flag that underscored what they really saw him as—a weapon to be controlled rather than an operative making decisions.

"And if I agree to this evaluation?" he asked, keeping the growl from his voice through sheer discipline.

Chen smiled slightly, the expression never reaching his calculating eyes. "Then you'll have several preliminary evaluations before you report to a secured facility where you'll be personally assessed by the program's commander. They'll determine if you're suitable for rehabilitation and specialized deployment."

"Commander?" Katsuki's eyes narrowed. Something in Chen's tone triggered his tactical instincts—the slight emphasis, the subtle shift in pheromones across the panel.

"Yes." Remy's expression was unreadable, perfect command neutrality. "You'll be evaluated by Captain Midoriya."

The name hit wrong.

Katsuki's enhanced nervous system fired contradictory signals—recoil and recognition, threat and something else his conscious mind couldn't parse. His pupils dilated involuntarily, a micro-flinch in his jaw that he covered by shifting weight. The phantom taste of copper flooded his mouth—adrenaline spike from nowhere.

The CIA operative's scent shifted subtly. Interest became calculation. Chen's eyes sharpened, filing away that involuntary response.

"Never heard of him," Katsuki said, the dismissal cutting sharper than intended. His voice came out steady but his enhanced senses had spiked—every heartbeat in the room suddenly too loud, the air pressure wrong against his skin. Like his body was preparing for a threat it recognized but he didn't.

What the fuck was that?

"That's the point," Chen said, something like amusement flickering across his features. But underneath—satisfaction. They'd expected his reaction. They were already testing him. "But fair warning, this probably won't be a comfortable experience. The Captain's methods for handling unstable alphas are... unconventional."

Walsh snorted, the sound breaking his professional demeanor. "That's one fucking word for it."

The CIA operative stepped forward again, her movement drawing attention like a predator shifting position. "The international situation is... delicate, Captain. Russian designation programs are actively recruiting for their neural enhancement division. Chinese military resources are being redirected toward designation research facilities. Our allies question the wisdom of blackbook special operations teams with enhanced assets after incidents like Sarajevo. With DSF protocols under review, this program offers a way forward, for both you and international security architecture, if you can handle it."

One of the video feeds brightened slightly—just enough to show a Japanese military uniform with the insignia of the JSDF's Enhanced Operator Division. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Great. Mom's probably watching this shit show. Guess the intelligence sharing agreement runs both ways.

"Do I really have a choice?" Katsuki asked, already knowing the answer. The weight of international politics pressed down like his medals, suffocating any illusion of true agency in this moment.

"You always have a choice, Captain," General Remy said, but her scent betrayed the lie, thick with command pressure and institutional expectation. "But given your record and potential, I strongly suggest you take this, opportunity. The alternative is immediate discharge and designation review board hearings that would compromise decades of alliance-building."

The threat was clear. Refuse, and he'd become the poster child for why alphas—especially foreign alphas—couldn't be trusted in elite American units. Everything his mother had fought for in international designation integration would be undermined. The carefully constructed bridges between Japanese and American military operations would suffer.

Fuck.

The CIA operative slid the quantum-encrypted tablet across the table, her movement deliberate, perfectly calculated. "Sign here if you accept evaluation by the program. You'll report to Langley tomorrow at 0600 for preliminary tests and processing before your physical and mental assessments with the program commander.”

Katsuki stared at the tablet. Everything in him, every fiber of his alpha nature, rebelled at the idea of being "handled" by some mysterious program head with undefined methods. His mother's voice echoed in his head—Bakugos bow to no one. His father's gentler wisdom countered—sometimes strength means knowing when to yield to fight another day.

A shift in the air—the scent of the CIA operative, the subtle changes in the panel's pheromones—caught his attention, something like anticipation rippling through the room. He could sense it: they knew things he didn't, layers of security and classified protocols above his pay grade glowing on the screen. They would decide his fate, box him into a new role, all while pretending he had any real say in the matter.

These high-level fuckers playing geopolitical chess with enhanced soldiers while pretending it's about "security concerns." Same shit, different decade.

With a final controlled breath, he signed, his signature appearing in precise strokes as the stylus moved across the display. Each stroke felt like signing in blood, but his hand stayed steady. Bakugos didn't break—they adapted, conquered, turned disadvantage into dominance. That same disciplined control that had taken him from Tokyo to the US Military Academy to Delta Force was now sealing away what felt like the last of his autonomy.

"Captain Bakugo," said the CIA agent, standing with a curt nod. The General and Colonel's expressions held a knowing look, that same infuriating air of superior knowledge they'd maintained throughout the hearing. "A piece of advice for your upcoming evaluation? Leave your assumptions at the door. Especially about Captain Midoriya."

The name lingered in the air, charged like a live wire. Katsuki's nostrils flared involuntarily, catching something in the officers' collective scents—amusement?  His brain cataloged their micro-expressions, each flicker of muscle, the way they watched him process the name.

He stood, his gaze steely as he prepared to leave, but he caught them exchanging looks that set his instincts on edge. The CIA agent moved to a corner, speaking quietly into her encrypted communication device: "He's accepted. Inform all stations. Initiate Protocol Seven."

Protocol Seven. The callsign pinged against his mental database of operational classifications, stirring old training memories. Protocol Seven was reserved for only the most high-priority international operations, typically involving multiple nations' intelligence services. 

The video feeds blinked out one by one, each silent observer disconnecting from the hearing. The final feed from Tokyo lingered a moment longer than the rest, and Katsuki caught a glimpse of a military insignia he recognized all too well—a familiar mark—before it faded into digital shadow.

What the fuck have I just agreed to?

The question burned through him as the Marine guard reappeared, escorting him back through the Pentagon's labyrinthine corridors. Each security checkpoint, each verification, each professional nod from personnel with carefully neutral expressions suggested a program deeper and darker than standard military black operations.

Through the windows that lined the eastern corridor, Washington gleamed in the morning sun, beautiful and indifferent, hiding its secrets behind marble facades and polished lies. Somewhere out there waited this mysterious program, this Captain Midoriya, his last chance at salvation or damnation.

Without the chemical buffer of his implant, every enhanced instinct screamed that he was walking into something massive, something far beyond the notion of simple "rehabilitation." The way they'd said Midoriya's name, the knowing glances exchanged, the cryptic references to international protocols and unconventional methods...nothing about this added up.

Captain Midoriya. The name echoed through Katsuki's mind, a challenge wrapped in mystery. What kind of officer has the power to evaluate prime alphas when even high-grade military suppressants can't control them?

He turned the thought over with a flicker of defiance. Whatever tests they threw at him, whatever obstacles Midoriya might try to put in his way, he knew he could handle it. The brass probably expected him to be intimidated, to fall in line for some field evaluation with standard psych protocols and combat simulations. Fuck that, he knew better.

Outside the Pentagon, the same sleek black car with diplomatic plates waited for him, gleaming in the sunlight. The driver was in civilian clothes but with military bearing, he opened the door without a word. Tomorrow he'd be at Langley, facing tests. evaluations, and whatever the fuck "unconventional methods" awaited him there.

His thoughts buzzed, running through different scenarios. A specialized team, a specialized training gauntlet, simulated combat missions with escalating omega distress triggers. He'd been through them all before and come out on top. Whatever they threw at him, he was ready to dominate, to prove that no one—not the fucking CIA, not military brass, and definitely not some unknown fucking Captain—could break him.

By the end of this evaluation, they’d know exactly who he was: the best they had, and the one alpha no one would dare challenge. But one detail nagged at him. ‘Leave your assumptions at the door’, Chen had said, tone laced with something Katsuki couldn’t quite place.

He settled into the car's leather seat, staring at his reflection in the tinted window as DC's monuments slid past. The capital's gleaming architecture, monuments to American power and ambition, stood in stark contrast to the shadowy machinery operating beneath its surface. A nation determined to maintain superiority in every domain.

His mother's words came back again, Bakugos bow to no one.

He felt the fierce pride, the confidence that had carried him through every training course, every mission. He'd get through whatever this commander had planned, and he'd prove that he wasn't broken or unstable, just more fucking powerful than their systems were designed to handle. 

As the Pentagon disappeared behind them, Katsuki couldn't shake the feeling that whoever this Captain was, whatever this program entailed, nothing would be the same. For better or much, much worse. He found himself running the name through his mind. Midoriya. Testing it like a wound, feeling for the edges of that inexplicable response.

Captain Midoriya, he thought, the name pulsing like a challenge in his mind. Recognition without memory. Threat without form. Challenge without understanding.

His future, his pride all wrapped into one unknown officer.

Who the fuck are you? And what exactly do you think you're going to do with me?

Chapter Text

The Kiev Museum of Art had been transformed for the private exhibition, resplendent in the night, its marble columns gleaming under golden floodlights. Gilt-edged invitations, strict security protocols, and a carefully curated guest list of Eastern Europe's elite. The opera performance—Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 6, Pathétique—was merely the evening's crown jewel, designed to complement the unveiling of previously unseen works from private collections.

Eight hundred and forty-three seats in the audience. Six emergency exits. One American intelligence officer sitting in Box Five with a Ukrainian military general.

Down the block, Captain Izuku Midoriya sat motionless in the back of an unmarked Volkswagen Transporter, its plain exterior blending seamlessly into the urban sprawl. Inside, however, the air thrummed with quiet tension. Izuku’s eyes were closed, his face calm, though his posture betrayed a deceptive ease. His frame, compact yet powerfully built, seemed coiled like a spring, ready to explode into action at the slightest provocation. The contours of his face, sharp with focus, were partially obscured by the shadows of the dim van, but his jaw was set in silent determination.

Across his chest rested an MP5SD3 machine gun, the matte black finish blending into his tactical gear. The weapon was custom-modified for stealth: an integrated suppressor to silence the muzzle flash, subsonic ammunition to reduce noise, and optics tuned for low-light precision. Every element of his gear was an extension of him—precisely chosen, precisely maintained. His gloved hands rested lightly on his lap, one thumb unconsciously brushing the edge of his thigh holster, where his backup sidearm was securely strapped.

The faint glow from the dashboard cast fleeting highlights on his tactical vest, fitted snugly against his torso. Each plate and pouch was meticulously arranged for efficiency—extra magazines, a multitool, and a compact medkit all within immediate reach. On his forearm, the faint green glow of his Casio illuminated the time.

19:28

Beneath the layers of gear, Izuku’s muscles tensed, trained over years of relentless conditioning to endure missions exactly like this one. His breathing was measured, barely perceptible, as he waited for the operation’s first signal. Through his headset, two audio feeds layered over each other: the orchestra’s warm-up and encrypted chatter from the tactical network. Each sound was logged and analyzed. Izuku tracked the guests as they arrived: old money wrapped in vintage furs, oligarchs dressed in custom Italian suits. They passed through security checkpoints whose efficiency was just an illusion, quietly compromised hours ago.

The private exhibition had been months in planning. Supposedly a celebration of Eastern European art collections never before shown to the public, with the Kiev Opera's performance of Tchaikovsky as its centerpiece. In reality, it was the perfect cover of opportunities for multiple agencies and criminal organizations. The guest list alone was a counterintelligence officer's nightmare: old money families with ties to separatist groups, new oligarchs laundering money through art purchases, diplomatic staff running operations under cultural exchange cover, and at least three known arms dealers posing as art collectors.

At the center of it all was an American CIA operative undercover as a cultural attaché, who was about to exchange what he thought was weapons-grade plutonium from a Ukrainian military general. The CIA had reached out to J-SAP for support, claiming they needed Japanese expertise in tracking nuclear materials. But Izuku had run enough ops to know when he wasn't getting the full picture. Yet, the insistence on this specific venue, on this particular night, told Izuku that the CIA had deeper motives. As always, J-SAP was the scalpel in a room full of hammers, and Izuku was certain they were being used for someone else’s benefit.

J-SAP operated by managing compartmentalized projects at security levels so strict that even their mission briefs were usually fragmented, encoded, and need-to-know. These Special Access Programs operated in layers of classification so deep that most military personnel didn't know they existed. J-SAP's Science and Technology mandate covered everything from experimental weapons to quantum computing breakthroughs, protecting Japan's technological sovereignty while preventing sensitive advancements from falling into the wrong hands. Izuku's team typically handled the highest-risk operations—recovering stolen tech, neutralizing security breaches, and eliminating threats to Japan's research programs.

The weight of his tactical gear pressed against his body—a familiar reassurance. A dermal scent-masking patch adhered to his neck, releasing synthetic pheromones engineered to confuse even enhanced sensory trackers—essential when operating against certain threats. Developed by JSDF’s Advanced Research Division, it was a reminder of what he was and the lengths taken to keep it hidden.

Around him, his fractured team waited in practiced stillness. Four operators for what should have been a simple extraction.

“Пси просинаються,” the driver muttered in Ukrainian. Wake up the dogs.

In the front passenger seat, his partner turned to study the four agents in the cargo area. All wore black G4 combat uniforms and plate carriers, faces obscured by masks and the van's shadows. 

Izuku maintained his position of tactical rest, a technique perfected during his SERE training. Even with eyes closed, he maintained complete situational awareness: three teammates breathing in controlled patterns, two Ukrainians in the front whose micro expressions had been setting off warning signals since the briefing, and the weight of his backup gun in his thigh holster.

"Hey," the passenger called back, tension evident in his voice.

Without opening his eyes, Midoriya executed a press check on his MP5—a smooth motion that ejected the chambered round into his waiting palm. The subsonic round was cold against his skin, a tangible reminder of the lethality coiled within this moment of false peace. Only then did he open his eyes, meeting the passenger's gaze with calculated intensity.

The driver glanced back. "Ми рухаємося за вашим сигналом," he said in Ukrainian. We move on your signal.

"Зрозумів," Izuku replied fluently. Understood. He watched for any reaction and the driver’s surprise was almost imperceptible—a flicker of hesitation, quickly masked. It confirmed what Izuku already suspected: they hadn’t anticipated his fluency.

Nothing about tonight was simple. Izuku and his team were supposedly hired by independent Ukrainians to extract the American during the confusion of a terrorist attack—an attack that intelligence suggested was genuine, motivated by legitimate political grievances. They would create genuine chaos, which made them the perfect cover for whatever else was happening behind the scenes. 

In the van’s rear compartment, Hitoshi Shinso sat across from Izuku, his posture as calm and controlled as ever. Among Izuku’s team of six alphas within J-SAP—Japan’s Special Access Programs—Hitoshi was a known quantity. His enhanced abilities and methodical approach made him a cornerstone of the unit, particularly in high-stakes operations like this one where interrogation tactics might be needed. While the other two occupants—CIA operatives Wallace and Lynch—were wild cards, Hitoshi was the opposite: predictable in his efficiency, invaluable in execution.

Within J-SAP, Izuku led a six-member strike unit composed entirely of alphas, each selected for their specific skill sets and ability to work cohesively under his command. Yet, not every mission required the full squad. For smaller, more surgical operations like this one, Izuku would draw on whichever alpha best fit the mission parameters. Hitoshi’s abilities made him uniquely suited for these complex, layered missions. Enhanced sensory perception allowed him to process sound, movement, and even minute physiological cues with an acuity that bordered on superhuman. He could track heartbeats through walls, detect the subtle shifts in a person’s breathing that signaled anxiety or deception, and identify threats before they fully materialized. This skillset made him indispensable when the team needed to outmaneuver adversaries in environments dense with unknowns.

Through the secure earpiece, Izuku monitored the exhibition hall’s carefully orchestrated chaos. Inside, the well-dressed elite of Eastern Europe moved like pawns through a gilded chessboard: old money adorned with diamonds, new oligarchs in sharp Italian suits. Security checkpoints appeared thorough to the untrained eye but had been quietly compromised hours earlier. In Box Five, the target—the American VIP—sipped champagne alongside a Ukrainian military officer, entirely unaware of the layers of danger unfolding around him.

The tactical radio crackled. Updates came in using the modified NATO phonetic alphabet they’d established for this mission.

"Street side, clear," came the first call sign. 

"Stage door, clear," followed the second.

The mission’s complexity gnawed at Izuku. Officially, their objective was to extract the American VIP. Unofficially, the package was the real target. Beneath that, other layers he was briefed on twisted the operation further. The first group—the actual terrorists—showed the hallmarks of paramilitary training common to separatist groups: aggressive but undisciplined, their movements betraying a lack of professional coordination. The two men up front—likely Russians, posing as Ukrainians—had brokered this mission under false pretenses.

The CIA team, split by design, operated on a need-to-know basis added another layer of friction. Usually, when J-SAP coordinated with CIA, the command structure was clear, the objectives aligned. But this time, the CIA had insisted on specific parameters while providing minimal intelligence. They'd requested J-SAP's top counterintelligence unit but hadn't explained why tracking a simple exchange required Izuku's specialized expertise. Somewhere inside the art hall, more pieces moved, players whose motives he didn’t yet understand.

The orchestral feed wavered—an almost imperceptible shift in acoustics.

“Тиша на каналі,” Izuku muttered into the comms. Channel silence.

The network went dark for precisely three seconds. It was the prearranged signal. In the gap, Izuku caught it: a subtle disruption in the ambient sound. Something moved in a space it shouldn’t have.

The orchestra faltered, a few discordant notes tumbling into silence.

“Contact,” Hitoshi whispered, his voice barely audible through Izuku’s earpiece. His enhanced senses had caught it before anyone else—the faint vibration of steps, the subtle change in air pressure.

Then it hit. A woman’s scream ripped through the feed, sharp and visceral. Chaos erupted in layers. Glass shattered. Voices rose in panic. Right on schedule, the sirens began, their wail synchronized to the second.

19:30

“Police response incoming,” Izuku noted, his voice steady. “Clock starts now.”

Hitoshi’s gaze flicked toward him. “Not just police. They’re moving too fast.”

Izuku nodded, tightening his grip on the MP5. “Team, prep for insertion.”

The passenger turned in his seat, producing a stack of patches. Even in the low light, Midoriya could see the precise stitching of the Ukrainian Special Forces insignia—Спеціальна Поліція. The quality was exceptional, down to the infrared reflective threading used on authentic badges.

"Time to join the party," the Russian said, his accent perfect but his syntax slightly off.

Izuku took one of the velcro patches, years of counterintelligence experience cataloging details his supposed employers hadn't meant to reveal. The stitching quality, the materials used—eastern manufacturing, definitely not local, suggesting resources far beyond typical Ukrainian separatists.

His team was already performing final equipment checks: comms, weapons, plates, NODs secured but accessible. Every piece of gear had been selected for this specific mission profile, from the modified low-light filters on their night vision goggles to the custom-molded ear protection that would allow them to maintain communication even in a firefight. The captain’s ceramic plates of his tactical vest were designed to stop everything from small arms fire to high-caliber rounds.

Izuku's gaze swept the street outside. Police units were assembling—too quickly, as if prearranged. Among them, he spotted unidentified law enforcement—SWAT maybe—whose gear didn't match standard Ukrainian specifications. Their movements were precise, disciplined.

"Hitoshi, observe the incoming units," Izuku murmured over a secure channel.

"Not all are local forces," Hitoshi confirmed. "Some carry Russian equipment. Their formations suggest advanced training."

Izuku's suspicions deepened. Multiple factions were in play, each with their own agenda.

He turned to his team. "Our objective is the extraction of the VIP and retrieval of the package. Stay alert."

One CIA officer shifted. "Any changes to the plan?"

"Stick to protocol. Adapt as needed."

The wail of official Ukrainian SWAT sirens echoed through the streets, their timing precise, choreographed. Izuku checked his modified assault rifle one last time, the weight of the weapon grounding him amid the chaos. Everything was proceeding according to multiple plans—although none were his. The CIA was running one operation under official cover. Their "Ukrainian" employers were running another, their true allegiance still unclear. The real terrorists would create real violence for political objectives, while the unknown SWAT team pursued their own agenda. 

"Move," he ordered, and his team executed their rehearsed deployment sequence.

As they merged with the flood of responding Ukrainian forces, Izuku's mind shifted into the clarity. This wasn't just about extracting one CIA operative who'd gotten too close to something he shouldn't have. This was about the package—the thing everyone was pretending was plutonium. The thing worth killing for.

The grand lobby of the exhibition hall had been designed to showcase power—twenty-foot ceilings adorned with Renaissance frescos, marble columns that pierced the heavens, and crystal chandeliers that transformed light into liquid gold. Tonight, those same chandeliers cast strange shadows across tactical gear and weapon barrels as Midoriya led his team through the space in tandem with the real Ukraine SWAT forces they blended in seamlessly with.

"Sir," Hitoshi's voice cut through the chaos, "the tertiary team—unidentified SWAT—is moving against pattern."

Izuku watched the group in SWAT gear advancing with non-standard precision. The Ukrainian SWAT teams were mobilizing exactly as expected, their response patterns matching standard local protocols. But mixed among them were operators moving with entirely different precision—a third group using SWAT tactical gear as camouflage. Their movement patterns suggested specialized military training, the kind that came from years of black operations. Their objective wasn't crowd control or terrorist response—they were hunting something specific.

"Maintain formation," he ordered quietly as they approached the main hall. "We play this exactly as planned. Let everyone else's agendas create our openings."

"Gas deployment in three," came the Ukrainian SWAT command through the encrypted channel they hacked. "Two. One."

Through the ornate vents, an almost invisible mist began to seep into the auditorium. The gas—a proprietary compound—would work in stages. First, mild disorientation. Then, within forty-five seconds, unconsciousness. The chemical composition was precise enough to avoid panic, letting the audience drift into sleep like the final notes of a lullaby.

The exhibition hall erupted into controlled chaos as Ukrainian SWAT teams executed their response to the terrorist threat. Gas canisters deployed through the ventilation system—standard riot control protocols designed to incapacitate hostile forces while minimizing civilian casualties. The terrorists had taken up defensive positions, exactly as intelligence had predicted. Their genuine political agenda made them the perfect smoke screen for what was really happening in the building's upper levels.

Midoriya positioned his team with surgical precision. The two CIA operators—Wallace and Lynch, men he'd met only seventy-two hours ago—took their assigned positions. Midoriya signaled the split. Wallace and Lynch would take their assigned routes while he and Hitoshi moved toward Box Five. Wallace peeled off toward the rally point, Lynch disappearing down the west corridor back toward the main auditorium. Neither man's eyes had shown any recognition when Midoriya had laid out the plan. Professional courtesy, or something else? Another variable in an operation already thick with unknowns.

"Shinso," Midoriya subvocalized into his comm, "with me. VIP section."

His alpha operative moved like liquid shadow beside him as they approached the grand staircase. Hitoshi was one of the JSDF's most lethal assets, his enhanced capabilities making him perfect for high-risk operations. They'd worked together long enough that Midoriya could read the slight tension in his movements—he sensed it too. Too many players, too many angles.

They hit the junction at speed. Midoriya and Hitoshi took the stairs, their movements synchronized through years of joint operations. Izuku thought through mission parameters again. No unnecessary engagements. No bodies that couldn't be explained by the official narrative of a terrorist attack and police response.

Through his earpiece, Midoriya could hear the audio feed from the bug Hitoshi had planted in Box Five during yesterday's maintenance sweep. The orchestra's final attempts at coherence became scattered, discordant. Then silence, broken only by the soft sounds of eight hundred and forty-three people slipping into chemical sleep. Above, the Ukrainian general was speaking rapid Russian into a phone, his voice tense. The American CIA operative sat in calculated silence, probably realizing this wasn't the simple exchange he'd been briefed on.

"Moving to position gamma," Wallace's voice came through their secure line. The CIA operator would maintain their exit route while the Ukrainian SWAT teams engaged the terrorists below.

"Copy," Midoriya responded. "Lynch, status?"

"Lower quadrant secured. SWAT teams are focused on the main terrorist force. They haven't noticed the other players. West exit is clear."

Midoriya pressed himself into a shadowed alcove near the stairs, counting down the SWAT team's breach timing in his head. Everything depended on using their assault as cover—the legitimate threat response masking his team's true objective. One mistimed movement, one wrong turn, and they'd lose their window.

"Hitoshi," he subvocalized. "I need a path through their response pattern."

His operative's enhanced senses stretched out through the building like an invisible web. This was why Midoriya had specifically requested him despite the risks of deploying an alpha in such a volatile situation. Hitoshi could track multiple threats simultaneously—distinguishing friend from foe by heartbeat patterns, reading tactical movements through walls, sensing the subtle shifts that preceded hostile action.

"SWAT teams moving in standard sweep formation," Hitoshi reported. "They're pushing the terrorists toward the west wing. But sir... there are other elements moving against that flow. Professional. Using the SWAT response as cover, just like us."

Midoriya processed this as he watched gas begin to fill the lower levels. The Ukrainian forces were doing exactly what they should—responding to a legitimate terrorist threat with appropriate tactical protocols. 

"Three hostiles in the main corridor," Hitoshi reported, his voice barely a whisper in Midoriya's ear. "Two more in the upper gallery. All focused on the main breach points. Multiple teams moving through the service areas. Not terrorists. Not local forces either."

The breach came like a thunderclap as the SWAT teams poured through the main doors of the exhibition auditorium. Gunfire erupted—mostly for show, Midoriya noted, designed to draw attention and hold it. Theatre, not tactics. 

"Now," he commanded, and they moved.

Their advance through the curving corridors was a study in controlled urgency. Fast but silent, each step precisely placed. Midoriya led with his suppressed MP5 at low ready, minimizing his profile. They'd mapped every corner, every junction during their recon, but plans had a way of evolving once the bullets started flying.

"Junction ahead," Hitoshi warned. "Three paths. East corridor is clear. I can hear two heartbeats in the west approach... steady, controlled. Professionals."

No unnecessary engagements. No bodies that couldn't be explained.

"Contact," Hitoshi warned. "Two guards outside Box Three. Armed, but their heartrates are elevated. Anxious."

"Can we bypass?"

"Service passage to the left. Drops us behind Box Four."

They moved like shadows, Hitoshi's senses guiding them through another similar maze of corridors and maintenance passages. Above and below, gunfire and shouted commands created a sense of calamity. Midoriya checked each box number as they passed, his mind tracking their position relative to their target. The bug planted in Box Five picked up fragments of additional conversation—the general's phone call ending, chairs scraping on wooden floors.

"Hold," Hitoshi suddenly commanded. His head tilted slightly, the way it did when he was focusing his enhanced hearing. "Three more teams moving. Different approaches. Professional. Military precision."

"Time estimate?"

"Two minutes, maybe less. They're being careful, but they're moving with purpose."

Midoriya processed this against their operational timeline. Multiple teams, all operating independently, all focused on the VIP section of the art house. 

"Box Five is thirty meters ahead," Hitoshi reported, his enhanced senses cutting through the chaos. "Three inside with the targets. The Ukrainian officer's pheromonal signature is off—he's Russian military. FSB training patterns. He's armed, Makarov in a left shoulder holster. Two guards with him." A pause. "The American's heartbeat is steady. He's been mission-trained."

Midoriya processed this confirmation of his earlier suspicions. The supposed Ukrainian officer's documentation had been too perfect, his Ukrainian too classical. The official extraction mission and the package exchange had to definitely be a cover for something bigger. Russian's operating on Ukrainian soil—fuck.

"Stay on overwatch. If this goes wrong..."

"It won't," Hitoshi said, but he took up his position, enhanced senses mapping the shifting tactical landscape around them.

The distance to Box Five felt like a kilometer, each step measured against the symphony of chaos playing out around them. Midoriya's movements remained precise, controlled, even as his mind analyzed this new complexity. The FSB's presence explained the quality of the gas masks they'd brought—Russian military-grade, but with filters that would deliberately fail within minutes. They wanted the American alive but incapacitated.

Box Five's gold-numbered placard gleamed in the emergency lights. Through the partially open door, Midoriya could see their target—the American intelligence officer seated with practiced casualness beside the Russian general masquerading as Ukrainian military. Two guards positioned with textbook FSB protective formation. All still conscious behind their soon-to-fail masks.

He reached for the door, blade ready in one hand, sidearm in the other. Through his earpiece, he caught the Russian's final words on his phone, the practiced Ukrainian accent dropping entirely:

"Da. Vse gotovo." The classical Moscow syntax confirmed everything. Yes. Everything is ready.

Midoriya allowed himself one slow breath, adjusting his tactical approach for FSB close-protection protocols rather than standard Ukrainian military. His suppressed sidearm settled naturally in his right hand, the modified karambit blade silent in his left. One signal to Hitoshi, who understood immediately what the Russian presence meant for their extraction plan.

Then he moved.

The breach was a lethal choreography specifically designed to counter FSB training. Midoriya's entry was a fluid arc of violence, each movement calculated to exploit the microseconds between Russian combat responses.

The first guard never completed his turn. Midoriya's suppressed sidearm coughed once, the subsonic round entering just behind the ear—the sweet spot in FSB tactical helmets. Before the body began to fall, Midoriya was already in motion, using the collapsing guard as a pivot point to launch himself in a controlled flip over the antique furniture.

The Russian general's phone clattered to the floor, his eyes widening in recognition of professional death. Midoriya's second shot found the general's temple from an inverted position—a whisper of sound, a spray of crimson against gold-leafed walls that traced his trajectory through the air.

The second guard was better, already moving to compensate for Midoriya's aerial dynamics. His weapon tracked upward, but he was too slow. Midoriya's momentum carried him into a twist that brought him inside the guard's firing arc. The karambit blade caught the light as it arced upward, opening the man's carotid artery in one fluid motion. A second cut, diagonal and precise, ensured silence.

Midoriya landed in a controlled crouch as arterial spray painted the walls like abstract art. Both hands still in killing positions—blade and pistol extended in opposite directions. He guided the guard's body to the floor without sound, the wet gurgle of a final breath barely audible.

Three seconds. Three bodies. A performance of death that would have earned perfect scores in any tactical assessment.

The American remained seated, seemingly unperturbed by the efficiently delivered violence decorating the walls around him. His eyes, behind his tactical mask, showed only professional assessment.

Through his comms, Hitoshi's voice was urgent: "Multiple SWAT teams, closing fast. Thirty seconds."

"The wind carries no sound in winter," Midoriya said, blood still dripping from his blade.

"But shadows speak loudly at dawn," the American replied without hesitation.

The exchange of gunfire in the corridors was growing closer. Real shots now, not theater. The unknown SWAT teams were methodically clearing each box, and the terrorists were no longer playing their assigned roles.

You've been made," Midoriya said, already moving to the ornate windows overlooking the unconscious audience below. Something in the American's posture—the way he held himself, how his hands shook slightly—betrayed his true background. This wasn't a field operative; this was a researcher playing at espionage. "This attack is a blind to either capture or kill you." He pulled tactical rappelling gear from his pack while speaking. "The choice of which depends on the next fifteen seconds."

The American shifted uncomfortably, his academic background showing through the thin veneer of operational training. His eyes darted between the dead Russian and the window, calculations running behind them—but not combat calculations. These were the thoughts of someone who spent more time in laboratories than field operations.

"And why should I trust you?" His voice carried the forced steadiness of someone trying to remember their limited tactical training.

"Because in approximately ten seconds, your mask's filters will fail. The gas they're using isn't what you think it is." Midoriya kept his voice calm, professional—the tone you used with civilian assets, not fellow operators. "And because you and I both know your research contact wasn't Ukrainian military, and what you passed him wasn't plutonium."

The American's shoulders sagged slightly—relief at dropping the pretense of being an experienced field operative. "I was told this was a sanctioned high-value exchange. Academic materials. Research data. Prototypes." His voice carried the bewilderment of someone realizing how deep they'd been thrown. "The CIA said the Ukrainians were interested in collaboration..."

Through his earpiece, Midoriya could hear Wallace reporting movement in the service corridors. Time was running out.

"Coat check," the American finally said, his researcher's precision showing even now. "Ticket 115. The containment unit requires specific handling protocols—" He stopped, eyes fixing on Midoriya's bloody blade, the reality of his situation finally hitting home. "This isn't really about scientific collaboration, is it"

"No," Midoriya confirmed, wiping his karambit clean with practiced efficiency. He noticed how the researcher flinched at the casual handling of a weapon. "This is something else entirely. Now, unless you want to find out exactly what kind of 'scientific collaboration' the FSB had planned for you, we need to move," Midoriya said, his weapon trained steadily on the American. "And when we do, remember—if you try to run, I won't chase you." Understanding flickered in the American's eyes. In their line of work, there was only one alternative to chasing a runner.

Automatic weapon fire erupted outside their door. Hitoshi's voice cut through the chaos: "Contact! They've made us—"

The door splintered under coordinated breaching charges. Hitoshi appeared like a demon through the smoke, his enhanced speed and strength letting him drive back the first wave of SWAT officers with brutal efficiency. Bones cracked under his strikes, bodies flying backward into their companions.

"Time to go," Midoriya said, securing the rappelling line to a structural beam. He didn't have to be gentle—the art hall had been built in an era when support beams were engineered to hold chandeliers that weighed tons.

More SWAT teams were converging. Through the smoke, Midoriya could see their laser sights cutting through the air. Hitoshi had bought them seconds, but that's all they'd have.

"Down," Midoriya ordered the American, shoving him toward the window. "Now!"

They dropped into space as gunfire shredded the VIP box behind them. The descent was controlled chaos—Midoriya with one hand on the line, the other holding his MP5, scanning for threats below. The unconscious audience passed beneath them like a sea of fallen stars.

Hitoshi followed a moment later, his enhanced abilities letting him jump from that height. Blood decorated his tactical gear—none of it his own. They hit the floor among the sleeping bodies just as more SWAT teams burst into the box above. Midoriya cut the line with a precise slash of his blade, the rope whipping away into the darkness.

"Stay down," he ordered the American, who had already taken up position between the rows of seats, mimicking unconsciousness. Smart.

Gunfire erupted from above. Rounds sparked off marble and shredded expensive upholstery. Midoriya rolled under the seats as Hitoshi provided covering fire, his enhanced senses letting him target threats through the smoke and chaos.

"Multiple groups are lighting each other up," Hitoshi reported, his voice tight with controlled violence. "They're not all on the same side."

Midoriya allowed himself a grim smile. Of course they weren't. Everyone wanted what was in that coat check, even if none of them knew exactly what it was.

"Rally point," he grunted into his comm. "We move in three. Two—"

Then the everything erupted into war.

The first contact shots came from the stage—sharp, precise reports that shattered the eerie quiet. Two rounds found sleeping audience members, their evening wear blossoming with dark flowers of blood. The American twitched, instinct fighting training, but Midoriya's grip on his ankle was iron.

"Still," he hissed. "Wait."

Midoriya's mind worked through the geometry of survival. The shooters weren't spraying bullets like panicked terrorists—these were practiced killers working a grid pattern. Three seconds between shots. Systematic. Professional. In approximately forty seconds, their search pattern would reach this position.

The silenced shot rang out—PFFT—followed by the dull THWUP of impact. A third victim, three rows ahead. Blood misted in the emergency lights like a macabre special effect.

"Hitoshi," he subvocalized. "Stage left. What do you see?"

"Four shooters. Military stance. Russian-made weapons with custom modifications. They're looking for something specific."

Another burst of gunfire cracked overhead. Midoriya's combat instincts crystallized like a tactical diagram as he spotted SWAT gear through the smoke—a moment of professional relief washing over him. Finally, some actual backup in this nightmare of competing agencies.

"When I move, get him to the rally point," he ordered Hitoshi, already calculating how to use the local SWAT team's presence to their advantage. Without waiting for acknowledgment, Midoriya exploded upward, his MP5 chattering in controlled bursts to draw attention. The kill team's fire immediately shifted, exactly as planned. The SWAT patches on his tactical gear caught the emergency lights—a carefully crafted deception that should help coordinate with the local forces.

Two SWAT operators, responding exactly as protocol dictated, immediately opened up covering fire on the stage positions. Midoriya's throat tightened with gratitude—this was how professionals worked together, how operations were supposed to run. Their suppressing fire gave him the window he needed to sprint forward in a combat crouch as rounds cracked overhead.

One of the SWAT operators took a round to the throat and dropped. Midoriya slid into cover beside the survivor, already forming the Ukrainian phrases for tactical coordination in his mind. But the man wasn't returning fire. Instead, his hands were busy beneath the seats, attaching something that—

Midoriya's blood turned to ice water.

A bomb. Digital display counting down in cruel red numerals.

Every combat instinct screamed warnings as pieces clicked into horrifying place. The dead SWAT's pack lay nearby. Midoriya's hands moved before his conscious mind caught up, unzipping the bag to reveal another device, its countdown synchronized perfectly with the first. Military grade. Multiple redundancies. These weren't Ukrainian SWAT at all—but they were willing to bury hundreds of sleeping civilians to cover their tracks.

“Документи,” one demanded in Ukrainian. Identification.

Midoriya met the man's eyes, forcing his voice steady despite the rage building in his chest as he calculated risks and deliberately chose his next words. Instead of Ukrainian, he let his voice fall into the precise cadence of Moscow-trained agent: "My zdes' po prikazu Pavlova. Sektor VIP pod kontrolem." We're here on Pavlov's orders. VIP sector is under control.

The bomber's micro-expressions flickered—a tell so subtle only someone trained in FSB protocols would catch it. The man's grip on his weapon shifted slightly, the way Russian operators were taught to adjust when recognizing friendly forces.

"Pozyvnoy?" the bomber demanded, but his Ukrainian accent had slipped. The word came out with the crisp pronunciation of someone trained in Russian facilities. Call sign?

Midoriya kept his face neutral even as his suspicions solidified. He used an older FSB verification code, one that would only be known to operators trained in certain facilities: "Severnyy veter. Gruppa Alfa." North wind. Alpha Group.

The bomber hesitated, his eyes darting to the bombs he'd planted with such casual efficiency. That glance made Midoriya's control slip—this man had placed death among incapacitated civilians without a second thought.

"Podtverzhdenie Protokol Zima-12," Midoriya added a specific FSB winter training protocol, buying seconds to process options. Confirm Protocol Winter-12.

Time stretched like cold honey as the false operator's suspicion hardened into recognition and lethal intent. The man's finger tightened on his trigger as the Velcro patch on Midoriya's tactical vest began to peel—their careful deception unraveling like the final thread of hope for a clean operation. No time for subtlety. No time for—

"I have a shot," Hitoshi's voice whispered in his comm, but Midoriya was already moving as he calculated angles, forces, the precise sequence of movements needed. He couldn't risk a firefight, not with bombs scattered among the unconscious audience. This had to end silently, perfectly, now.

His left hand shot up, deflecting the weapon while his right drew the karambit in a fluid arc. The blade found home just below the bomber's sternum, angling upward toward vital organs. As the man gasped, Midoriya's hand was already moving to the operator's holstered sidearm. One smooth motion drew the weapon, pressed it up under the jaw of someone who'd been ready to murder hundreds.

The shot was silent, precise, and absolutely necessary—muffled by flesh and bone, the exit wound through the crown of the head sprayed crimson into the air around him.

"Clear," Midoriya reported, letting the body slump quietly to the floor. "But we have a bigger problem."

His hands moved across the bomb's housing, mind cataloging components and configurations. About five minutes until detonation.

"The American?" he asked, carefully removing the first device.

"Secure with Wallace at rally point," Hitoshi responded. "Lynch is offline—no contact for two minutes."

Perfect. Another variable gone sideways. Midoriya allowed himself one controlled breath, pushing away the smell of blood and cordite. The next five minutes would determine not just their survival, but how many of these civilians would live to see morning.

"New plan," he said, his voice carrying the cold certainty of someone who had calculated every angle. "We're going to give them exactly what they want."

"I hate it when you say that," Hitoshi muttered, but Midoriya could hear him moving into position. Above them, the art house's emergency lights cast everything in a hellish red glow. Time to find out why everyone was willing to kill for what was in that coat check. 

The digital display on the bomb blinked with cold certainty: 5:18

Midoriya's blood ran cold as the pieces clicked into place. The bombs weren't just planted—they were strategically positioned throughout the cheaper seats, away from the VIP areas. This wasn't terrorism. This was a cleanup operation. Someone was going to kill hundreds of civilians just to cover their tracks, making his CIA researcher disappear in a "tragic terrorist attack."

He moved through the opera house's shadows, each new detail amplifying his growing horror. The terrorist threat was real enough, but it was being used—just like everyone else tonight. Even the gas deployment by the real SWAT teams played into their hands, ensuring witnesses would be unconscious when the bombs went off.

The grand lobby stretched before him like an execution ground. Emergency lights caught the gilt-edged mirrors that had witnessed a century of culture, now reflecting the mechanized dance of multiple kill teams. Gunfire echoed from precise positions—special forces to the east, mercenaries above, and the distinctive whisper of Russian suppressed weapons from the wings. All of them hunting, none of them knowing they were part of someone else's performance.

The coat check counter loomed ahead. Midoriya vaulted it in one fluid motion, landing silently beside an unconscious attendant. Her evening gown marked her as part of the exhibition staff. But there, tucked beneath her station: another bomb. Same military-grade configuration, same cruel countdown.

His hands moved with practiced efficiency through the numbered racks. Each ticket represented another piece of normality—fur coats, evening wraps, the detritus of high society's night out. He checked ticket numbers against the racks. 113... 114... there. 115. The sports bag felt wrong—too light, too... alive? Something inside seemed to hum against his tactical gloves.

The zipper parted to reveal a black metallic object about the size of a softball. But "metallic" wasn't quite right. The surface pattern shifted like living mercury, an impossible geometry that seemed to drink in light while simultaneously emitting its own subtle phosphorescence.

"Fucking hell," he breathed. This wasn't just advanced tech—this was something that shouldn't exist.

Movement in the lobby shattered his reverence. Multiple teams closing in. Rounds sparked off marble as Midoriya shouldered the bag, each impact confirming what he already knew: someone had spotted him. Everyone was hunting this impossible thing, willing to bury hundreds of civilians to keep it secret.

He ran, mind racing faster than his feet. The service corridors had become a killbox of potential ambush points. Through his earpiece, Hitoshi's voice was tight: "Sir, more hostiles entering the building. Their comms... I've never heard encryption like this."

Midoriya counted doors as he sprinted, calculating impossible choices. Save civilians? Secure the device? Both? The gunfire grew closer, more precise. The shots weren't random—they were herding him.

The utility room door appeared. He burst in low, weapon ready, finding three guns trained on him with professional precision. Wallace, Hitoshi, and the American researcher had created a defensive triangle in the small space. But their eyes told him they'd heard what he had—the sound of multiple forces closing for the kill.

"What the fuck is this?" Midoriya snarled, pulling out the black object. Under the utility room's fluorescent lights, its surface writhed with impossible patterns. "This isn't plutonium. This is..." His voice caught as the impossible patterns shifted. Years of handling advanced weapons technology screamed at him to run, to destroy it, to do anything but hold this thing that violated several different international laws. "This is wrong. All wrong. And they're going to murder everyone in this building to keep it secret."

The American's eyes showed recognition tinged with something darker. "That's classified beyond your—"

Midoriya moved like a striking cobra, driving the American beta against the wall with enough force to crack plaster. His forearm pressed against the man's throat, teeth bared in a snarl that had made far more hardened operatives break during interrogations.

4:02 on the bomb's display. Time to make impossible choices.

"Listen carefully," he growled, voice dropping to a whisper that promised violence. "I don't give a shit about your CIA clearance levels. Right now, you're in JSDF jurisdiction, and I've got more political capital in Tokyo and DC than you have years in the lab. Three civilians are dead, half the world's kill teams are hunting us, and we're sitting on multiple fucking bombs. So start talking, or I'll leave you here for whoever arrives first."

Wallace stepped forward, hand moving toward his weapon. "Sir, maybe we should—"

"Back. Off." Midoriya didn't even turn his head, but the command in his voice froze Wallace mid-step. "Check the bombs. Make yourself useful if you can disarm them. If not, you're taking our friend here and getting the hell out. That's not a suggestion." He released the American while he watched the CIA operative check the explosives.

Wallace knelt beside the bomb, his hands moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd handled EOD situations before. Midoriya watched, his composure starting to crack around the edges. Eight hundred and forty-three civilians. Eight hundred and forty-three lives weighing against whatever the hell the object he found was. The math shouldn't have been complicated, but in their world, nothing ever added up cleanly.

"Shit," Wallace muttered, fingers tracing the bomb's housing. "Multiple redundant circuits, military-grade components. These aren't amateur devices." He pulled out a tactical tablet, trying to scan the bomb's electrical signature. "They're running on a synchronized network. We'd need a full EOD team and at least an hour to—"

"We don't have an hour," Midoriya cut him off, his voice harder than he intended. The pressure behind his eyes was building—the kind of tension that came when too many variables started spinning out of control. "How many devices total?"

"At least six that I can detect on the network. Maybe more."

Midoriya's hand tightened on his weapon, knuckles white beneath his tactical gloves. Everything in his training, every instinct honed through years of operations, screamed at him to secure the package and execute a clean extraction. That's what the mission demanded. That's what his superiors would expect.

But eight hundred and forty-three civilians.

He could feel it starting to slip—that cold, tactical clarity that had kept him alive through countless operations. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "How long on the devices?"

"Three minutes, fifty-two seconds."

"Fuck," Midoriya hissed. He turned to the American, who was still rubbing his throat. "Your exit route. How far to the access point?"

"Two levels down, east service corridor. Three minutes at a sprint."

The numbers tumbled through Midoriya's mind like falling dominoes. Less than four minutes to detonation. Three minutes to the tunnel access. Unknown number of hostile forces between here and there. And somewhere in this building, a kill team was methodically executing unconscious civilians, looking for what they now held in their hands.

"Hitoshi," he subvocalized, knowing he would pick up the strain in his voice. "Tell me you've got something."

"Four different teams sweeping this level. More coming up from below. They're boxing us in." Hitoshi paused. "We're running out of options, sir."

Midoriya felt something dangerous rising in his chest—that familiar mix of rage and calculation that had gotten him through impossible situations before. But this was different. This wasn't just about survival or mission success. This was about eight hundred and forty-three people who'd come for art, to hear Tchaikovsky, and were about to die because of something they'd never even know existed.

"New plan," he said, and even he could hear the edge in his voice—the sound of someone starting to fray around the edges but refusing to break. "Start changing," Midoriya ordered, his voice returning to its tactical calm. "Hitoshi, give the American your gear."

As they exchanged clothes, Midoriya studied the strange object one last time. In all his years running operations for J-SAP, dealing with everything from experimental weapons to bleeding-edge military tech, he'd never seen anything that set off every instinct like this did.

Wallace moved to speak again, but Midoriya cut him off. "Here's how this plays out. You take this thing, you take the American, and you use his exit route. Now. Shinso and I will handle the bombs since our original plan is shot to hell. Everyone else—FSB, MSS, Mossad, and God knows who else—they're all going to follow us, thinking they're chasing the real prize."

"Sir," Wallace started to protest, "that's not—"

"The next words out of your mouth better not be about fucking clearance levels or operational authority," Midoriya growled baring his teeth, his composure slipping further. "Because right now, I'm about ten seconds from putting you down and solving this problem my way."

The utility room fell silent except for the soft electronic hum of the bomb's timer. 

3:38 glared on the bomb's display, and Midoriya could feel each second like a physical weight pressing against his chest.

"Move," Midoriya ordered, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper again. "East service corridor. When you hit the tunnels, radio silence. If anyone asks, you never saw us." He turned to the American, letting a fraction of his inner turmoil show. "If that thing is what I think it is..well just hope I don't find you back in the states."

As they disappeared into the shadows of the service corridor, Midoriya turned to Hitoshi. The alpha's enhanced senses were already scanning the building, mapping the movements of the various kill teams still hunting them.

"Talk to me."

"Two teams converging from the north," Hitoshi reported. "Professional. Moving in synchronized sweeps. Three more in the lobby—Chinese MSS, based on their movement patterns. And something else..." He tilted his head, focusing. "Two operators in the rafters. Different from the others. They're just... watching."

Midoriya absorbed this, his tactical mind trying to reassert control over the chaos of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "The bombs. How many can you sense?"

"Eight total. All on a synchronized network, just like Wallace said. They've placed them to maximize structural damage." Hitoshi's face tightened. "Sir, even if we get to them all—"

"We won't." The admission felt like glass in his throat. "But we can move them. Concentrate the blast radius." His hands were steady now, the tremor gone. Sometimes clarity came only after accepting the impossible. "The VIP boxes. They'll have been evacuated by now."

3:22

They moved like shadows through the art house, collecting the devices one by one. Each bomb felt like a confession in Midoriya's hands—an admission that sometimes victory meant choosing who lived and who died. The weight of it threatened to crack something fundamental inside him.

"Contact," Hitoshi whispered. "Stage left. They've spotted us."

Gunfire erupted from multiple positions. Midoriya dove behind a pillar as rounds chipped marble around him. Through his tactical lens, he could see at least three different teams realizing what they were doing—and moving to stop them.

"Times like these," Midoriya muttered, returning fire in controlled bursts, "I really hate being right."

2:55

They fought their way through the art hall like demons, each movement a calculated risk. Hitoshi's enhanced abilities let him move faster than human reaction time, drawing fire while Midoriya collected the remaining devices. Blood painted the ornate walls—some of it theirs, most of it not.

"Five devices secured," Midoriya reported, his voice tight with controlled pain. A round had grazed his left arm, another had found a gap in his plate carrier. "How many more?"

"Three," Hitoshi responded, appearing beside him like a ghost. "But Izuku... they've adapted. They're guarding them now. Using them as bait."

2:47

Of course they were. Because this night wasn't complicated enough already.

Midoriya checked his remaining ammunition, trying to ignore the way his hands wanted to shake as he regulated his pheromones. The cold tactical part of his brain was running calculations—time versus distance, risk versus reward. The other part, the part he usually kept locked away during operations, was screaming about the civilians who would never know how close death had come.

They moved together, their years of working together translating into a deadly dance. Hitoshi's enhanced speed and strength let him engage multiple opponents simultaneously, while Midoriya's precision shooting created gaps in their defenses. 

Each bomb they collected was another weight in their packs, another tick closer to detonation. The art hall's emergency lights cast everything in a hellish red glow, turning evening wear into blood and shadows.

He saw the last device was in the pit where the orchestra was playing. Because of course it was.

1:43

"Cover me," Midoriya ordered, already moving. His body felt distant, operating on pure training and determination. The wound in his side was leaving a trail of drops on the expensive carpet, but that was a problem for later. If there was a later.

The pit was a killing ground waiting to happen. No cover, multiple angles of fire. Perfect for an ambush. Sometimes, Midoriya reflected grimly, the only way forward was to give the enemy exactly what they wanted.

Crouched beside row twenty-three, Midoriya's hands moved over the seventh device. His tactical mind cataloged details automatically—placement, wiring, timer showing 1:14—when something caught his eye. A bullet hole in the plush seat beside him, wisping smoke in a way that defied physics. The smoke seemed to curl against gravity, forming patterns that his brain refused to process.

The cold press of steel against his skull brought time to a halt.

"Не рухайся!" The SWAT operator's voice was distorted by his mask, but the threat was clear enough. Don't move!

From the corner of his eye, Midoriya could see Hitoshi pinned down thirty rows back, enhanced reflexes barely keeping him ahead of the suppressive fire raining down from the upper level. Hitoshi’s face showed barely controlled fury—the need to intervene warring with the tactical reality of their situation.

"Stay there," Midoriya commanded softly, knowing Hitoshi's enhanced hearing would pick it up. To the SWAT operator, he said, "Walk away. You don't need to kill these people."

0:42 

The smoke from the bullet hole was thickening, moving in ways that smoke shouldn't move. Midoriya thought about reaching toward it, combat instincts warring with scientific curiosity.

The SWAT operator's weapon made a distinct click—the sound of a safety disengaging.

What happened next seemed to fold time itself.

THWUP!

The bullet hole simply ceased to exist—there one moment, gone the next. Midoriya felt the burn of a near miss across his tactical vest, then spun to see the SWAT operator falling, a perfect hole through his chest. Behind him stood a figure in all black tactical gear, weapon still raised.

The figure turned slightly, and Midoriya caught sight of something that made his blood run cold—a red and orange ribbon, tied to the figure's pack with similarly colored thread. Midoriya waited, muscles coiled, for the figure to turn its weapon on him. But then the distant thrum of helicopter rotors began to fill the room, growing louder by the second. The figure's head tilted slightly, as if listening to something only they could hear. In the next moment, they simply... vanished, leaving only questions and the lingering scent of impossible smoke.

"Izuku!" Hitoshi's voice cut through his confusion. "Time!"

0:06

"Rally point alpha!" Midoriya shouted, already gathering the bombs. "Go!"

With practiced precision, he hurled the collected devices upward into the VIP boxes. They arced through the red-lit air like deadly shooting stars, disappearing into the ornate chambers just as the timers hit zero.

The explosion rocked the art house like thunder, but Midoriya's calculations had been precise. The blast concentrated in the VIP boxes, contained by the century-old architecture designed to enhance acoustics. Below, the unconscious audience began to stir—the gas wearing off just as planned, their confusion mixing with the settling dust and debris.

Midoriya and Hitoshi burst through the side entrance of the plaza, the cool Kiev night a shock after the heated fire fight. Right on schedule, their extraction vehicle appeared—the same unmarked van from earlier, rear doors already swinging open.

They dove inside, muscle memory taking over. Midoriya ripped off his gas mask, lungs burning as he gulped down clean air. The Russian passenger turned, reaching for Hitoshi's face—probably to verify his identity as the American VIP.

Fatal mistake.

Midoriya's hand flashed to his karambit while simultaneously drawing his sidearm. The blade found the driver's carotid artery in the same instant his suppressed pistol coughed once, putting a bullet through the base of the man's skull. Beside him, Hitoshi moved with enhanced speed, his hands a blur as he snapped the passenger's neck with clinical efficiency. They eliminated their "employers" with surgical precision.

"Drive," Midoriya ordered, already moving the driver's body. His mind was still running combat calculations, tracking their successful extraction, the secured package, the saved civilians. Hitoshi vaulted into the front seat, the van barely losing momentum as they switched control.

Midoriya pulled out his secure phone, fingers dancing across the encrypted interface. Victory coursed through Midoriya's veins like ice water. They'd done it. Impossible tech secured, hundreds of lives saved, multiple hostile agencies outmaneuvered. The kind of mission that reminded him why he—

"Mission accomplished," he reported to Aizawa, his voice rougher than usual. "Package secured and delivered. But sir... things got complicated."

"I imagine I'll see something about it on the news?" Aizawa's dry tone carried a hint of resignation.

"Unfortunately. Kiev's about to be a diplomatic nightmare. Multiple agencies involved, reduced civilian casualties, but there were casualties nonetheless..." Midoriya paused. "And something else we need to discuss. About Project Echo."

"That's not our most pressing concern right now." Aizawa's voice turned sharp. "Sarajevo's been compromised. The entire operation's blown."

The victory in Midoriya's blood turned to ash. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that I'm flying back from Algeria personally. And before you ask—no, I can't get you out of Ukraine. The airspace is too hot right now, and after tonight's operation, I'm sure that every intelligence service in Eastern Europe will be watching the borders."

"Poland?" Midoriya asked, already calculating routes.

"Too risky. They're dealing with their own situation right now. Belarus is your best bet—I can have a pickup in Minsk in six hours."

"What about Moldova? Romania?"

"Negative on both. Russian presence is too heavy, especially after what I'm watching unfold on tv." A pause. "Get to Minsk. We'll talk more there."

Midoriya's tactical mind started connecting dots. "Sir, if Sarajevo went this badly—" His voice hardened as realization hit. "This is why I wanted my team there. My guys could have—"

"That wasn't your call to make," Aizawa cut him off, but there was something in his voice—regret? "And, now it's irrelevant."

"With all due respect, sir, I had three alphas ready for that exact scenario. If command had just—"

"Midoriya." Aizawa rarely used that tone—the one that reminded Midoriya exactly who he was talking to. "What's done is done. Get to Minsk. Six hours."

The line went dead.

"Fuck!" Midoriya's fist hit the van's wall, denting metal. The execution of tonight's mission evaporated like smoke, replaced by the bitter taste of preventable failure. He hadn't even had time to process their success in Kiev before Sarajevo yanked the ground out from under him.

"I take it we're not celebrating our successful extraction?" Hitoshi's dry tone carried understanding. His enhanced hearing had caught both sides of the conversation.

"Turn northeast," Midoriya ordered, forcing the rage back into its box. "We need to get to Belarus, and every agency between here and there will be hunting us." He checked his watch. "Six hours to make a twelve-hour drive."

"Want to tell me what happened in Sarajevo?"

"Don't know yet." The words tasted like failure in his mouth. "But I had three of our best ready for that operation. Command said it wasn't necessary. That we should only aid in monitoring for that job."

Hitoshi was quiet for a moment, processing. "Nothing's ever simple anymore, is it?"

As they drove through Kiev's darkness, Midoriya found his mind spinning between extremes—their perfect execution tonight versus whatever had gone wrong in Sarajevo, lives saved here versus lives potentially lost there. The strange device they'd secured felt heavy in its case, a reminder that success in one operation meant nothing if others fell apart.

"Nothing's ever simple anymore, is it?" Hitoshi asked quietly.

"No," Midoriya replied, his voice carrying the weight of command decisions—both the ones he'd made tonight and the ones he hadn't been allowed to make. "And I have a feeling it's about to get much worse."

The night swallowed them as Hitoshi pressed the accelerator, leaving behind one victory that already felt hollow in the shadow of failure yet to be measured.

The train rocked gently as it cut through the darkness of the Ukrainian countryside, each rhythmic click of wheels against track marking their steady progress toward Belarus. Izuku pulled out his secure phone and activated the recording function, a habit he'd developed years ago. These audio journals were as much for his own sanity as they were for operational documentation.

"Kiev mission complete but compromised," he began, voice low enough that it wouldn't carry to the next compartment where Hitoshi rested. "The device we recovered violates everything I know about established physics. Like it was designed by someone who doesn't follow our rules of reality."

He paused, staring at his reflection in the window—fragmented and ghostlike against the passing darkness.

"I've seen classified tech before, but this was different. Wrong..."

The thought hung unfinished in the quiet compartment. Izuku shifted, wincing at the pain in his side where a bullet had grazed him during their escape.

"Stabilizer reserves are low,” he continued after checking the device. The transparent chamber revealed a dwindling swirl of particles, fading like embers in the wind. “I broke protocol again in Kiev. Doubled my dose.” He flexed his hand, watching how the faint tremors made him shake . "The tremors are worse when I try to space them out. Dr. Chiyo would pull me from field ops if she knew. Can't let that happen though.”

He exhaled softly, the sound captured by the sensitive microphone.

“I think Hitoshi noticed the dosage increase. Didn't say anything, but I’m sure he knows. The whole team probably does." A bitter smile tugged at his lips. Being the only omega in a unit of alphas was like standing in a spotlight that never dimmed. Every tremor, every hitch in his scent, was a crack in the mask he wore. The stabilizers were supposed to be a temporary fix, a bridge to keep him steady until he could manage without them.

The metallic stabilizer clinked softly against the table as he set it down, the sound sharp in the silence. He studied the swirling particles, their faint glow mocking his resolve. “They do help,” he said quietly, almost pleadingly, as if convincing himself.

But the unspoken question lingered, thick and suffocating: At what cost?

"Someone at the art museum had a ribbon. Red and orange. Same as Shanghai last year. It feels all connected, but I can't see the full picture yet." His voice hardened as he shifted topics. "If I had been allowed to send my team to Sarajevo instead of just monitoring..."

He trailed off, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper.

"I tell myself that all of my work is also about finding Dad. About completing his research. But some days I wonder if I'm just chasing ghosts. If I even want to know what happened to him." The admission felt dangerous, even in private. "What if he just... left? What if all of this—the stabilizers, the missions, the secrets—what if it's just me trying to be something I'm not?"

Izuku took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“I’ll meet with Shoto for dinner when I am back in the city. Another promise I'll try not to break." He rubbed his eyes, fatigue settling into his bones. "Sometimes I think he stays because he understands duty better than most. Other times I wonder if he's just waiting for me to finally burn out."

He paused, considering his next words carefully.

"If something happens to me... if I don't make it back from Minsk... I need someone to know that the Kiev device and prime designations are connected. The patterns I could make out were too similar to be coincidence. I've left copies of my notes with Hitoshi, encrypted. The password is the date my Dad disappeared, followed by the name of my first operation out of military school."

A train whistle sounded in the distance, mournful in the night.

"End log," Izuku said, ending the recording and tucking the phone away.

The nano-molecular stabilizer cast a faint blue glow in the darkened train compartment, its indicators pulsing like a mechanical heartbeat. Izuku studied the classified cocktail worth more than most military programs, designed specifically for his unique biology.

"Stabilizer reserves at 18%," the device's AI whispered. "Recommend immediate administration."

His fingers twitched with anticipation as he reached for it. When had that started happening? The unconscious eagerness, the relief that flooded through him at the thought of another dose? He frowned, trying to remember when the stabilizers had shifted from necessity to... something different.

"Administration overdue by 47 minutes," the AI prompted again. "Biochemical destabilization imminent."

Izuku's hands shook as he pressed the cold metal against his thigh. Even through his civilian clothes, he could feel the device's scanner reading his biochemistry, adjusting its formula in real-time. This wasn't the commercial grade stabilizers other omegas used. This was science born from Japan's most restricted laboratories, molecular engineering meant to keep weapons like him functional.

"Calibration complete. Administering dose."

The injection wasn't as intense as he expected. Instead of the usual arctic rush, it felt more like cool water spreading through his system. The tremors in his hands subsided, but the edge remained—a persistent whisper of awareness that hadn't been there before. He couldn’t tell if the formula had changed, or if he was building tolerance after years of regular administration.

Through the window, Ukraine's darkness rolled past like spilled ink. Somewhere ahead lay Belarus, and beyond that, answers about Sarajevo. But for now, in this space between countries, Izuku allowed himself a moment of raw honesty: he was tired. Bone-deep, soul-achingly tired.

He closed his eyes, feeling the stabilizer work through his system. Usually by now, the world would take on that perfect clarity, emotions compartmentalized into manageable boxes, instincts muted to background noise. Tonight, though, everything remained stubbornly present—the residual adrenaline from Kiev, the lingering scent of gunpowder on his clothes, the hollow ache of questions without answers.

"Insufficient response to current dosage," the device chirped. "Biochemical parameters sub-optimal. Recommend supplementary administration."

Izuku stared at the device. Second doses were against protocol—explicitly forbidden by Dr. Chiyo after the Istanbul incident last year. But the tremor in his left hand hadn't subsided completely, and the hollow feeling in his chest suggested the stabilizer wasn't doing its job properly.

Just this once, he thought, justifying the decision with clinical precision. Field conditions require adaptation. He'd file the exception report when they reached secure communications.

The second dose felt better, much closer to what he was used to. The artificial calm finally spread through his system, reality acquiring the filtered quality that allowed him to function at peak efficiency. He exhaled slowly, tucking the device back into its specialized case, deliberately not calculating how quickly he was depleting his supply.

His secure phone felt heavier than his combat gear as he dialed home.

"Izuku?" His mother's voice carried warmth even through military-grade encryption. "It's so early—is everything okay?"

"Hey, Mom." He tried to steady his voice, but even the doubled stabilizer couldn't quite mask his exhaustion. "Sorry about the time difference. I just... wanted to hear your voice."

Wanted to remember what normal feels like, he didn't say. Wanted to pretend for a moment that I'm not what they made me.

A pause. They'd perfected this dance years ago, when he first disappeared into the shadows of national security. She'd learned not to ask questions he couldn't answer, and he'd learned to hear the worry beneath her casual words.

"I made your favorite katsudon yesterday," she said instead. "The dojo students loved it. That nice Uraraka girl even asked for the recipe."

Izuku closed his eyes, letting memory wash over him. The dojo had been his first home, the place where he'd learned to control his emerging instincts. Before the military discovered what he was, before the scientists understood how valuable an omega like him could be, it had just been him and his mother and the ancient wooden floors where he learned both martial arts and discipline.

"Dad's old uniform finally arrived from storage," his mother added carefully. "I put it with his medals in the display case you built."

Something twisted in Izuku's chest at the mention of his father. Hisashi Midoriya—the brilliant quantum physicist whose work for the military had revolutionized Japan's sicken community before his mysterious disappearance twenty-two years ago, when Izuku was very young. Classified as "missing in action" during a research deployment, though no body had ever been recovered, no definitive answers ever provided.

"Did they send anything else?" Izuku asked, keeping his voice neutral despite the sudden alertness that coursed through him. "Any of his research materials?"

"Just what I told you about—the uniform, a few personal effects. Some photographs I hadn't seen before." She paused, understanding the real question beneath his words. "Nothing that would help, Izuku. I'm sorry."

The familiar disappointment settled like lead in his stomach. Fifteen years of searching, of following in his father's footsteps through the military, through specialized training, through the classified enhancement program. 

Over two decades of dead ends and redacted files and security clearances that were never quite high enough.

"It's okay," he said automatically. "I just thought..."

"I know, baby." Her voice softened. "He would be so proud of you. Following his path, serving your country."

Am I, though? Izuku wondered, not for the first time. Following his path or just chasing a ghost? His father had been committed to the advancement of human potential, to unlocking things that could benefit everyone. Somewhere along the way, something went wrong and it was defunded. Allegedly.

Would his father recognize what they'd done with his work? Would he approve of what his son had become in his absence?

"How's the garden?" he asked instead, their code for normalcy and safety rolling off his tongue.

"Beautiful. The roses you sent are blooming." Her voice carried layers of meaning. I'm safe. I'm proud of you. I worry.

They talked about nothing important—neighborhood gossip, new restaurants, festival plans. But beneath the mundane conversation, Izuku felt the weight of everything unsaid. How could he tell her about Kiev? About the experimental stabilizers that kept him functioning?

"Izuku," she said finally, her voice softening. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

The question pierced deeper than any interrogation. "I'm trying, Mom. I just..." He swallowed against the artificial calm of the stabilizer. "Sometimes I forget how."

"Come home when you can," she said simply. "Your room is always ready. The one place in the world you don't have to be anything but my son."

After they hung up, Izuku watched his reflection fade in and out against the passing landscape. The doubled stabilizer dose was holding, but something felt off—the edges of his consciousness remained too sharp, his emotional responses too close to the surface. Like the chemical buffer between himself and his omega nature had thinned. 

He opened his messaging app with a soft chime:

To: Todoroki S.
Back in 18 hours if everything goes according to plan. Dinner at yours? Need something normal for a change. Been double-dosing to stay functional. Don't lecture me.

He hesitated before sending, knowing he was gambling by admitting the dosage issue. Shoto understood Izuku, didn't often demand more than he could give. But sometimes that understanding felt like another burden, like another reminder of all the connections he had to keep at arm's length.

He deleted the last line about the dosage, then sent the amended message. That was a later problem, a conversation for when they were face to face. 

The stabilizer hummed in his system, the artificial calm holding steady but fragile around the edges. Each dose felt like another compromise between his nature and his duty, between what he was born to be and what his country needed from him.

In the next compartment, he could sense Hitoshi's presence—the alpha's energy dulled by exhaustion but still a reassuring constant. Soon they'd reach Minsk, and whatever nightmare waited in Sarajevo would demand every ounce of control he could muster. But here, in this moment between countries and identities, Izuku allowed himself to feel the full weight of his existence.

His fingers traced the outline of the stabilizer in his pocket. When had it become more than a tool? When had the relief of each dose started to feel like more than chemical regulation? He pushed the questions away, focusing instead on the mission ahead, on the answers that might finally be within reach.

Over twenty years since his father vanished. Decades of following a cold trail through classified programs and redacted files. If the connections he was seeing were real, then perhaps he was finally getting close to the truth.

He just hoped the truth wouldn't destroy what little remained of Hisashi Midoriya's legacy. Or of the son who had spent his life trying to live up to it.

Less than two hours later, the train crossed into Belarus as dawn broke over the endless birch forests. Izuku watched the border guards through half-lidded eyes, playing the role of a tired Japanese businessman perfectly. Their falsified diplomatic credentials—courtesy of a JSDF front company—held up under scrutiny. They always did.

Hitoshi sat across from him in their private compartment, seemingly absorbed in a financial newspaper. But Izuku could sense his partner's enhanced awareness mapping every movement in the train car, every whispered conversation, every subtle shift in the atmosphere that might signal trouble.

"Our contact's confirmed," Hitoshi said quietly in Japanese, turning a page. "Car will be waiting at the secondary location. Aizawa's arranged everything through the local network."

Izuku nodded, his mind already processing the layers of complexity in their situation. Belarus was technically neutral ground, but in reality, it was a breeding ground for proxy wars where multiple powers played their games. The Chinese had a strong presence here, watching the technology transfer routes between Europe and Asia. The Russians considered it their backyard. And now, with the situation in Sarajevo destabilizing, every intelligence service would be on high alert.

His tablet chimed with an incoming secure message—intelligence from Stars about the situation developing in Sarajevo. He scanned it quickly to process the new information. 

Cathleen "Star and Stripes" Bate was a force of nature—an alpha operative who'd earned her place on his team through sheer competence and an uncanny ability to get results. Recruiting her from the U.S. had raised eyebrows initially, but her direct approach and official position had proven invaluable. She navigated the bureaucratic waters of international intelligence with all the subtlety of a battleship, but somehow made it work.

Designation-based targeting confirmed in three additional incidents. Pattern consistent with Kiev device signatures. Recommend immediate containment protocols.

Izuku frowned, the puzzle pieces refusing to align into a coherent picture. The device they'd recovered in Kiev had contained technology that shouldn't exist outside theoretical models—quantum resonance amplifiers designed to interact with designation biology in ways that defied conventional understanding. And now similar signatures were appearing in seemingly unrelated incidents across Eastern Europe.

"Global news update?" Hitoshi asked quietly, nodding toward Izuku's tablet.

Izuku passed him the tablet, showing a news feed alongside Stars' encrypted message. The international coverage was growing increasingly chaotic—demonstrations in major cities, conspiracy theorists having a field day with limited information.

The news footage showed protesters gathered outside the United Nations headquarters in New York, their signs displaying slogans like "DESIGNATION RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS" and "NO MORE MILITARY EXPERIMENTS." A counter-protest had formed across the street, these demonstrators carrying banners reading "DESIGNATION TERRORISM IS STILL TERRORISM" and "SECURITY BEFORE SENSITIVITY."

"The UN Security Council will vote tomorrow on Resolution 2187, which would classify the Kiev incident as a designation-based terrorist attack," the reporter was saying. "This would allow member nations to implement enhanced security measures specifically targeting designation groups believed to be involved in planning similar attacks."

Hitoshi let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Ironic. The conspiracy theorists are actually closer to the truth than the official line."

Izuku shot him a warning look, but he couldn't deny the accuracy of the observation. The "official" story claimed that designation extremist groups had orchestrated the Kiev bombing as a protest against military occupation. The conspiracy theorists, meanwhile, were spreading wild theories about government-sanctioned experiments gone wrong, cover-ups of "super-soldier programs," and black projects testing weapons on unwitting civilians.

The truth, as usual, was somewhere in between—and far more complex than either narrative.

"The designation community is already being scapegoated," Hitoshi murmured, scrolling through more headlines. "Look at this—registration requirements ramping up in twelve countries, 'temporary detention' of alpha community leaders in Eastern Europe, omega curfews in three major cities."

Izuku's jaw tightened. "Convenient timing for some."

"Almost like someone planned it that way," Hitoshi agreed, then paused at Izuku's expression. "Sorry, sir. Too far?"

"No," Izuku replied, his voice barely audible. "Just... careful about speculating in unsecured environments."

He opened a secure channel to Stars, encrypting his response at the highest level:

To: Captain C. Bate  
Re: Kiev Device Analysis Classification: ULTRA-7

Stars,
The Kiev connection is more significant than initially assessed. Continue investigation through official channels, but maintain separation between this line of inquiry and standard reporting protocols.

Check the Nakamura indexes against the amplification patterns. Two more files attached—radiation readings from Sarajevo site and biological markers from the Kiev survivors.  Proceed with caution. We don't know how deep this goes yet. Hitoshi will follow-up with a detailed brief .

- M

He sent the message, knowing it would reach Stars through quantum-encrypted channels that even the most sophisticated surveillance couldn't penetrate. If anyone could make sense of the fragmented data they were collecting, it was Stars—her brilliant mind had been mapping the connections between designation biology and quantum phenomena for about as long as Izuku had been studying material advancement.

"Any word from Yaoyorozu?" Izuku asked, referring to their technical operations specialist back in Tokyo. She ran their science and technology security division, coordinating with NATO's cyber teams while maintaining Japan's technological sovereignty.

"She sent an encrypted brief while you were on your call." Hitoshi's voice dropped even lower. "Three more quantum tech thefts in the past month. Pattern suggests Chinese MSS, but..." He hesitated. "The targeting is too precise. Someone's feeding them intel from inside our research programs."

The implications made Izuku's freshly stabilized blood run cold. His unit had been created specifically to prevent this kind of infiltration—to protect Japan's advanced research from foreign acquisition. The fact that someone was succeeding meant they had help at the highest levels.

"Listen to this," Hitoshi said, reading from his tablet. "'Underground message boards reporting increased military presence at research facilities across Eastern Europe. Designation Rights Coalition calling for international observers at what they're calling "black sites" near Kiev, Minsk, and Warsaw.'" He looked up, expression grim. "They're getting way too close to the truth."

Izuku pulled up satellite imagery on his secure tablet, zooming in on a facility outside Warsaw that didn’t exist according to official records. "How are civilian groups getting this intel? These sites don't appear on any public maps."

"The designations groups are doing what they've always done, looking out for their own. The Omega Protection Network has informal surveillance on military movements near their communities. They don't know what they're seeing, but they know something's happening."

The news feed switched to footage from Berlin, where thousands of protesters filled Alexanderplatz, many wearing designation symbols prominently displayed—the intertwined alpha/omega symbol that had become the rallying point for designation rights activists worldwide.

"We need to talk to HQ,” Izuku muttered, naming their division chief. "This could be connected to what we saw in Kiev. The quantum signatures, the advanced tech—"

"The timing with the UN vote is too perfect to be coincidental," Hitoshi observed, closing the news feed as the train slowed for the approach to Minsk. "Resolution 2187 would give military forces unprecedented authority to monitor, detain, and interrogate designation individuals without judicial oversight."

"Under the guise of preventing more 'terrorist attacks,'" Izuku agreed, his voice tight. "Using fear to push through legislation that would otherwise never pass international scrutiny."

His secure phone vibrated, a message from Jirou, their signals intelligence expert: 

Watch the morning markets. MSS making moves on semiconductor tech. Your opera house friends might have friends in Shanghai.

Izuku closed his eyes, letting the pieces align in his mind. The strange device from Kiev, the quantum abnormalities, the technology thefts... Something bigger was happening, something that transcended normal geopolitical boundaries.

"Interesting timing," Hitoshi said, folding his newspaper with precise movements. "Chinese MSS ramping up acquisitions just as our NATO 'partners' start detecting signatures they shouldn't know exist."

Izuku gave his subordinate a measured look. Even after years of working together, the command structure remained clear—Hitoshi was one of his most trusted operatives, but there were things Hitoshi wasn't cleared to know, with layers of classification that sometimes felt like walls between them.

"Watch your tone when discussing our allies," Izuku said quietly. "Even here." The subtle reminder of rank made Hitoshi straighten slightly.

"Yes, sir. Apologies." Hitoshi's expression softened fractionally, his concern evident behind his professional demeanor. "You're looking pale. When did you last take a stabilizer?"

The question, asked in a voice deliberately pitched below what standard surveillance could detect, caught Izuku off guard. He shot Hitoshi a sharp look, but found only genuine concern in the other man's eyes.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, the response ingrained after years of deflection.

Hitoshi held his gaze for a moment longer than protocol strictly allowed. "With respect, sir, you're not. The dosage isn't holding like it used to, is it?"

Izuku looked away, uncomfortable with the perceptiveness. After five years working together, Hitoshi had developed an uncanny ability to read his commander, even through the chemical buffer of the stabilizers.

"It's more complicated than that anyway," Izuku continued, deflecting. "Our status with NATO comes with specific limitations. We share intelligence, conduct joint exercises, but without Article 5 protection, we're often operating without a safety net."

"Like Kiev."

"Like Kiev." Izuku's voice tightened. "But that operation revealed something that shouldn't have been possible. The tech advancement level we witnessed is beyond even our Special Access Programs' current capabilities."

Hitoshi's eyes narrowed. "I thought J-SAP was running point on all experimental research after the Chinese semiconductor infiltration attempt."

"The programs you're cleared for, yes." Izuku's tone carried a gentle but firm reminder. "But there are... other initiatives. Projects that even most of J-SAP isn't authorized to know exist."

"Like the stabilizer they've engineered for you?"

"Careful," Izuku warned, though without heat. "That's definitely beyond your clearance level." But Hitoshi's observation had hit uncomfortably close to the truth—the stabilizer was failing him, and the timing couldn't be worse.

"Sir, with respect—my enhanced senses pick up its signature. Whatever they're using to keep you balanced, it's like nothing I've encountered before."

The train shuddered as it hit a switch, the sound covering Izuku's soft sigh. "The stabilizer is part of something different. Something that predates our current tensions with China, even the Senkaku Islands dispute."

His tablet flashed with another news alert. The UN Security Council was moving up the vote on Resolution 2187, citing "critical security concerns" following new intelligence about designation-based threats. The accelerated timeline itself was practically an admission that politics were driving the process, not security.

"Which has escalated since they detected our new defensive installations," Hitoshi noted. "The economic pressure they're applying—"

"Is a cover," Izuku interrupted. "They're not after our current tech. They're looking for something specific. Something they think we're developing." He paused, weighing operational security against necessity. "What we saw in Kiev? That kind of stuff shouldn't exist for at least another decade."

"Unless someone's gotten ahead of schedule."

"Or unless someone's getting unsanctioned help," Izuku's voice dropped lower. "There are programs within programs, Hitoshi. Things even I'm not fully cleared for."

"Which explains why Toshinori is taking command of Pacific operations again."

Izuku's hand tightened on his armrest. "Where did you hear that?"

"Yaoyorozu's brief mentioned—" Hitoshi stopped at Izuku's sharp look. "Sir?"

"Toshinori taking direct control of Pacific operations... that's not him coming back for shits and giggles. That's him abandoning his position as Chief of Intelligence." Izuku felt a chill that had nothing to do with the stabilizer. "He's stepping down from running the entire agency to personally oversee a single theater."

The implications hung heavy in the compartment. Toshinori—All Might, the legendary pilot turned spymaster—leaving his position as Japan's intelligence chief to directly manage field operations... it was unprecedented.

"Sir," Hitoshi said carefully, "what could possibly—"

"Above your clearance," Izuku cut him off, but not unkindly. "And honestly? Probably above mine too."

His secure phone vibrated with new coordinates for their car pickup.

"That device in Kiev," Hitoshi said carefully, his enhanced senses still processing what he'd encountered. "The molecular structure was... wrong. Almost organic."

"Like it was adapting,” Izuku agreed, his voice tight. "I've seen experimental nanotech before, but this was not that. The way it responded to environmental changes, adapted to quantum scanning..." He trailed off, remembering how the device had seemed to drink in light, shift under observation.

"Should we inform Research Division?"

"Not yet." Izuku checked their surveillance feeds. 

"Want me to get Stars on this?"

“Yeah, she'll love this," Izuku said, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice. "Tell her to dig into that CIA operative we extracted, but keep it official. No backdoor channels. She works best when she can throw her credentials around anyway."

"Sir, after Shanghai—"

"Shanghai worked exactly because Stars played it straight. Sometimes the best way to hide something is to put it in plain sight." Izuku checked their surveillance feeds. "She's got the clearance and the connections to ask questions that would get anyone else blacklisted. And right now, we need to know who's trying to bury this tech's existence."

The train approached Minsk Station, slowing through a landscape dotted with Soviet-era apartment blocks and modern security installations. Through the window, they could see groups of protesters gathering near the station, their signs bearing both Belarusian and English slogans about designation rights and military accountability.

"Parameters?" Hitoshi asked, watching the demonstration with practiced nonchalance.

"Focus on the organic components. Not many labs could develop something like this, and Stars knows every advanced research facility worth watching. Plus," Izuku added with a slight smirk, "she's probably already kicking down doors asking about Kiev. Might as well point her in the right direction."

"And if she finds something sensitive?"

"She knows when to be a bull in a china shop and when to be subtle. It's why I picked her in the first place." Izuku's expression hardened.

Hitoshi pulled out his secure phone, then paused. "Sir, if Stars starts making noise about this tech..."

"That's exactly what we want. Let everyone watch her kick up dust through official channels. They'll be so busy monitoring her obvious investigation that they might miss what we're really looking for."

As the train slowed to its final approach, Izuku noticed Hitoshi watching him with an expression that went beyond professional concern. "What is it?"

"This mission," Hitoshi said carefully. "You're pushing harder than usual. Is there something I should know?"

"It's all connected," Izuku said quietly. "The designation targeting, the quantum signatures, the stolen tech... I can feel the pieces aligning, but I can't quite see the full picture yet."

"We'll figure it out," Hitoshi said with quiet conviction. For a brief moment, his hand rested on Izuku's arm—a gesture of support that Izuku rarely allowed.

"Whatever this is, you don't have to face it alone. Sir."

The formality at the end was a concession to their professional relationship, but the sentiment behind it was genuine. Izuku nodded, momentarily grateful for the stabilizer that kept his emotions in check. Without it, the simple gesture might have cracked his carefully maintained composure.

"Thank you," he said simply.

The train slid into Minsk Station as Hitoshi began composing their message to Stars. Izuku could almost hear her reaction now—probably something colorfully American and patriotic followed by immediate, decisive action. It's what made her perfect for this role: she was exactly who she appeared to be, which made her the perfect cover for operations just like this.

Especially since Izuku could feel something coming. Something that would make the current tensions look like a prelude. And when it arrived, he needed to be ready—stabilizer or no stabilizer, clearance or no clearance. Because some threats transcended national interests, some secrets were worth protecting even from your own side.

The train came to a complete stop as Hitoshi finished his encrypted message to Stars. "Car will be at the east exit in fifteen minutes. We should move."

Izuku nodded, gathering his minimal luggage and assuming the air of a tired businessman glad to reach his destination. The sarajevo debrief was waiting, and with it, perhaps, answers to the questions he’s been searching for. 

He just hoped he was ready for what those answers might reveal.

The private airfield outside Minsk sprawled before them, crisp morning air carrying the scent of jet fuel and frost. Their exfiltration had gone smoothly—no tails, no surveillance, their covers intact. Despite the operational success in Kiev, tension hung in the air like a tangible presence.

Aizawa's unmarked jet waited on the tarmac, engines already cycling for departure. Beside it sat a smaller aircraft, equally nondescript, equally untraceable. The sight brought a flicker of satisfaction to Izuku's otherwise troubled mind. J-SAP logistics never failed to deliver, even when working across international lines that grew more tangled by the day.

"Clean run," Hitoshi said, performing one final sensory sweep of their surroundings. "We're clear."

Izuku nodded, allowing himself to relax fractionally. "You did good work in Kiev," he said, turning to his subordinate. It wasn't often he gave direct praise, but sometimes it was warranted. "Both during the operation and after."

"Thank you, sir."

"I've arranged your transport to the States," Izuku continued, handing over a sealed envelope. "You'll be Stars's support on this investigation. Whatever she needs, whatever resources she requires—make it happen." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Remember, keep it quiet. Low profile."

Hitoshi accepted the envelope with a slight bow. "Parameters for accommodation?"

"Take your pick of the safe houses. Anywhere on the eastern seaboard, but I want you within three hours of DC. No further." Izuku's voice carried the weight of command. "The brownstone in Boston could work. Or that place in Philadelphia we used after the Shanghai operation."

"Sir, what about—"

"Focus on what's in front of you," Izuku cut him off, not unkindly. "Help Stars dig into this tech situation. Let me worry about Sarajevo."

The morning sun caught the frost on the tarmac, creating tiny rainbows against the concrete. Sometimes these moments between missions felt more real than the operations themselves—these quiet exchanges before everything changed again.

"Three hours from DC," Hitoshi repeated, committing the parameter to memory. "And if Stars finds something of substance?"

"Then you contact me directly. Not through channels, not through command. Directly." Izuku checked his watch—the stabilizer would hold until he reached Tokyo. "And Hitoshi? Be careful. Whatever we stumbled into in Kiev... I have a feeling it's bigger than any of us realize."

His subordinate nodded once, sharply, then turned toward the smaller aircraft. No lengthy goodbyes, no unnecessary words. They'd worked together long enough to know when silence said everything necessary.

Izuku watched him go, then turned toward Aizawa's jet. Each step felt heavy with anticipation. Whatever had happened in Sarajevo, whatever had brought his former mentor back from Algeria, he was about to find out. And judging by the look on Aizawa's face through the jet's window, he wasn't going to like it.

The go bag from the car had contained exactly what Izuku needed—perfectly tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit, white dress shirt, and oxblood dress shoes. J-SAP's logistics team never missed a detail, right down to the platinum tie bar that doubled as a signal dampener. The outfit was chosen not just for comfort during the long flight, but to project exactly the right image: successful, subtle power that drew no unnecessary attention.

He'd taken particular satisfaction in burning his clothes from Kiev. Standard protocol—nothing from an operation survived except what was specifically marked for retention. The ashes would be scattered across three different locations between Minsk and the airfield.

Now, climbing the jet's stairs, Izuku reached up and carefully removed the scent-masking patch from his neck. The synthetic material peeled away with practiced ease, the faint adhesive leaving no residue. Immediately, his body adjusted as his biochemistry responded, like exhaling after holding his breath too long. His natural pheromones stabilized, unobstructed for the first time since the mission began. The patches were indispensable for operations—especially around unknown alphas and omegas—but here, in the company of Aizawa and their trusted flight crew, he could let his guard down, even if only a fraction.

The Gulfstream G650's cabin welcomed him with familiar luxury—hand-stitched leather seats, burled wood panels, and state-of-the-art communications equipment hidden behind elegant facades. This particular aircraft was one of J-SAP's most secure assets, capable of transforming into a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF) at altitude, ensuring their missions stayed as secret as required.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Midoriya," Captain Yamamoto called from the cockpit. Her tone was professional but warm—a far cry from the tense airfields Izuku had frequented during extraction runs. She'd been flying their secure routes for three years now, one of the few pilots cleared for secure airborne operations. "SCIF protocols will engage at thirty thousand feet. We'll be out of Ukrainian airspace shortly."

"Understood," Izuku replied, stepping into the cabin and letting the door seal behind him with a soft hiss.

At the center of the cabin, Aizawa sat in his usual spot, reclined slightly with one ankle resting on the opposite knee. His casual attire—dark jeans and a black cashmere sweater—belied the man's role as the connective tissue holding operations like this together. Izuku knew Aizawa was never without his tactical harness, the subtle bulge beneath his sweater betraying the gear hidden underneath. A beta through and through, Aizawa was the steady, unyielding axis around which so many moving parts revolved.

"You look sharp, but exhausted," Aizawa said, his voice carrying its usual dry humor. His sharp, dark eyes scanned Izuku in one sweep, as though assessing more than his physical state.

"Feeling's mutual, sir." Izuku allowed himself a rare smirk as he sank into the leather seat across from Aizawa, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly. "Ready for wheels up, Captain," he called forward.

As the jet began to taxi, Izuku let his gaze linger on Aizawa. Few people understood what the man did to ensure J-SAP's field teams operated with the autonomy they required. While Izuku was in the thick of tactical missions, Aizawa was the one running interference, navigating the labyrinth of politics, bureaucracy, and intelligence rivalries that threatened to derail operations before they even began.

"You keep everything quiet on your end?" Izuku asked, his tone casual but edged with curiosity.

"As quiet as it can be," Aizawa replied, leaning back slightly. "Your mission was a high-wire act, and it's going to stay that way until the intel you retrieved gets processed. The CIA wanted more oversight; I made sure they got less. The Russians—" he shrugged, "—they're chasing shadows right now. And the Ukrainians think this was just another rogue paramilitary op. It won't last, but it'll hold long enough for us to regroup."

Aizawa's ability to maneuver through international complexities was why J-SAP relied on him. He shielded teams like Izuku's from unnecessary exposure, ensuring their work remained secret and their targets elusive. His beta status lent him a calm, calculated edge, free from the hormonal volatility that often complicated alpha-dominated environments. This balance allowed him to handle volatile negotiations, secure covert transportation routes, and push through clearance hurdles—all while keeping Izuku's missions firmly off the grid.

"You smoothed things over with transport too?" Izuku asked, raising an eyebrow. He knew Aizawa had a way of making the impossible happen when it came to logistics.

"Let's just say," Aizawa replied with a faint smirk, "the airstrip we just left isn't on any kind of map. By the time anyone starts asking questions, we'll be halfway to Tokyo."

"Initiating SCIF sequence: seventeen minutes," the aircraft's AI announced in precise Japanese. "Please verify biometrics before classified discussion."

The jet's engines hummed softly, a low, steady vibration that promised both power and security. From hidden panels in the ceiling, biometric scanners descended in fluid motion, their sleek designs belying the cutting-edge technology within. While the scans followed standard protocol—retinal patterns, fingerprints, and DNA verification—the method itself was anything but ordinary. These scanners employed quantum-state verification, making spoofing or duplication impossible. Not even identical twins could bypass the system's sensitivity to unique quantum signatures.

"Beginning primary verification," the AI continued. "Aizawa Shouta, authorization level Q-Black."

Aizawa moved first, placing his palm on the scanner. A soft blue beam traced his retina as the device simultaneously mapped his quantum signature. A faint pulse of light confirmed his clearance.

"Midoriya Izuku, authorization level Echo-Black."

Izuku followed suit, placing his hand on the scanner. He watched as the scanner worked, tracing his biochemistry with almost clinical detachment. The confirmation beeped a moment later, efficient and unobtrusive.

"Biometric verification complete. Cabin secure. Encryption protocols will engage at cruising altitude."

As the scanners retracted seamlessly back into the ceiling, Sakura, their cabin attendant, appeared from the galley. Her movements were precise but unobtrusive, her presence a reflection of J-SAP's standards. She'd been part of their flight crew for two years, cleared through the same rigorous vetting process as the pilot. Trust was a currency J-SAP didn't spend lightly.

"Light breakfast before we're sealed, sir?" she offered, her tone calm and respectful.

"Thank you, Sakura," Izuku replied, accepting the green tea and perfectly shaped onigiri. Salmon and umeboshi—his usual preference. It was a small detail, but one J-SAP never overlooked.

The jet began its taxi, the cabin lights adjusting automatically to the dimmer pre-flight setting. Izuku glanced out the window as they reached the runway. Farther down, a smaller aircraft ascended into the dawn sky—Hitoshi beginning his own mission. The morning light caught the glint of the departing jet's wing before it banked sharply to the west.

Their own aircraft followed moments later, rising smoothly under Captain Yamamoto's expert control. Through the window, Belarus shrank into a frost-bitten mosaic of forests and fields. Their own aircraft banked as well, finding its flight path toward Tokyo. Somewhere down there, multiple agencies were still searching for traces of their passage, unaware that they were already above the clouds.

"Engaging SCIF protocols," the AI intoned as the jet leveled off at cruising altitude.

The cabin shifted around them. The lights dimmed slightly, and hidden panels in the walls revealed holographic displays. Tables and wood-paneled surfaces activated with ripples of encryption patterns, transforming the luxurious jet into a mobile command center. The polarized smart-glass windows became secondary displays, shimmering with data feeds from encrypted channels. Every surface carried layered counter-surveillance systems that made most intelligence agencies' technology look obsolete.

Aizawa set aside his tea, his demeanor sharpening as the final protocol completed. "Once we're sealed," he began, his voice calm but pointed, "we need to talk about what really happened in Sarajevo."

Izuku leaned back slightly, the glow from the holograms casting faint shadows across his face. The strain from Kiev still lingered in his eyes, even as his natural biochemistry regulated now that the masking patch was removed.

"Before we discuss anything," Izuku began, his tone steady but edged with urgency, "there's something you need to know."

Aizawa placed his palm on the table's interface, unlocking a deeper layer of classified access. "I'm listening."

Izuku took a deep breath, his fingers moving deliberately as they watched the holographic displays cycle through encrypted channels. Explain the situation without compromising the asset, he reminded himself. Even here, in one of the most secure spaces possible, some secrets needed careful handling.

Izuku's fingers moved deliberately, calling up secured files as holographic structures appeared between them. "I had someone embedded with the Sarajevo team," he began, his voice level despite the tension in the cabin. "Unofficially. No records."

The cabin's AI adjusted the lighting automatically, optimizing for the holographic displays now showing energy patterns that defied known physics. Aizawa's tired eyes sharpened, his focus immediate. The holograms reflected off his face, their glow accentuating the fine lines etched by sleepless nights and endless missions.

"You placed an asset without authorization," Aizawa said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"I put contingencies in place," Izuku corrected carefully. "After Shanghai, I couldn't risk—"

Aizawa raised a hand, his expression shifting to one of controlled irritation. "After Shanghai, you were explicitly ordered to run everything through proper channels."

"Proper channels don't account for unknown variables," Izuku snapped back, his frustration breaking through. He gestured to the encrypted display, where theoretical models scrolled in cascading streams. "This isn't hypothetical anymore. Kiev proved that. Someone's using tech we can't explain, and Sarajevo was my only chance to confirm it."

The cabin's holographic displays flickered as Izuku called up another file. The encryption took a moment longer to unlock, layers peeling back like the petals of a steel flower. The data it revealed—grainy field reports, intercepted communications, and fragmented schematics—made Aizawa lean forward.

"Eight months," Aizawa said quietly, his tone unreadable. "That's when you put them in place?"

Izuku nodded. "Before Sarajevo. Before we even had intelligence on the weapons smuggling. I had a hunch."

"Hunches don't justify risking assets," Aizawa countered, though his voice held no accusation, only concern. "The Americans run extensive background checks on their special operations teams. How did you get them in?"

"I leveraged my network," Izuku replied, his tone cooling as he reined in his earlier frustration. "They've been in position long enough to avoid suspicion, but now—" He gestured sharply to the displays. "They couldn't act during the mission or it would've compromised their cover. And someone decided my team didn't need boots on the ground in Sarajevo."

Aizawa's gaze didn't waver. His calm, beta nature allowed him to absorb the implications without reacting emotionally. "You're assuming the worst."

"I'm preparing for it," Izuku shot back. "Because this tech, these signatures? It's not stopping. And if Sarajevo proves one thing, it's that someone is always five steps ahead."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The hum of the jet's systems filled the silence, punctuated only by the soft flicker of encryption keys on the displays. Finally, Aizawa exhaled, rubbing his temple with one hand.

"After Shanghai, you were explicitly ordered to run everything through proper channels." Aizawa's voice was steady, holding no judgment, just the weight of fact. His sharp gaze rested on Izuku, though his tone softened slightly as he added, "Sometimes I forget how deep your networks run."

The holographic displays shifted, cycling through fragmented data streams from Kiev and Sarajevo. Lines of code, patterns that shouldn't exist, and energy signatures that defied current technological understanding scrolled across the screen. Izuku's jaw tightened as he sifted through the overlapping intelligence.

"Plausible deniability." Izuku initiated another layer of encryption with a flick of his fingers, locking the system into a state of hyper-secure isolation. "That's why we're using full-spectrum voice alteration for this debrief. The operative's identity stays compartmentalized."

His hands moved across multiple interfaces, each gesture precise and deliberate, but Aizawa didn't miss the tension in his subordinate's movements. Izuku wasn't just angry—he was seething. Not only at being kept in the dark but at the potential cost to an asset he had personally placed in the field.

"This goes beyond your usual operational authority," Aizawa said carefully, leaning forward. His voice held no condemnation, just a measured observation. "Even for our Science and Technology Division."

"Everything about these operations has gone beyond usual parameters," Izuku countered, his emerald eyes glinting as they reflected the streams of encrypted data. "Which is exactly why I made sure we had eyes on the inside." He didn't wait for a response. "Initiating connection now."

The cabin's systems hummed as the next layer of security engaged. The dim lighting of the SCIF flickered as holographic firewalls reinforced themselves, ensuring the channel was impenetrable. Then, a voice filled the cabin, digitally altered into a neutral tone that was impossible to place.

"Channel secure. Multilayer encryption stable."

"Encrypted and clean," the undercover agent confirmed, their tone clipped.

Izuku's voice was ice-edged authority. "Report. And explain to me why I had to learn about Sarajevo's compromise while extracting a CIA operative in Kiev."

The altered voice hesitated—a fraction of a second too long. It was enough for both Izuku and Aizawa to exchange a glance.

"Sir, about Sarajevo—"

"Start at the operational setup," Izuku interrupted, his voice low but unyielding. It was the kind of tone that made seasoned operatives sit straighter, regardless of rank.

The holographic displays reconfigured, showing tactical overlays of Sarajevo's outskirts: a dense urban sprawl bordered by rugged terrain.

The agent's voice returned, steady now, but laced with tension. "Initial mission parameters were compromised from the start. Command deployed three separate alpha teams—Delta Force, British SAS, and local special forces. Ten alphas total, all supposedly on suppressants, for what was classified as a simple hostage extraction."

Izuku's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. Even Aizawa shifted slightly in his seat, his brows furrowing. Deploying ten alphas for three hostages was not only overkill, it was like using a sledgehammer to crack an egg—messy, excessive, and guaranteed to draw attention.

"The mission brief claimed standard Balkan separatists," the agent continued. "But the complex told a different story. Military-grade surveillance equipment, encrypted communications far beyond local capability, and detailed infrastructure plans for multiple European cities. This wasn't just a hostage situation, it was a fully operational command center."

Izuku stepped closer to the displays. "Show me."

The holographic projections flickered, then shifted, displaying high-resolution images of the terrorist base. Layouts of the command center, lists of intercepted communications, and supply manifestos appeared, each detail more damning than the last. Izuku's eyes narrowed as he traced the information.

"These supply routes," he said quietly. "They match the patterns we saw in Kiev."

"Exactly, sir. Same shell companies. Similar routing protocols. But there's more." The agent's altered voice faltered for the briefest moment before continuing. "The hostages weren't random targets. Dr. Rio was investigating pharmaceutical irregularities, specifically, experimental compounds being smuggled through medical aid shipments. Foster had traced weapons moving through UN humanitarian channels. And Whitmore…"

"The MI6 operative," Aizawa interjected smoothly, his tone laced with understanding.

"Precisely. But her cover wasn't just diplomatic corps. She was there tracking something specific. Something that had multiple agencies willing to risk a joint operation that violated every protocol about alpha deployment densities."

Izuku's hands tightened against the edge of the table, the tension rolling off him in waves. His own experience in Kiev was still fresh. "The pharmaceutical angle. What were they shipping?"

The holograms reconfigured again, showing molecular diagrams that twisted and spiraled in impossible ways. Something advanced, Izuku realized immediately. Compounds far beyond what should be available to any known terrorist group.

"Specialized biotech," the agent confirmed. "But I couldn't get a clear reading on what it was designed to do. The equipment they had... it wasn't standard. Everything was custom, cutting-edge."

Izuku's fingers hovered over the holographic interface as he processed the implications. After what he'd seen in Kiev, this revelation was another piece of a puzzle that was growing more complex by the second. "Continue with the operation breakdown."

"The extraction went sideways almost immediately." The altered voice filled the cabin, sharp and professional despite the weight of the report. "Too many alphas in enclosed spaces, all triggering each other's combat responses despite suppressants. When the terrorists started executing hostages, Captain Bakugo..." The voice hesitated for a fraction too long.

Aizawa's expression darkened. "Went off-protocol," he supplied grimly.

"Not exactly, sir." The agent's voice steadied again. "His response was... targeted. Controlled, in its own way. He eliminated the immediate threats to the remaining hostages with extreme prejudice but didn't engage neutral targets. It didn’t seem like standard alpha rage—it felt like something else."

Izuku's mind processed the implications quickly. "His suppressant failed?"

"Unknown," the agent admitted. "But his performance exceeded normal parameters, even for a prime alpha. The speed, the strength... and his physical capabilities afterward didn't match any known profile."

"Casualties?" Izuku's voice was carefully neutral, the practiced tone of someone who had learned to hide the weight of the answers he often received.

"Two hostages survived; Foster and Whitmore. Dr. Rio was executed before the breach. Four Delta Force operators injured, two by Bakugo during containment. Three SAS operatives wounded, one critically. Local forces never even made it inside." A pause, then the agent's tone turned bitter, crackling faintly through the voice modulator. "It was a clusterfuck, sir. The kind that gets buried so deep we'll be finding pieces for years."

Izuku paced the cabin, his movements precise despite the fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Let me understand this," he said, his voice dangerously quiet—something his team had learned to fear. "Multiple agencies mounted a joint operation, ignored basic protocols about alpha deployment, and sent in three competing teams to extract targets tied to classified biotech research. Meanwhile, in Kiev, my team handled a quantum-level threat with four operators and zero casualties."

"Sir—" the agent began.

"No." Izuku's voice cut like a blade. "This isn't just operational failure. This is institutional arrogance. They knew about the biotech angle, knew about Whitmore's real mission, and still threw together teams guaranteed to trigger each other's combat responses."

The agent hesitated, then added quietly, "There was something else unusual. The SAS team... they seemed to be expecting the situation to go sideways. The way they positioned their assets, the extraction route they chose—it was as if they were anticipating Bakugo's suppressant failure."

Aizawa leaned forward, the lines of fatigue on his face hardening into something sharper. "And Whitmore? What did she know?"

"She's being debriefed by the Americans instead of MI6, but sir..." The voice paused, tension evident even through the distortion. "Before extraction, she specifically asked about J-SAP's involvement. She seemed surprised we weren't officially on the ground."

Izuku stopped pacing. His hand hovered over the holographic interface, his mind running through the connections.

"Your assessment?" Izuku asked, his tone clipped.

The asset's voice softened, edged with unease. "It looks like someone's leveraging these operations, sir. The weapons, the biotech—they're all moving through the same channels. And they're using humanitarian corridors to move their research."

"And Bakugo was in the middle of it," Izuku concluded grimly. "A prime alpha with extensive combat experience, already wearing military-grade suppressants that somehow failed at the most crucial moment."

The cabin fell silent. The hum of the jet's encryption systems seemed louder in the absence of conversation. Aizawa's sharp eyes were fixed on Izuku, waiting for his next move.

"Sir, about Bakugo—" the agent began hesitantly.

"What happened after they contained him?" Izuku interjected, his voice cutting through the encrypted connection with enough tension to make the line feel brittle.

"The hostages were already being moved out," the asset replied, their voice carrying an edge of frustration. "Separate evac team, not part of the original mission plan. The entire extraction felt rehearsed, almost like they were waiting for the chaos to create an opening."

Izuku's lips pressed into a thin line. "And now the U.S. has custody of all surviving hostages," he muttered, half to himself. His mind raced to connect the dots. "What about the tech?" he asked, his focus snapping back to the present. "What did you recover from the facility?"

"Another significant complication, sir," the asset's altered voice carried a note of frustration. "The device they extracted with Whitmore was housed in some kind of advanced containment unit. My scanning equipment couldn't penetrate the alloy. No energy signature, no molecular traces, nothing registered on any spectrum I tried."

"Composition analysis?" Izuku's green eyes locked on the holographic readouts now shifting between them, displaying fragmented attempts to scan the mysterious object.

"The alloy defied conventional analysis," the asset explained. "It seemed to... adapt to our scanning attempts. Every frequency we tried triggered a different defensive response. Whatever it is, it's leagues beyond anything we've seen. The SAS team was far more concerned with securing it than addressing the chaos Bakugo caused during containment."

Aizawa, who had been silently observing, leaned forward slightly. His voice was quiet but firm. "That's why the Americans are stonewalling access to the hostages. I think they are protecting whatever technology was recovered."

Izuku's jaw tightened as he scrutinized the failed scan data. The pieces were coming together, but the picture they formed was grim. "The research data from the facility?" he asked.

"Heavily encrypted," the asset admitted. "Multiple layers of security protocols—tech far beyond anything we've encountered. What little we could access hinted at something far more advanced than standard biotech. The fragments mentioned molecular structures that shouldn't be possible with current technology."

"That's enough," Aizawa interrupted softly, though the authority in his voice was unmistakable. His sharp gaze locked on Izuku, the unspoken message clear: Not now. Not here.

"Understood, sir. One last thing..." The asset hesitated. "The lab notes mentioned several additional sites. In major cities including Shanghai."

Izuku's expression hardened. Shanghai was where everything had started to unravel. Izuku's hands clenched briefly at his sides, the only outward sign of his reaction.

"We're done here," he said, his voice carrying the quiet command that had made him one of J-SAP's youngest station chiefs. "Maintain your position. Monitor the facility. Report any anomalous activity immediately."

The encrypted connection terminated with a faint click, leaving the cabin steeped in silence. Izuku stared at his reflection in the aircraft's window, the darkness outside mirroring the deepening shadows of their operation. His mind raced, dissecting the implications, the failures, and the chilling new threats tied to both Kiev and Sarajevo.

“Keep me updated on this front," Aizawa said at last, his tone neutral but laced with a weight Izuku instantly recognized. “There's also something you need to know about Captain Bakugo.”

Izuku turned slowly. That tone, it always came before a revelation that would make shit infinitely worse. "Sir?"

"The Japanese Security Council has been monitoring the situation." Aizawa's expression remained studiedly blank. "General Todoroki is particularly... interested in how this plays out."

Izuku's brow furrowed. Enji Todoroki, head of the Security Council, was notorious for his hardline stance on international relations and foreign policy—especially when it involved Japanese nationals. If he was taking a personal interest in Sarajevo, the political implications would be far-reaching.

"How interested?" Izuku asked carefully.

"Enough to call me directly from a secure line," Aizawa replied, his tone unnervingly casual despite the gravity of such a call. "The Council wants to distance Japan from the international fallout, but they're not willing to cede influence on anything related to enhanced capabilities. Especially not to the Americans."

"And what does that have to do with Bakugo?" Izuku pressed, though a cold suspicion was already forming in his gut.

Aizawa met his gaze directly. "They want to transfer him to your program. For 'evaluation and specialized training' is the official line. The reality is that they need a Japanese foothold in whatever the Americans and British are developing."

Izuku's legendary control, perfect through discussions of failed operations and missing tech, finally cracked.

"Absolutely not." Izuku's voice was low, quiet, and lethal—the tone that made men twice his size tread carefully. "I don't care about his unprecedented performance or what happened in that facility. That alpha compromised a critical operation, endangered multiple assets, and turned what should have been a simple extraction into an international incident. My program—"

“Let me be clear. This isn't a debate, Midoriya."

Aizawa's use of his name instead of rank carried a weight Izuku couldn't ignore, a reminder of their history and the unspoken trust between them. "The Security Council wants this contained. They see an opportunity to gain insight into whatever was recovered without directly involving J-SAP in the political mess."

"By using my team as a back door," Izuku concluded bitterly. "And using me to rehabilitate an unstable prime alpha who just demonstrated exactly why we don't deploy assets like him."

"His instability is precisely why they want him in your program," Aizawa countered, his voice gaining an edge. "The public reaction to Sarajevo is already spiraling. Videos of 'superhuman' military personnel are flooding restricted channels. Even with media suppression, rumors are spreading. The Council needs to understand what happened before someone else does."

As if on cue, one of the displays shifted to show international news coverage. The lower third of the screen carried the headline: "INTERNATIONAL ATTACK IN SARAJEVO: HUMANITARIAN CORRIDOR BREACHED." The footage was carefully sanitized, showing only the aftermath—ambulances, official statements, diplomatic posturing. But Izuku knew the uncensored reality was far worse.

"The Americans are calling it a terrorist attack," Aizawa continued, gesturing toward another feed showing a U.S. State Department briefing. "The Russians are claiming their weapons shipments were humanitarian aid. The Chinese are using this to undermine Western special operations credibility. And Japan is caught in the middle, with our national in US Delta Force under international scrutiny."

Izuku turned to the cabin's window, the reinforced glass reflecting the tension in his hardened expression. Outside, the world beyond the aircraft was pitch-black, but it mirrored the frustration boiling beneath his calm exterior.

"My program isn't a rehabilitation center for compromised operatives," he said finally, each word clipped and deliberate. "We handle sensitive operations. Missions requiring perfect control and absolute discretion. I cannot—will not—risk a volatile alpha snapping in the middle of a critical mission because he can’t keep it together.”

Aizawa's gaze remained steady. "The decision is made," he said softly, but firmly. "Bakugo arrives at the CIA headquarters for evaluation in the next week."

The cabin fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the steady hum of encryption systems and the faint vibration of the engines. Izuku's mind churned with worst-case scenarios. His program was built on precision and balance, a tightly woven machine of expertise and control. Adding a volatile element like Bakugo to the equation could unravel everything, especially now, with so many moving parts converging on active operations.

"There's more going on here than a simple containment operation," Izuku said finally, his voice low but carrying the weight of certainty. "Shanghai. Kiev. Sarajevo. It's all connected."

"That's the other reason you're getting Bakugo," Aizawa confirmed, his expression grim. "The Council suspects the Americans are developing something they're not sharing. Something tied to natural designation and advanced tech. They want you to figure out what it is."

"By babysitting a prime alpha who can't control himself in the field?" Izuku's laugh was cold, devoid of humor. "While my team is running operations across three continents, maintaining perfect operational security, they've been planning to saddle us with an unstable asset who just demonstrated exactly why advanced operatives need disciple and control."

"His instability makes him the perfect source of information," Aizawa countered, practical as always. "The Americans can't hide what they don't fully understand themselves. And if Bakugo's suppressant failure wasn't an accident..."

"Then someone deliberately compromised him," Izuku finished. The implications sent a chill down his spine. "Which means the chaos in Sarajevo was orchestrated. But why? What could anyone gain from exposing a prime alpha's capabilities in the middle of an international operation?"

Aizawa pulled up another feed, this one showing scattered social media posts. Despite aggressive platform moderation, the hashtag #SuperSoldier was trending in multiple countries. "Public awareness," he said quietly. "They're normalizing the idea of enhanced human capabilities. Setting the stage for something bigger."

Izuku's mind raced through the connections. If someone had deliberately triggered Bakugo's response, if they had wanted his capabilities on display...

"The Security Council is scared," Aizawa said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They believe whatever was recovered from Sarajevo could shift the balance of power. And they're not willing to be left behind."

"So I get to babysit the most visible example of that shift," Izuku concluded bitterly. "While also trying to figure out what the Americans are hiding."

"Not babysit," Aizawa corrected, his tone suddenly razor-sharp. "Evaluate. Understand. And if necessary, neutralize."

The word hung in the air between them, weighted with implications neither man needed to voice aloud. Izuku had been given these kinds of assignments before, assets too valuable to eliminate but too dangerous to leave unchecked. The kind of mission tailored to his expertise.

Exactly what he specialized in.

"This is a mistake," Izuku said finally, his voice low but carrying the weight of certainty. "He's not just unstable, he's dangerous. And we don't even know why."

"Maybe," Aizawa acknowledged, his tone measured. "Or maybe there's a reason the Security Council wants him in your program, specifically. Right when everything else is starting to escalate."

Izuku didn't respond immediately. His hands moved across the nearest display, calling up surveillance feeds, reports, and classified documents from Sarajevo. His movements were methodical, but Aizawa could see the tension in his posture, the barely-contained fury at being blindsided.

"Eight months of deep cover placement. Encryption protocols that don't officially exist. An operative embedded in U.S. special operations.” Aizawa shook his head slightly, a hint of something like reluctant admiration in his voice. “Whenever I forget, you remind me how far your reach extends.”

“Not far enough,” Izuku said grimly. His green eyes stayed locked on the holographic readouts. “If it was far enough, we’d have known about the SAS team before they deployed. We’d have been informed about our own asset operating in Sarajevo. And we’d have the full story on whatever tech they recovered from that facility.” He gestured sharply to the fragmented scan data. “Instead, they’re sending me an alpha whose performance rewrote the rules of engagement for everyone in that building.”

Aizawa studied Izuku for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “So what’s your play?”

“Do I really have a choice,” Izuku said at last, each word deliberate. His tone carried the weight of a decision reluctantly made but fully committed. “But if he doesn’t meet the standards, I won’t risk my program’s integrity. He’ll be removed, no matter what leadership wants.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The council won’t take rejection lightly.”

“If he’s as critical as they claim, he’ll prove it during the assessments and evaluation. If not, we’ll adjust accordingly,” Izuku shot back, his voice cold but resolute.

The weight of his words hung in the air, filling the space between them with unspoken tension. Aizawa leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Fair enough. But you know as well as I do that if you don’t play ball, they’ll have contingencies.”

“Let them,” Izuku said, turning back to the holographic feeds. His green eyes hardened as they scanned the data, each fragment revealing more of the growing chaos around them. “I’m not interested in what they want. I’m interested in what works. And if Bakugo doesn’t fit, I’ll handle it personally.”

Chapter Text

Katsuki tasted blood and came to a stop, chest heaving.

The bitter, metallic tang wasn't from injury, but from biting the inside of his cheek, a habit he'd developed when he first presented to focus when his senses threatened to overwhelm him.  Without the chemical buffer of his implant, every sense still felt magnified, although not to the same excruciating degree it had been before: the stench of the homeless beta napping behind the Lincoln Memorial, yesterday's tourist perfumes lingering in the morning air, even the distant rumble of traffic across the Potomac—all of it stabbed into his brain like a fucking ice pick.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered, pushing himself harder along the path that wound from Langley, across the river, and through DC's heart.

The familiar fifteen-mile route had already stretched behind him, but the physical burn couldn't touch the acid churning in his gut. Every landmark he passed—Georgetown, Embassy Row, the National Mall—hadn't done shit to dim the fury blazing through his veins. America's symbols of democracy watching as he ran from the bureaucratic nightmare that had become his life.

Submit to evaluation or face immediate discharge.

The ultimatum pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, a metronome of threat keeping time with his strides. All his years of perfect service, all his sacrifices, and this was what it amounted to—being treated like some unstable rookie who couldn't handle their first rut.

His lip curled as the irony hit him. As if he hadn't spent his entire adult life in the relentless pursuit of mastering every aspect of being an alpha, honing it into something precise and lethal. Men like him were supposed to be the pinnacle of military might: aggressive, dominant, ruthless. The Army's perfect weapon. Now they wanted to dismantle him for one moment when his control had slipped.

One fucking millisecond of hesitation in Sarajevo and suddenly I'm a liability.

The Lincoln Memorial rose ahead, its massive white columns stark against the morning sky. Katsuki slowed to a jog, glaring up at Lincoln's somber face. The route that had taken him through Georgetown, past Embassy Row, around the Mall, and finally to the memorial's steps felt like a metaphor for his career. A long path ending in front of a dead president's throne.

The mere thought made his jaw clench, muscles rippling beneath sweat-slicked skin. His second wind stirred, that alpha endurance kicking in and whispering that he could push for another twenty or thirty miles. Instead, he slowed to a jog, glaring up at Lincoln’s somber visage. The statue’s eyes reflected the same judgment and disdain he’d been drowning in since the Sarajevo shitshow. 

The statue had witnessed generations of Bakugos standing in this same spot, an unbroken line of service and duty. His grandfather with his chestful of medals, his father with his haunted eyes and silent pride, his mother with her brilliant mind and impossible standards—each one adding their own sacrifices to the family legacy of perfection. Failure had never been a option when you grew up a Bakugo.

The twist in Katsuki's gut had nothing to do with the grueling pace he'd been setting since 0400 hours.  Fucking legacy. Like I ever had a choice.

Fresh blood welled on his lip as he bit down, the metallic taste triggering another wave of suppressed memories that made his chest tight with barely contained rage. Eighteen years old, staring at college acceptance letters that might as well have been written in invisible ink for all his family would see them. Places where he could have pursued his own interests in academia. A life that would look completely different, driven by his untainted interests.

But that future had been dead on arrival. Hadn't ever been an option, not really. Not with the weight of four generations pressing down on him, with his father's PTSD and his mother's political ambitions. They'd given him everything—training, education, connections. The perfect preparation for the perfect soldier. 

0500 hours. He glanced at his watch, not needing the confirmation. He still had to report for his mandatory follow-up evaluation at Walter Reed this week to strap on a polite smile and Dance, Monkey, Dance for whatever stuffed lab coats, suits, and head-shrinks that were lined up to take their turn picking him apart. To prove he was still worth the considerable investment the military had made in him. To prove that he could still be the perfect weapon they wanted, even as they eyed the cracks spiderwebbing through his emotionally reinforced armor.

His pace increased again, feet pounding concrete in sync with his heartbeat, ignoring the molten lead weighing down his quads and the knife-edged burn in his lungs. Good. Physical pain was better than the poisonous spiral of his thoughts. His attention was caught by the pre-dawn gloom that was slowly melting into hazy gray as the city stuttered to wakefulness around him. In the distance, the Reflecting Pool gleamed like polished obsidian, mirroring the gradual shift of shadows into murky light. 

A decade of blood and sweat poured out on foreign and domestic soil. Hundreds of missions, so many redacted they were practically blacked out on his record. He had been their golden boy, their alpha prime, embodying every ideal they claimed to hold dear. He'd honed his skills and instincts, transforming his dynamic into one of the most finely calibrated instruments, built to break down doors that wouldn't open to polite knocking.

And now, thanks to a millisecond of hesitation, a microscopic chemical hiccup, they were questioning everything. Not that they didn't have reason after Tehran. Threatening to strip him of the only thing that gave his life meaning, that let him direct the howling maelstrom raging in his cells toward something bigger than his own destructive potential. Like he was just another broken cog in the machine. A defective piece of equipment to be tested and prodded, parts replaced, bugs eliminated, the complexity of his existence reduced to a problem that needed to be fixed.

He eased to a stop, chest heaving, sweat streaming down his bare torso despite the cool morning air. DC was barely stirring, the sky just beginning to lighten at the edges. Usually, these liminal moments were what he lived for—that narrow slice of time between dark and dawn, the quiet before DC power players emerged to start their daily games of who could fuck over who the most. 

Now the stillness felt suffocating rather than sacred, the silence crowding in on him, amplifying the ugly thoughts he couldn't outrun. His heart hammered against his ribcage like it was trying to break free in the way he couldn't. No matter how many miles he pushed, he couldn't seem to escape the cage they were building for him, bar by bureaucratic bar. 

Submit or be cast out. Bend or be broken.

Katsuki swiped at the sweat stinging his eyes, jaw aching from grinding his teeth, the expression doing nothing to diminish the dangerous appeal that radiated from him like a blast wave. He knew what people saw when they looked at him. The muscle, the raw power, the blood-red stare and features exquisitely honed to an almost painful symmetry. 

The morning light caught the definition in his shoulders, the sculpted planes of his chest, battle scars mapping a decade of service across golden skin. His body was a weapon he'd forged through relentless training, and he'd never hesitated to wield it like one. But now it felt like a betrayal with his implant gone—leaving him feeling exposed, flayed open by the vulnerability of being at the mercy of his own mind, his emotions more tenuous with each passing day.

"Fucking show-off!”

The slurred comment came from a drunk staggering past, ignorant of how close he was to having his windpipe crushed. Katsuki forced himself to ignore it, focusing instead on the burn in his muscles, the controlled rhythm of his breathing.

Ignore it. Keep moving. Don't give them another reason.

He picked up his pace again, counting steps to drown out the cacophony of sensory input, but he couldn't outrun the weight of observation. There were eyes on him, there always were in a city that ran on both secrets and surveillance, but this morning he felt the weight of invisible gazes like a physical itch under his skin.

He'd gotten good at ignoring the appreciative glances and speculative expressions over the years, the ones that had little to do with his uniform and everything to do with his particular flavor of commanding presence that radiated from him like heat shimmer off desert sand. On any other day, he'd brush off the awareness of his own magnetism like an annoying gnat buzzing at the edge of his consciousness. But now, with his every cell throbbing in time to the rage choking him, each look felt invasive, the blatant assessments scraping him raw.

It took every shredded scrap of discipline not to bare his teeth in open challenge at the handful of other early morning stragglers and public servants starting their day. Not to let the thundering in his skull bleed into the dangerous set of his shoulders, the deceptively lazy prowl of his stride.

He knew exactly what kind of picture he made like this: chest heaving, sweat carving rivulets through the sharp valleys and peaks of straining muscle, hair a wild tangle of ash blond, eyes fever-bright with things better left buried in the dark. Knew exactly the kind of pheromones he was pumping out, the messages blaring from every tensed tendon and flexed muscle. Aggression and barely contained violence, his body screaming for an outlet, a target. Something to rend and break and bleed like he bled on the inside.

Holy fuck, he was a mess.

He tried to physically shake it off, but for the first time in his adult life, he felt like couldn’t snap all the pieces back into place. Felt like he couldn’t convincingly fake that robotic stoicism and alpha arrogance, that had been his default for as long as he could remember. His palms itched, fingers twitching against his sides as he walked.

The familiar weight of a rifle was conspicuously absent, his back too light without the bulky pressure of his usual gear. He felt naked without the hard shell of kevlar and cargo, stripped of the comforting identity of the uniform that has defined him for ten years. A decade of discipline and sacrifice, his sense of self so entangled with his job, his status, he barely knew how to function outside those narrow lines.

He reached the end of the Reflecting Pool, the stone path smooth and cool under the thick rubber soles of his running shoes. Pivoting sharply, he started back the way he'd come, gaze fixed dead ahead, breath tearing in and out as he hovered at the edge of his endurance.

Usually, he could lose himself in the pounding rhythm of his strides, in the physical strain that had always been his refuge when the clamor in his head threatened to drown out reason. His body moved with predatory grace even as panic clawed at his throat. He tried to narrow his focus to the harsh drag of air over the back of his throat, to the dull throb of his pulse hammering behind his eyes, and to the individual beads of salty sweat streaming down the sharp blade of his cheekbones. Anything to quiet the endless loop of festering thoughts, the nauseating churn of ‘if onlys’ and ‘should haves.’ But relief wouldn't come. Not with this mysterious bullshit evaluation looming over his head like a guillotine. 

His hands shook with suppressed rage because his evaluation with Captain fucking Midoriya and this last-minute reschedule that had him on high alert every day this week, yanked around by layers of post-implant checkups.

All the comforting structure of military procedure felt like it had been stripped away and was now being weaponized against him. He was facing a dishonorable discharge that would shred his life to pieces. The uncertainty made him want to scream, to fight, to show them exactly why they should be fucking terrified of having taken his implant away.

Instead, all he could feel was the relentless press of dread slowly squeezing the air from his lungs, visions of all the worst-case scenarios playing in vivid technicolor through his mind—a future leached of purpose and passion, haunted by the ghosts of his failed missions and every other necessary decision that had cost pieces of his soul. Just another broken alpha put out to pasture.

Katsuki swallowed thickly, the salt stinging his eyes having little to do with the crisp morning air. He blinked hard, curling his lip as the first threads of sickly gray-green light began bleeding through the dense canopy of foliage lining the wide sidewalk. The faint rustling of life stirring to full wakefulness grated on his nerves like nails on slate. The whisper-crunch of tires rolling to a stop at the security checkpoint, the low murmur of an early morning maintenance crew, a stray can skittering wetly across the pavement.

Shoving down the resentment curdling in his gut, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, locking his spine into perfect posture as he ran. Kept his chin up and shoulders loose as he rounded the final bend, the towering figure of Lincoln once more swimming into view. A bitter sneer twisted his mouth—at the statue, at himself, at the whole misbegotten comedy of errors his life had devolved into.

It felt like the punchline to a joke only he wasn't in on. Awaiting the judgment of decision makers who would never understand what it cost to be the tip of the spear, the first and last line of defense. Men who played at power from behind the safety of polished desks, content to be the shadowed hands that guided the knife, never feeling its sting as it cut soul-deep.

He wan't delusional though. He knew exactly where he fell on the food chain, exactly how much his individual worth mattered in the grand scheme. He was a weapon, an instrument, a shiny toy soldier to be positioned and pointed at whomever his masters deemed a threat. He had no real agency, no true autonomy beyond what could carve out in stolen moments between deployments.

His life had never belonged to him. From first breath to first blood, he'd been shaped by forces beyond his control, his future shackled by the chains of family expectation and government prerogative. It had always felt to him like he had been bred for this, designed to be the blade that cut down their enemies, the blunt instrument wielded to bludgeon the world into the shape of democracy. Maybe that's why the military had felt like liberation. Each mission let him transform that lifelong fury and helpless anger of being someone else's carefully crafted tool, into something more than himself.

And god, how he'd fucking embraced it, letting the savage purpose sing through his blood like a war cry during every mission, every deployment. The fierce joy of finally, after a childhood spent straining at the end of his leash, he could release the explosive storm caged behind his ribs, harness the energy sizzling in his bones, turning it into something greater than himself. Taking all the fear and fury, the simmering resentment and helpless anger, and pour it into a higher calling—into something that almost felt like purpose.

For ten blood-soaked years, being that blade, the man of death and duty, had been enough. Through the carnage and the nightmares, the ever-expanding minefield of his psyche, it had been enough to lend meaning to the sacrifice, to ease the yawning abyss that threatened to open under his feet whenever he paused long enough to take a hard look at what was left of his soul. Questions he'd spent his whole life trying not to ask. 

But now...he had to wonder, had that sense of purpose been real? Or just a different type of cage, gilded with medals and rank instead of family expectations?

The despair hit like a punch to the chest, air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stumbled mid-stride, barely catching himself before he could face plant onto the pale flagstones. Everything felt like it was all coming apart, the careful house of cards he'd built of his life toppling with an almost deafening crash. All his training, all his hard-won control, his capacity to bite down until he tasted metal—everything had meant fuck all in the face of a split-second mistake.

One miscalculation, and the entire scaffolding of his existence was being ripped out from under him. One biological hiccup in Sarajevo, and suddenly everything he had killed and nearly died for was teetering on a tightrope, his value reduced to a series of checked and unchecked boxes on a lifeless evaluation form. 

Because that was the crux of it, wasn't it—his value. To his family, to his superiors, to the shadowy figures that moved him like a chess piece across a blood-stained board. To this Captain fucking Midoriya. Without his ironclad discipline, his diamond-hard control, he was useless to them. A broken hammer no longer fit to fulfill his one, singular, function.

The muscles in his neck stood out in strain as the deep rage burning through him threatened to spill over, to shatter the fraying threads of composure holding him together. He wanted to scream, to rage, to put his fist through the nearest hard surface until the maelstrom in his chest matched the ruination of his body. Wanted to raze and ruin, to carve his anguish into the world that had never hesitated to use him up and throw him away.

Show those fuckers what losing control really looked like.

But he couldn't. Because he was a good dog, a good little weapon, trained to stay in his lane and limit his destruction to only the things he was pointed at. Muzzled and chained by a system that would chew him up and spit him out without so much as a happily-ever-after if he shattered their perfect illusion.

He loved his job. That wasn't the fucking question. Loved the mission, the purpose, the knowledge that his actions protected others. But sometimes, in moments like this he wondered what might have been. If he'd chosen differently. If he'd been allowed to choose at all.

Tch. What a fucking joke. 

Without his implant, the world was too fucking loud, every shadow potentially housing a threat, every scent carrying data his brain couldn't help but process. A decade of operating with chemical assistance had left him unprepared for the raw flood of information his prime biology processed naturally.

He'd nearly completed his loop back to the Washington Monument when that sixth sense—the one that had kept him alive through countless operations—prickled at the base of his skull. 

Suddenly, movement at the edge of his periphery drew his gaze, hyper-alert senses prickling. He slowed to a stop on instinct, rapidly assessing the potential threat even as he quietly seethed at his hair-trigger responses. Even with his body rioting against him, his mind still slotted into that cold space of sharp tactical focus. Someone was following his route, matching his cadence with precision only another trained operative could manage.

In a fraction of a second he categorized the newcomer's outline, weighing stance, build, and probable aggression levels. His brain mapped out a dozen takedown scenarios before he consciously processed the familiar rhythmic footfall. That distinctive cadence he'd know anywhere, the slight hitch from Kandahar when an IED had nearly taken them both out, the careful compensation for the shoulder wound from the mission in Sarajevo.

Katsuki didn't break stride, just adjusted his angle slightly to catch the reflection in a nearby window. The morning sun glinted off crimson hair, unmistakable even at this distance.

Fucking Kirishima.

His watch chirped: 0545. Like clockwork.

First Lieutenant Eijirou Kirishima materialized from the pre-dawn murk, his vibrant hair catching the sunrise like a combat beacon. He fell into step beside Katsuki with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how close he could get to a prime alpha without triggering territorial aggression.

Fucking figures. Of course his second would track him down, probably thought his commanding officer needed a goddamn handler now. As if eight years since their first clash at West Point hadn't proven that Katsuki Bakugo didn't need anyone's supervision, with or without suppressant regulators.

But if anyone had to find him, at least it was Eijirou. The stubborn bastard who'd taken everything Katsuki could dish out during combat training, who'd grinned up at him through bloody teeth and drawled, "That all you got, sir?" When everyone else had been pissing themselves over the Bakugo reputation, this crazy son of a bitch had seen it as a fucking challenge.

"Three miles ahead of your usual Saturday pace." Eijirou's observation breaking through Katsuki's thoughts. Always too observant by half, this one. "Running from something, or just trying to break your personal record for pre-dawn masochism?" 

"Fuck off," Katsuki grunted, but there was no heat in it. After eight years, Eijirou was one of the few people who could get close to him without getting his teeth knocked in. The alpha scent poking at Katsuki's enhanced senses was familiar—gun oil and standard-issue soap layered over that distinctive musk that somehow never triggered his territorial instincts. One of the very few alphas who didn't set him on edge.

"Come on, boss. You know me better than that," Eijirou's grin flashed bright against the gray morning. "Since when do I need a reason to hunt you down and make your life more difficult?"

"Don't you have some fresh meat to terrorize? Thought breaking in new recruits was your weekend therapy." Despite his words, Katsuki felt a fraction of tension ease from his shoulders. Kirishima had that effect, his presence somehow making the world slightly less sharp-edged.

"Nah. The new batch is still too green to be any fun." Eijirou matched Katsuki's pace without apparent effort, though Katsuki caught what others would miss—the tight lines around Eijirou's eyes, the almost imperceptible favor he gave his left shoulder. Sarajevo had left its mark on him too, though he'd never complain. "Besides, figured you could use the company. Big week ahead, yeah?"

Something in Katsuki's chest constricted. Trust fucking Eijirou to cut straight to it, to read him like a tactical brief after all these years.

"Nothing I can't handle," Katsuki grunted, picking up the pace just to be contrary.

"Never said you couldn't," Eijirou replied easily, lengthening his stride to keep up. "Doesn't mean you should have to do it alone, though."

Those simple words, the unspoken understanding behind them hit Katsuki with unexpected force. Over eight years, Eijirou had somehow become the closest thing to a friend he'd ever allowed himself. Through West Point brawls and black ops missions, midnight preparations and post-combat crashes, Eijirou had seen every ugly facet of Katsuki's psyche and stayed anyway.

It should make him uncomfortable, this awareness of dependency. Instead, it settled in his chest like a weapon he knew how to use, familiar and reliable. 

"I know that look," Eijirou said, breaking into Katsuki's thoughts. "The thousand-yard Bakugo stare. Guaranteed to make lesser men piss themselves in thirty seconds or less."

A surprised laugh escaped Katsuki's throat. "Only thirty? These suppressant withdrawals must be hitting harder than I thought."

Eijirou's scent shifted subtly, concern bleeding through his carefully maintained composure. The morning light caught the scar that traced his jawline, a souvenir from Kandahar when he'd followed Katsuki into an ambush they shouldn't have survived.

"Shouldn't you be prepping for your congressional testimony instead of babysitting me?" Katsuki asked, redirecting.

"Just finished the preliminary brief. Can't discuss details, but Senator Walsh's got a hard-on for anything that makes Delta Force look bad." Eijirou's smile turned sharp. "Spent four hours explaining the difference between 'excessive force' and 'tactically necessary measures' to civilians who wouldn't know a combat situation from a Call of Duty mission."

Katsuki’s blood pressure ticked up. Fucking politicians. 

"You shouldn't have done that," Katsuki said, the words coming out rougher than intended. Walsh was one of the Senate oversight committee members who'd been particularly vicious during Katsuki's additional hearings, demanding to know why an alpha with Katsuki's "concerning history" had been allowed operational command.

"Funny, I remember someone telling me that 'comprehensive mission reporting includes all relevant tactical factors'." Eijirou's tone stayed light, but Katsuki caught the protective edge underneath. "Just following standard operating procedure, sir."

"Pretty sure I also taught you not to quote me to my face."

"Nah, that was 'don't quote the fucking manual at me,' which technically, I'm not." His grin faded slightly, replaced by something more focused. "And I might have spent twenty minutes explaining the complex statistical analysis behind designation-based rapid tactical assessment." Eijirou's grin widened. "Really got into the weeds about neural processing speeds and enhanced sensory integration. Walsh's eyes glazed over around minute three, but protocol required him to let me finish."

Katsuki snorted. The kid had learned too well. "Statistical analysis?"

"Oh yeah. Had charts and everything. Denki helped me put together this beautiful presentation on decision-making frameworks. Forty-seven slides." Eijirou's scent carried notes of pride. "By the time I finished explaining how designations affect microsecond combat choices, they'd completely forgotten their original questions."

Tactical misdirection through overwhelming detail. Katsuki had taught him that one during a particularly rough debrief in Mosul. Apparently, the lesson had stuck.

"Walsh's not going to let this go," Katsuki said as they rounded the Reflecting Pool, its surface glassy in the growing light.

"Yeah, well, good thing I've got six more hours of testimony scheduled." Eijirou stretched as they slowed to a jog. "Mina helped me prepare this fascinating breakdown of how designation-influenced decision matrices interact with rules-of-engagement parameters. Might take all day to get through it."

"You're playing a dangerous game," Katsuki warned, though pride tugged at his mouth. "Walsh's got pull with the oversight committee. One wrong move—"

"Is not going to happen." Eijirou's interruption carried the same steel that had kept him getting up during their first sparring match, no matter how many times Katsuki had put him down. "Besides, Walsh isn't the only one with pull. Turns out Colonel Armstrong remembers a certain alpha captain who pulled his son's unit out of that mess in Kandahar."

Katsuki's jaw tightened. Eijirou had always been too loyal for his own good.  He was too willing to put himself in the line of fire, both literal and political. "You shouldn't have to defend my calls."

"Wasn't defending. Just clarifying the facts. You know, like someone taught me, seems to work wonders on the suits." His grin softened. "Anyway, the real reason I came: something's off with this whole evaluation setup. Denki and Mina have been digging, carefully."

"Christ." Katsuki ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Tell me you didn't hack anything classified."

"Kept it strictly above board." Eijirou's grin returned, but his eyes stayed serious. "Even with Delta Force clearance, half the people I tried talking to shut me down the second I mentioned anything related to special access programs. Wouldn't even confirm they existed, but Denki found some interesting threads through official channels."

"Define 'interesting,'" Katsuki demanded, cataloging their surroundings with habitual precision. Two joggers, beta signatures. Tourist family with cameras. Three suits heading toward Constitution Avenue. 

"Given our work with classified tech and materials, we started with research programs." Eijirou matched Katsuki's casual stance, but his scent carried that sharp focus Katsuki recognized from pre-mission briefings. "Started with personnel files, military assignments, published research. Nothing current under 'Midoriya' anywhere we could access. Most of those databases kicked back automated responses saying we weren't read into those programs."

"But?" Katsuki's brain spun through what that could mean. That level of compartmentalization meant deep classification. 

"There's an interesting breadcrumb in the MIT archives." Eijirou's expression shifted. "Old research paper on advanced materials and enhancement theory. Author redacted, but there's a footnote about groundbreaking work in designation-based neural mapping hardware.'"

"That's a pretty thin thread."

"Gets better. Tried accessing the full paper through official channels. Even with our Delta Force credentials, the system wouldn't acknowledge the document existed." Eijirou leaned closer, voice dropping. "Denki says the fragments he could see were protected by quantum-based encryption he's never encountered before."

"Timeline?" Katsuki asked, tactical mind already analyzing possibilities.

"That's where it gets weird." The morning crowd was picking up, suits and staffers and civilians heading toward their respective agencies. "Paper's dated back around our West Point days, but the security protocols? Brand new." Eijirou's voice dropped further. "Someone's actively maintaining those barriers. And every time we try to look into anything even tangentially related, we hit walls marked 'special access required' or 'need to know basis'.”

Fucking great. Definitely some high-level agency or official running interference. "You shouldn't have dug that deep. This isn't your mess to clean up."

"Probably not, but here's the kicker: Mina's been monitoring approved research funding patterns. Found mentions of something called 'Project Echo.' Details so restricted even her clearance gets her nothing but redacted documents, but the timing lines up with your new assignment."

Katsuki went still. "Project Echo? Never heard of it."

"That's what makes it interesting. Denki traced connections between it and that old research paper. Whatever this Midoriya person was working on back then involved designation-based neural mapping. And someone's gone to extraordinary lengths to bury anything linking him to that research."

Special Access Programs were a whole other level of secrecy, where even acknowledging their existence could be grounds for prosecution. Their Delta Force unit had run plenty of classified ops—wetwork, counter-insurgency, things that officially never happened, but this was different. Especially where Black projects were involved, the kind of operations funded through channels even Congress itself might not know about.

"How deep does this go?"

“National sensitivity.” Eijirou's expression hardened. "We're talking layers of classification beyond anything we've dealt with in Delta. Complete information blackout. Unacknowledged Special Access Program and the encryption Denki found makes our usual classified communications look like kindergarten stuff. And before you ask—yes, we were careful. No traces."

Of course they were. His team might play fast and loose with regulations, but they knew how to cover their tracks. Still, the thought of them risking careers and freedom just to help him...

"There's more," Eijirou said, his scent shifting toward concern. "Remember that omega from Sarajevo? The one that triggered your implant failure?"

Katsuki's hands curled into fists. As if he could forget the scent of terror, the way decades of control had shattered in an instant. "What about it?"

"She's at Walter Reed. Under guard." Eijirou kept his voice carefully neutral. "Intelligence has her lockdown. Something about her debrief raising red flags."

"Walter Reed?" Katsuki frowned. "That can't be right. She was MI6, should've been shipped straight back to the UK for debrief."

"Full security lockdown from what Mina could gather. Whatever she said in debrief must've set off some serious alarms."

"Fuck." The pieces were aligning into a pattern that set every warning bell in Katsuki's head ringing.

"Yeah," Eijirou said, brushing off his PT shorts with precise movements. The motion pulled at his injured shoulder, making him wince slightly. "And you've got your follow-up at Walter Reed this week. Thinking about paying her a visit while you're there?"

"Might be my only chance to figure out what the fuck happened in Sarajevo." Katsuki's jaw clenched at the memory—the overwhelming surge of protective rage that had shattered years of careful control. "Need to know why my implant failed…” He trailed off, unable to fully articulate the visceral intensity of that moment.

Eijirou studied him for a long moment. "Look, boss... I know you hate being backed into corners. But this Midoriya being involved in a special access program? That's not just enhanced designation protocols or experimental tech. Black projects are the programs behind the programs." He met Katsuki's gaze. "Whatever you've stumbled into, it's way above the classified ops we run in Delta. Those at least had paperwork, oversight committees. This? This is the kind of program that doesn't ever exist until someone in Washington decides it does."

"You're as subtle as a fucking grenade," Katsuki said, but there was no heat in his words, just grim acknowledgment. He'd known things were bad when they'd forced this evaluation on him. But a black project was the kind of classified that got people disappeared for asking any questions and his team was about to get themselves buried in quicksand trying to help him. He couldn't drag them down with him. Not this time.

"Learned from the best." Eijirou's grin flashed quick and sharp, completely unfazed by Katsuki's tone.

He fell silent as another cluster of suits approached, their measured strides and regulation haircuts screaming federal service. Katsuki's enhanced senses picked up the subtle weight of concealed weapons against tailored jackets. Security details beginning their morning rotations, marking the transition from night watch to day shift.

"The team's still running deep traces," Eijirou continued once the suits passed, his voice pitched low again. "Denki's got some new decryption algorithms he wants to test, and Mina's monitoring all her usual channels." He hesitated, and Katsuki caught an unfamiliar note in his scent—uncertainty layered under his usual confident pheromones. "Just... watch yourself at that medical eval, alright? Something about this whole setup feels wrong."

"That your tactical assessment, Lieutenant?" The words came out frost-lined, acid churning in his gut.

"No, sir." Eijirou met his gaze steadily, unflinching. "That's your team looking at classification levels that involve heads of state, encryption beyond bleeding edge, and research that someone's tried very hard to bury. Whatever they want with you, it isn't standard evaluation territory."

Katsuki's jaw clenched. He knew it. Felt it in his bones, in the way his instincts had been screaming since this whole mess started.

Eijirou's expression softened slightly as he read the tension in Katsuki's stance. His gaze swept the growing morning crowd, a practiced motion that looked casual to anyone who didn't know better. "You know," he added, smoothly shifting gears because heaven forbid he let Katsuki brood in peace, "Mina's been riding my ass about you. Actually, more like interrogating. You know how she gets when she thinks someone's avoiding her check-ins."

The sudden shift in conversation almost startled a laugh out of Katsuki. Trust Eijirou to know exactly when to ease back, when to let him breathe. And of course Ashido was on the warpath. She was like a bloodhound once she caught a scent, relentless, especially when it came to the team's well-being. "Tell her to focus on her actual job instead of playing unit therapist."

"Yeah, about that..." Eijirou's scent shifted, amusement threading through the morning air. "She might have already started planning something at O'Malley's for Thursday."

"I don't need a goddamn pity party."

"Never said you did, sir." Eijirou's use of the honorific was pointed. "Just passing along that the core team's getting together. No Delta Force. Nothing official. Just the people who've had your six since before all this crap started."

Katsuki caught every detail of his lieutenant's expression—the carefully banked concern, the stubborn set to his jaw. The same look he'd worn during countless missions when the odds were stacked against them and failure wasn't an option.

"Denki's been working overtime, you know." Eijirou's tone was deliberately casual, but Katsuki's nose caught the spike of worry threading through his scent. "Signal teams are stretched thin with something that happened in Kiev, but he still makes time to monitor the usual channels. Says chatter's been weird lately. Lots of encrypted traffic about international protocols."

Katsuki's mind whirred, gears spinning. Denki was good, scary good, at pattern recognition.

"And Mina's been pulling double shifts in signals analysis." Eijirou rocked back on his heels, posture loose and easy. The perfect picture of a subordinate shooting the shit with his CO. "Says some interesting things keep coming across her desk. Above her clearance level, technically, but you know how she is with intel. Can't help but notice when something doesn't add up."

Pinky didn't break regs lightly. If she was poking at classified info, she must have a damn good reason. And if Denki was backing her play...

"They're spun up about you, boss." Eijirou's voice dropped, low and intense. "We all are. Whatever this evaluation is, whatever black projects they're involved in—it's got the whole network buzzing. And you know Denki and Mina wouldn't take the risks if they didn't think something was off."

Goddammit. He'd trained them too well. Taught them to trust their guts, to chase leads no matter where they pointed. Now here they were, kicking over all the wrong anthills on his behalf.

"This isn't their fight." He kept his tone flat, neutral. He was no stranger to an insubordinate underling, but Eijirou had always been more of a friend than that.

"No," Eijirou agreed, that steel back in his voice. "But it's their choice to make. Just like it was my choice to join your unit when everyone said I was too soft for special operations."

An alpha jogger loped by, close enough that their scent set Katsuki's teeth on edge. His control was shot, instincts clawing against the inside of his skin like a rabid animal. Christ, he missed his implant.

"O'Malley's has private rooms." Eijirou's voice drew Katsuki's focus back. "Defensible position, good acoustics for sensitive discussions. Perfect spot for a team to...debrief without interruptions. Especially now that Denki's figured out the security cam setup."

Plausible deniability. Katsuki almost smiled. "And I suppose you expect me to suffer my way through an 'informal' interrogation disguised as drinks with friends?"

Eijirou met his gaze squarely. "I expect you to let us do our damn jobs, Kats. You're not in this alone, no matter how much martyr complex you're rocking. We're your team. That means we get a say in how this plays out."

Katsuki huffed. Goddamn stubborn asshole. "And if I refuse? If I decide to tell you all to fuck off and mind your own business?"

Eijirou's smile held no humor. "Then I guess we're at an impasse, sir, because last I checked, the team lead doesn't get to make unilateral decisions that affect the whole unit."

Unilateral decisions. Katsuki was going to strangle him. Another lesson coming back to bite him in the ass. "Fine. Tell Ashido not to hack my calendar."

"Too late for that, sir." Eijirou's grin turned sharp. "She already did. You've got a 'mandatory coordination briefing' scheduled for 2000 hours Thursday night. Very official looking, so don't even think about trying to skip out."

Katsuki snorted. "As if she'd let me skip it." He straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders. "Don't worry, I'll be there."

"Damn right," Eijirou agreed, squeezing his shoulder once before letting go. "I've gotta head out, but give 'em hell, boss." He turned, throwing a casual salute over his shoulder as he jogged away.

Katsuki watched him disappear into the growing crowd, that red hair bright as a banner against the sea of suits and staffers. The Washington Monument pierced the cloudless sky like a spear, its shadow stretching across the Mall as the morning sun shifted.

In a few hours, he'd be at Walter Reed for his evaluations. The thought should have set his teeth on edge, but instead, a dangerous calm settled over him. His team was mobilizing, putting themselves in the crosshairs for him. Fucking idiots. Stubborn, loyal-to-a-fault idiots.

It should have made him angry, should have had him calling Mina right now to shut this whole thing down. Instead, it felt like pieces clicking into place, even as everything else in his world spun out of control.

His team of idiots had his back. Now he just had to keep his shit together long enough to figure out how he fit into everything. And what role this mysterious Captain Midoriya played in all of it. And for the first time since Sarajevo, since his implant failed and his world started unraveling, he felt centered. Focused.

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, feeling the predator under his skin settle into hunting mode.

Time to get some fucking answers.

A couple of days have passed since Katsuki’s last conversation with Eijirou, though their routine workouts remain a constant. Back at home, his bare feet struck the mat with precision during shadow sparring, each step a contained detonation of power. 

Today, his morning run hadn't done enough to burn off the fury simmering in his blood, the restless energy crackling beneath his skin like live ammunition waiting for the trigger pull. Even after twenty-five miles through DC's monuments and memorials, his mind wouldn't shut down, wouldn't stop processing the clusterfuck his career had become since Sarajevo.

"Submit to evaluation or face immediate discharge."

Sweat slicked his skin, dripping from his brow to the mat below, but he didn’t pause. Couldn’t. The rhythm was his lifeline, a distraction from the chaos clawing at him. He shifted to the heavy bag, fists slamming into it with dull, bone-rattling thuds. They think I’m a loose cannon now. A threat. The thought fueled each strike. 

His workouts were his anchor, burning off the excess, keeping the rage from spilling over. Next were deadlifts, three hundred pounds hoisted from the floor, the barbell trembling under his strength. He ended with pull-ups, dropping to the mat in a heap when the count hit two-hundred. 

Chest heaving, he stared at the ceiling, the red light of dawn stretching shadows across the room. The storm in his head didn’t stop, but his body had reached its limit for today.

Katsuki dragged himself off the mat, muscles aching, and shuffled to the bathroom. The shower roared to life, steam rising as hot water hit the tiles. He stepped under the stream, letting the heat scorch his skin, hoping it might burn away the mess in his mind. It didn’t.

Water traced the scars and contours of his body, pooling at his feet, but the weight on his chest stayed. His fingers grazed the faint scar where the implant had been—his leash, his edge, now a broken shackle. Evaluation or discharge. The words pounded louder in the steam-filled silence. 

They don’t get it, he thought, fist tightening against the wall. He wasn’t just a soldier; he was the best. Delta Force didn’t make room for liabilities, and he’d never truly been one, until Sarajevo. Now, he could feel himself slipping—stronger than ever, but less himself. And the evaluation? Another leash disguised as a lifeline.

The steam thickened, clouding the glass, but it couldn’t hide the doubt creeping in. What if I can’t fix this? He hated that thought, hated the weakness of it. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t lose. Didn’t break. Didn’t bow. But this wasn’t a fight he could win with fists or grit alone. This was deeper, uglier. If he couldn’t rein it in, he’d lose more than his rank—he’d lose who he was.

He shut off the water and stepped out, steam clinging to his skin. The mirror was fogged, his reflection a blur. He didn’t wipe it clear—didn’t always like the man he saw staring back. 

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, his apartment felt empty in a way that went beyond the minimalist decor. Not that his quarters had ever felt like home, the living space resembled a high-end hotel room: functional, anonymous, devoid of sentiment. Exactly how he'd always preferred it.

Until now.

His gaze drifted to his phone, thumb hovering over his father's name in the contact list. Masaru had called three times since the congressional hearing. Katsuki hadn't answered, hadn't trusted himself to speak when rage threatened to boil over with every thought of the thinly-veiled accusations, the sideways glances, the fucking committee members who'd never seen combat questioning his judgment.

His dad would listen. Would understand. His father had always possessed that rare gift—the ability to absorb Katsuki's storms without judgment, to weather the alpha fury that had terrified tutors, trainers, and commanding officers alike.

But calling meant explaining. Admitting weakness. Katsuki's thumb moved away from the contact, muscle memory already burying vulnerability beneath layers of hard-earned armor.

The knock at his door came so softly that his enhanced hearing barely registered it. Three precise taps, it was the building manager's courtesy call. Katsuki pulled on sweatpants and a faded Army tee before moving to answer, guard instantly up. No deliveries were scheduled. No maintenance requested.

"Captain Bakugo?" The building manager stood beside a pair of movers in professional uniforms. "Special delivery. Required your signature for security clearance."

Katsuki's eyes narrowed, combat instincts cataloging each face, each movement. "I didn't order anything."

"No, sir. This came from Tokyo. International shipment with diplomatic clearance." The manager held out a tablet. "Your father arranged everything."

Tokyo. Diplomatic clearance. Father.

Something in Katsuki's chest tightened as he signed, barely registering the elaborate security protocols the manager detailed—measures that suggested whatever was coming held significance beyond the ordinary. He stepped aside as the movers requested entry, their movements revealing years of experience handling precious cargo.

They wheeled in a massive object under a custom dust cover, positioning it precisely in the corner of his living room that had always remained conspicuously empty—as if on instruction. As if Masaru had memorized the apartment layout during his sole visit two years prior.

When they departed with professional efficiency, Katsuki stood frozen, staring at the shrouded shape whose outline sent memories crashing through his defenses.

He knew what lay beneath that cover.

With uncharacteristic hesitation, he approached the object, fingers hovering over the edge of the fabric. For a moment, he was fourteen again—rage incarnate, alpha hormones surging through his system with no outlet but destruction, a military legacy bearing down on his shoulders with the weight of generations.

He pulled the cover away in one fluid motion, revealing the instrument that had once been his salvation.

The Bösendorfer grand piano gleamed in the afternoon light filtering through his windows, its midnight blue finish catching the sun like deep water. Not just any piano, his piano. The one his mother had insisted he learn when he was six, because "proper officers understand culture." The one that had disappeared when he left for West Point, another sacrifice on the altar of his family's military expectations.

The scent hit him next—polished wood, taut metal strings, the subtle traces of beeswax. A sensory memory so powerful it sent an involuntary tremor through his hands. His fingers twitched, muscle memory stirring from dormancy after years of being in the field. 

Katsuki circled the instrument, taking in the meticulous restoration. Every scuff and mark he remembered remained preserved—the slight dent on the left side from when he'd slammed his fist against it in frustration, the almost invisible line along the lid where he'd once balanced sheet music with too much force. His father hadn't erased the piano's history; he'd honored it.

A small envelope rested on the closed fallboard, his name written in his father's precise script. Katsuki opened it, something unfamiliar tightening his throat as he read:

"Some battles can't be won with fists alone. I've kept this safe until you needed it again. –Dad"

Katsuki's hand closed around the note, crushing it briefly before smoothing it out with uncharacteristic care. The timing wasn't coincidental. Masaru would have heard about the congressional inquiry, would have connected the dots through his own contacts. While Katsuki had been isolating himself, choking on fury and betrayal, his father had orchestrated this across continents—a lifeline disguised as a gift.

Before conscious thought intervened, Katsuki found himself seated at the bench, his posture automatically adjusting to the familiar dimensions. For a breathless moment, he simply sat, his hands hovered above the keys as he reacquainted himself with callused fingertips now suspended over ivory. The sensation was jarring, both alien and achingly familiar.

The dim light of the room cast his features in sharp relief, all hard planes and tense angles. His hands hovered over the keys, poised like a conductor's baton in the moment before the downbeat. The air felt charged, thick with unspent emotion and the weight of memory.

The first chord came hesitantly, a test of both instrument and memory. The sound resonated through the apartment, through his bones, through years of carefully constructed barriers. Katsuki closed his eyes, letting the note fade completely before striking another.

His first piano instructor came to mind, although they hadn't lasted a month—couldn't handle him. Then had come Madame Petrova, the first teacher who hadn't quit, the only one who met his perfectionistic fury with equal intensity. 

He'd walked into her studio, all arrogance and barely contained energy, and she'd just raised an eyebrow. "So. You think your anger makes you special? Channel it. Control it. Make it serve you, not the other way around." Her accent had been thick as her standards were impossible. She'd been the first person besides his father who didn't flinch from his intensity.  

His fingers found Chopin's Ballade No. 1 from memory, the complex architecture of the piece drawing him inexorably forward. He was a bit dramatic, but it was one of his favorite pieces growing up—a masterwork of quiet intensity and controlled power, a story about the loneliness of poet far from the war that plagued their hometown. Each crescendo mathematically precise, each fury carefully contained until the exact moment of release.

The opening notes hung questioning in the air, deceptively simple, belying the storm to come. Just like a tactical approach, the quiet infiltration before explosive engagement. Like the composer had understood what it meant to cage lightning. To hold back an explosion until the perfect moment.

Katsuki's fingers moved over the keys with a surety that contradicted the years since he'd last played, muscle memory guiding him through the opening measures as the first notes hung in the air, hesitant and almost questioning, as if the piano itself was surprised to be awakened from its long slumber. The connection was electric, a live wire jacked directly into his hindbrain. He could feel the energy humming through the keys, the infinite possibilities contained within the taut wires and felted hammers.

As the melody unfolded, memories surfaced with each measure. His mother standing over him, stopwatch in hand, timing his practice with military precision. "Again. Perfection isn't optional for a Bakugo." His father sitting beside him late at night, sketching the mathematical patterns hidden in Bach's counterpoint while Katsuki drank in the information with barely contained energy.

The piano responded to him like a living thing, and the part of him that had been trapped and screaming for as long as he could remember surged to meet it. 

"Look," Masaru had said, tracing geometric progressions across staff paper. "Music is engineering with sound. Each harmony follows precise mathematical laws." It was the first time someone had made sense of the calculations constantly running through Katsuki's mind, the first glimpse that his intensity might be channeled rather than suppressed.

The tempo increased as the piece progressed, Katsuki's body curving over the keys. His tactical mind tracked each note's position and timing with the same precision he applied to battlefield coordinates. The Ballade's architecture revealed itself like terrain features on a reconnaissance map—tension building here, resolution there, feints and counterattacks woven throughout.

When he reached the first crescendo, something broke open inside him. Years of precision had honed his control, but at what cost? The piano demanded technical perfection while allowing emotional expression, something he'd forgotten was possible.

His first rut had struck at fifteen, overwhelming his senses until the world became unbearable noise. Only here, at this bench, had he found sanctuary. Each note existed in perfect relation to every other, creating patterns his overloaded alpha brain could latch onto when everything else became chaos. While military doctors adjusted his experimental suppressants, music had been his first true stabilizer.

His mother hadn't understood as he kept at it while he grew up. She saw only time wasted that could be spent on combat training, on military studies, on becoming the perfect candidate for military school she'd planned for him to attend since birth. But his father had known. Had seen how his son found peace in the intersection of mathematics and music. Had watched him learn to modulate his rage and pheromones through the physical discipline of playing, because you couldn't master Rachmaninoff by brute force alone, no matter how much raw power you had.

As the piece built toward its thunderous climax, Katsuki surrendered to its demands. His strength, carefully restrained in daily life, found release in the fortissimo passages. Chords crashed like artillery fire, arpeggios raced like tactical maneuvers across open terrain. The Bösendorfer responded with magnificent resonance, built to withstand the force of his playing when lesser instruments would have faltered.

The physicality was intoxicating—sweat beading on his forehead, muscles burning with exertion, breath synchronized with the phrases. This wasn't the controlled violence of combat but something transformative. Creative destruction. Controlled chaos.

Goosebumps raced across his skin as his senses heightened beyond normal parameters. Without his implant regulating his system, the music triggered cascading responses—auditory input sharpening, proprioception expanding until he felt every vibration of the strings through the keys. The sensation wasn't entirely comfortable, wavering on the edge between exhilaration and sensory overload.

It was always unsettling, this sense of himself as a live wire, a barely-contained explosion waiting for the right trigger. But it was also strangely exhilarating, tapping into some primal part of him that reveled in the sheer destructive, yet, artistic potential. The alpha in him, the part that was pure instinct and predator, lifted its head and howled in recognition.

The music poured out of him like molten metal as the piece continued to build. Years of repressed emotion finding voice through carefully engineered frequencies. Before they weaponized his gifts, before they turned his precision toward violence, he had used them to create something fucking beautiful.

He'd spent years telling himself that control meant excision, that strength came from cutting away anything that didn't serve the mission. But the piano, with its inexorable patterns and unyielding structure, had always told a different story. Control wasn't about denial—it was about mastery, about shaping the chaos into something purposeful, something transformative.

The Ballade reached its zenith, demanding technical precision, emotional investment, physical stamina. Katsuki's hands blurred across the keyboard, each movement calculated to the millisecond yet flowing with a fluidity no training manual could teach. Here, in the eye of his own personal hurricane, Katsuki knew deep in his heart that this had been his first love. Before duty, before war, before everything that didn't serve his predetermined purpose was stripped away. 

With a final devastating sequence, the piece concluded. The sound filled the room, filled his senses, filled every hollow space inside him. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

The last chord hung in the air like smoke after an explosion, slowly dissipating into charged silence.

Katsuki remained motionless, lungs burning, fingers still poised above the keys. There was a small, distant part of him that marveled at the sheer catharsis of it, at the sense of profound release. It felt like more than just music, therapy, or maybe even an exorcism—he couldn't think of anything else to compare it to other than the blood-letting of a wounded soul. Each crashing chord felt like lancing a festering abscess, allowing all the poison that had been slowly suffocating him to drain away.

Something had shifted within him—not healing, exactly, but a recalibration. A remembering. The piano hadn't magically solved anything, but it had created space where before there had only been compression. He thought of his father's words, the implicit challenge in the piano's presence. To find strength in vulnerability, control through integration. To weave the disparate threads of his life into something whole, something greater than the sum of its jagged parts.

The piano was a start, a crucial outlet, but it couldn't undo a lifetime of repression in a single sitting.

He exhaled slowly, removing his hands from the keyboard with reluctance. The rage that had driven him through morning miles hadn't disappeared, but its quality had changed, redirected from aimless fury into something he could use. Something he could shape.

His father had understood what he needed even before he did. Not escape from his problems, but perspective on them. Not sympathy, but the tools to forge his own way forward.

Katsuki felt a deep sense of calm settling over him. Not peace, exactly, he doubted he would ever truly know peace, not with the inferno that raged eternally just beneath his skin. But it wasn't emptiness he felt. No, it was more like... space. Room to breathe, to think, to finally start sorting through the tangled web of his own psyche without the constant pressure of all that repressed emotion bearing down on him.

Katsuki laid a hand on the piano lid, feeling the slight residual warmth from where his forehead had pressed.

"Thanks, dad," he murmured, the words rusty with disuse. He let his mouth curl into a smile, small and crooked and all the more precious for its rarity. "Guess you knew what you were doing after all."

A sudden alert from his phone cut through the moment. Katsuki reached for it, the transition from pianist to soldier instantaneous. The message displayed with brevity:

APPOINTMENT RESCHEDULED
Walter Reed Medical Center
Medical Evaluation & Enhanced (Prime) Designation Assessment
Captain K. Bakugo
IMMEDIATE: Report 0900

Katsuki's jaw tightened as he read. They were accelerating the timeline, moving up his appointment without explanation.

He glanced back at the piano, then at the message. The choice crystallized with unexpected clarity. He could continue as he had been—reacting to each new directive, burning himself out against forces beyond his control. Or he could approach this evaluation differently, with the same strategic patience he'd just rediscovered.

His fingers closed around the phone, already mapping contingencies. Whatever game they were playing with his career, his life, he wouldn't be a passive participant.

Katsuki lay perfectly still, barely breathing as the machine hummed around him. The narrow tube of the QEEG scanner felt more like a coffin than a piece of medical equipment, the walls pressing in from all sides. He fought the urge to twitch, to claw at the walls until he could breathe again.

His enhanced hearing picked up the subtle hum of electromagnetic shielding beneath the machine's white noise. The morning's peace from playing his father's piano again felt like a distant dream now, shattered by the assault of artificial air and antiseptic. Without his implant, every stimulus sometimes still struck with hammer-blow intensity—not quite the sandpaper-on-exposed-nerves it had been immediately after Sarajevo, but still overwhelming. The buzz of fluorescent lights, the squeak of rubber soles on polished floors, the mingled scents of fear and illness that no amount of industrial cleaning could mask.

This was the fifth fucking test they'd put him through today. His patience, never his strong suit to begin with, was wearing dangerously thin.

Walter Reed National Military Medical Center: where the military kept some of its darkest medical secrets—twenty minutes from his Georgetown townhouse, thirty from Langley's classified depths, and a carefully measured distance from the White House's watchful eyes. Building 10 housed the most secure wings, where research too sensitive for the Pentagon happened behind layers of security that would make most intelligence agencies envious. Twelve floors above ground, three below, with the most classified sections buried deepest.

"Initiating frequency modulation," announced the lab tech, voice crackling through the intercom. "Starting at ten hertz, increasing by point-five increments."

A low hum started to build in Katsuki's bones, a vibration that seemed to resonate in his very marrow. It pulsed behind his eyes, a strange pressure that made his vision blur at the edges. He clenched his jaw, fighting to stay still as the sensation intensified.

This wasn't in any of the standard post-implant assessment protocols. He'd memorized those backwards and forwards, the endless lists of tests, checks, and blood draws to ensure an Alpha's system could handle the loss of the chemical leash. But this? Electromagnetic frequencies pulsing through his skull like a living thing? It felt like some kind of experiment. Invasive in a way that had nothing to do with the wires on his skin or the magnetic fields pulsing through him.

It felt like a violation.

"How are you feeling, Captain Bakugo?" Dr. Takeshi Nakamura's voice slid through the intercom, too smooth, too calculated.

"Like I'm being microwaved," Katsuki growled. "This supposed to be standard procedure?"

A pause. "Your situation is... unique. Standard protocols wouldn't yield the data we need."

The hum intensified, resonating in his chest like a second heartbeat. Katsuki's hands clenched into fists at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms. He welcomed the pain, the sharp clarity of it cutting through the building pressure in his skull.

"Increasing to twenty-five hertz," the lab tech announced, their voice distant and muffled through the haze of sensation. "Neural oscillation patterns are stabilizing."

Stabilizing? As if there were anything stable about this. This was the fifth machine they'd put him in today. First, the full-body quantum scanner that felt like being dissected by lasers. Then the "sensory deprivation tank" that was anything but, his enhanced hearing picking up every gurgle of the piping, every muffled footstep outside the chamber. Followed by the blood draws—a dozen vials, each with different colored caps and no explanations. The cognitive stress test where they'd deliberately flooded the room with synthetic alpha pheromones to measure his response. And now this, the crown jewel of modern neuroimaging, mapping his brain in slices thinner than breath.

All standard procedure, they said. All part of the thorough evaluation required after an implant removal. But nothing about this felt standard. The probing questions, the sideways glances between technicians, the whispers just out of earshot. It set his teeth on edge, an itch beneath his skin that had nothing to do with the scratchy hospital gown.

"Captain, I'm going to ask you a series of questions. Try to answer honestly without overthinking." Nakamura's voice again, that clinical detachment that made Katsuki want to put his fist through something. "First, describe what you're sensing right now. Be specific."

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose. "Feels like ants crawling under my skin. Pressure at the base of my skull. I can taste metal."

"Interesting. And emotionally?"

"Fucking annoyed," Katsuki snapped. "Like I've been strapped into machines for six hours while nobody tells me shit."

A soft chuckle. "Fair enough. Now, I'm going to introduce a new element. Focus on your breathing."

The intercom fell silent, but seconds later, a subtle change crept into the air circulating through the scanner. A scent—faint at first, then growing stronger. Sweet but with a sharp undercurrent, like rain on hot pavement, lightning about to strike. Omega. But not just any omega—there was something strange about it, something that didn't quite align with any designation scent he'd encountered before.

Katsuki's reaction was immediate and visceral. His heart rate doubled, muscles tensing as a surge of aggression washed over him. His alpha hindbrain roared to life, straining against the behavioral conditioning that had kept it leashed for years.

"What the fuck?" he snarled, the words torn from him before he could stop them. "What are you pumping in here?"

"Just a synthetic pheromone compound," Nakamura replied, but there was a new edge to his voice, a barely contained excitement. "Fascinating response, Captain. Your quantum resonance patterns are spiking in perfect alignment with the stimulus frequency."

Quantum resonance patterns? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

The scent intensified, and with it came an inexplicable pull, like a hook lodged behind his breastbone. It wasn't like the typical response to an omega in distress—this was deeper, more fundamental, as if something in his very cells was reaching out, trying to connect.

"Your pheromone receptors are showing unprecedented activity," Nakamura continued, the professional veneer slipping to reveal the eager scientist beneath. "The neural pathways responsible for designation recognition are lighting up in patterns we've only theorized about. And look at the quantum field fluctuations—they're synchronizing directly with the pheromone compound."

"Shut it down," Katsuki ordered, his voice a dangerous growl. "Whatever you're doing, quit it now."

But they didn't stop. The scent grew stronger, wrapping around him like physical bonds. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, heart hammering against his ribs as his body fought against its own instincts. The worst part wasn't even the physical reaction, it was the feeling of something probing at the edges of his consciousness, trying to find a way in.

"Heart rate exceeding baseline by 87%," reported the lab tech, excitement bleeding through the professional tone. "Pheromone production up 115%. Quantum resonance approaching critical threshold."

The intercom crackled to life again, the lab tech's voice filtered through layers of static. "Neural synchronization is approaching optimum levels. Preparing to initiate phase two of the assessment."

Phase two?

Katsuki's blood turned to ice in his veins. As if this high-tech lobotomy wasn't enough, they had more in store. The beast in his chest howled, straining against the chains of his control. But before he could react, before he could do more than suck in a sharp breath that tasted of ozone and desperation, the scanner clicked and hummed around him. The magnetic fields intensified, bearing down on him like a physical weight. And then—

Pain.

It sliced through him like a thousand knives, a white-hot agony that ripped a strangled scream from his throat before he could bite it back. Every nerve ending lit up like a live wire, his enhanced senses thrown into dizzying overdrive. He could feel every beat of his heart, every rush of blood through his veins, every electrical impulse crackling along his synapses.

It was too much, too fast, too intense.

His back arched off the table, muscles seizing in a rictus of torment. Dimly, he heard the lab techs shouting, monitors blaring. But it all felt distant, muffled, subsumed beneath the roar of sensation threatening to rip him apart at the seams.

And then it stopped.

The fields powered down, the pain receding like a tide. Katsuki slumped back against the table, chest heaving and sweat beading on his brow. His limbs felt heavy, leaden, as if his very bones had been turned to stone. Drained of his essence.

"Remarkable," came Nakamura's voice, breathless with excitement. "Did you see the quantum harmonization? Perfect synchronicity across all wavelengths, just like the models predicted."

"Sir," another voice cut in, lower, concerned. "The omega subject's readings are spiking too. She shouldn't be responding from three floors down—the dampening fields should have prevented any connection."

"And yet she is responding," Nakamura replied, an almost reverent note in his voice. "Don't you see what this means? The quantum bridge theory is correct. They're connecting on a subatomic level, bypassing conventional barriers."

Katsuki's mind raced, trying to piece together what he was hearing through the fog of residual pain. Omega subject. Three floors down. Quantum bridge. None of it made sense, and yet a part of him recognized the truth in it—had felt that connection, that pull, as if his very atoms were reaching for something wrong.

Someone.

The scanner clicked and whirred, the panels retracting with a hiss of hydraulics. Light flooded in, blinding after the suffocating darkness. Katsuki blinked hard, struggling to focus through the spots dancing across his vision.

A face swam into view above him, features blurred and indistinct. The lab tech, their expression a mix of fascination and something uncomfortably close to hunger.

"Incredible," they breathed, reaching out to brush a gloved finger over the wires still clinging to Katsuki's skin. "Neural reactivity is off the charts. I've never seen an prime alpha synchronize so quickly."

Katsuki flinched away from the touch, a growl building low in his throat. The lab tech seemed to remember themselves, stepping back with a calculating glint in their eye. He'd hoped coming here would give him answers, some sense of direction after the clusterfuck in Sarajevo blew his world apart. But so far, all he had were more questions, more pieces that refused to slot into place.

Dr. Nakamura was already hunched over his console, pressing buttons to recalibrate or something similar Katsuki assumed.

"Excellent," he muttered, more to himself than to Katsuki. "These quantum variants are even stronger than the last batch. And the pheromonal receptors are lighting up like..." He trailed off, catching himself. When he turned to Katsuki, his expression was blandly professional, a mask snapped back into place.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Captain. This data will be invaluable in assessing your post-implant status." He moved with the confident stride of someone used to holding power, his eyes sharp and assessing as they landed on Katsuki.

"Assessing what, exactly?" Katsuki swung his legs over the side of the gurney, biting back the growl that wanted to tear free, forcing himself into professionalism.

Dr. Nakamura's smile was thin, practiced. "We're establishing a baseline, Captain. Your physiology is...unique. We need to ensure there are no anomalies before clearing you for active duty."

Unique. The same word Chen had used when she'd grilled him on his "sensory experiences" during the Sarajevo mission. The same one whispered between technicians as they'd passed scans back and forth, heads bent together.

"What did you just do to me?" Katsuki demanded, voice raw from his earlier scream. "What was that scent you pumped in?"

Nakamura's expression flickered, something calculating passing behind his eyes. "A standard designation response test. We need to ensure your alpha receptors are functioning normally after the implant removal."

"Bullshit," Katsuki snapped. "There was nothing standard about that. And what the fuck is a 'quantum resonance pattern'?"

"Ah, just technical terminology," Nakamura waved dismissively. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

"My physiology was unique before Sarajevo," Katsuki bit out, fingers curling into the thin mattress. "But I don't remember jumping through this many hoops after my last implant check."

Something flickered in Nakamura's expression, there and gone too fast to parse. "As I said, we're just being thorough—" He was cut off by a chime from his tablet, the screen flashing red. Katsuki caught a glimpse of a message notification before the doctor angled it away.

Nakamura's face drained of color. He shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste.

"Excuse me, Captain. I need to...confer with my colleagues. I'll be right back."

He was out the door before Katsuki could respond, his hurried footsteps echoing down the hall. Katsuki stared after him, frustration and unease warring in his gut.

His enhanced hearing picked up snatches of conversation from the hall, Nakamura's voice pitched low and urgent.

"—unprecedented neurological activity—"

"—matches the Sarajevo readings—"

"—Echo Cell compatibility confirmed—"

"—direct quantum resonance with Subject Omega Three—"

Katsuki's heart pounded against his ribs, adrenaline spiking. Compatibility? With what? The questions chased themselves around his skull, tangling with the throbbing headache building behind his eyes. He was still trying to make sense of it when Nakamura burst back into the room, his earlier composure cracked around the edges. His scent carried a sour note of fear beneath the antiseptic, setting Katsuki's teeth on edge.

"Change of plans, Captain." He didn't quite meet Katsuki's eyes as he gathered up his tablet, fingers shaking slightly. "We're going to have to cut this evaluation short. Something's come up that requires my...immediate attention."

"What, you run out of ways to play lab rat with my brain?" Katsuki snarked, anger surging up to mask the cold dread settling in his bones. "I thought you needed to run more tests. Establish a baseline."

Nakamura flinched, his knuckles going white around the tablet. "That won't be necessary. We have all the data we need for now. Security will escort you out."

"The hell they will." Katsuki shot to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that crashed over him. "I'm not going anywhere until I get some fucking answers. What did you find in my scans? And what does any of this have to do with Sarajevo?"

Nakamura's jaw worked, fear and something like pity warring in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Captain. But that's classified. Above my clearance level. And yours. I can't disclose the specifics at this time. But rest assured, your participation in this evaluation has been invaluable to our research."

Research. The word made Katsuki's skin crawl, his instincts screaming danger. But he held himself still, every muscle locked tight. "And what research would that be, exactly?"

"As I said, Captain, I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. But suffice it to say, you have a very unique neurological profile. One that could prove instrumental in advancing our understanding of Prime physiology."

It wasn't an answer. Just more double-talk, more secrets piled on secrets. Katsuki's jaw clenched, frustration buzzing beneath his skin like a live wire. But before he could press further, Dr. Nakamura was tapping something into his tablet with quick, efficient movements.

"I'm afraid that's all the information I can provide at this juncture. But don't worry, Captain. I'm sure you'll be briefed on the full scope soon enough." He paused, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. "In the meantime, we'll contact you if we need any follow-up." He turned away, shoulders rigid. "Your escort should be arriving shortly."

Katsuki's hands curled into fists, rage and helplessness tangling into a knot in his chest. Every instinct screamed to fight, to demand the truth that kept slipping through his fingers. But he knew a losing battle when he saw one. Going berserk here would only prove them right, give them a reason to shut him out for good.

The door opened again, admitting two burly security officers with stony expressions. They flanked Katsuki like an honor guard, but the hands resting on their sidearms sent a different message. They knew something. Something that had them subjecting him to endless tests, whispering behind closed doors.

"This way, sir." The corporal paused at the door, gesturing down a hallway that led away from the heart of the facility.

Katsuki offered a curt nod, mind racing as he followed the corporal through the labyrinthine halls of Walter Reed. This was no ordinary medical facility—it was a fortress, wrapped in layers of security both physical and electromagnetic. The route they were taking was circuitous, avoiding the main arteries of the facility.

What wasn't protocol was the direction, heading east instead of back toward the main entrance he'd come through. His enhanced senses picked up the hum of activity deeper in the facility. The murmur of urgent voices, the clatter of equipment being hastily moved, the thrum of machinery that set his teeth on edge.

He hadn't survived countless black ops by being easily deterred.

As they walked, he scanned his surroundings with a tactical eye, noting every detail. The flooring transitioned from standard linoleum to a denser, reinforced material near certain doorways—a subtle indication of heightened security. The electromagnetic shielding on some doors was so strong he could feel it like a physical pressure against him.

He mapped the camera placements, calculating blind spots based on their fields of view. The coverage was thorough, but not perfect. Every system had its flaws, and he'd been trained to exploit them.

The staff caught his attention too. Doctors and nurses moved with purpose, but some took longer routes, deliberately avoiding certain areas. A pair of orderlies passed in the hall, exchanging a series of subtle hand signals that would have been invisible to an untrained eye. His suspicions hardened into certainty.

He bided his time, waiting for his moment. It came as they approached a junction in the corridor. A sudden spike in the omnipresent white noise, a faint prickling at the back of his neck. They were passing a sealed area, one where the pheromone dampeners were working overtime to mask whatever—or whoever—was inside.

And behind that door, so faint he almost missed it—that same strange scent from the scanner. The one that had pulled at something deep inside him, the one that felt... wrong, somehow. Not like normal omega pheromones, but something altered, different.

Fuck this. He wasn't leaving without answers.

"Hold up," he said abruptly, playing the part of the impatient officer. "Nature calls."

The corporal hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his young face. "Sir, we really should—"

"And it'll still be there after I take a piss." Katsuki let a hint of his earlier irritation bleed into his voice, his posture shifting subtly into the commanding officer stance that had cowed countless subordinates. "Unless you want to explain to your superiors why you denied a ranking officer basic bathroom privileges."

The corporal wavered, his training warring with the implicit threat in Katsuki's tone. "I... of course not, sir. But we really should—"

"Should what?" Katsuki raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just a beat too long. "Are you questioning my judgment, Corporal?"

"No, sir!" The response was automatic, ingrained. "I just... we have orders to escort you directly to the exit."

"And you will." Katsuki softened his tone a fraction, playing the reasonable superior. "After I use the facilities. Which, might I remind you, is well within my rights as a patient in this hospital."

He could practically see the calculations running behind the corporal's eyes, the risk assessment of pissing off a superior officer versus following orders to the letter. It was a tightrope every soldier learned to walk, and Katsuki knew exactly how to tip the balance.

"Of course, sir," the corporal finally said, his reluctance evident in the set of his jaw. "The restroom is just down the hall. I'll wait here."

"Good man." Katsuki clapped him on the shoulder, a calculated gesture of camaraderie. "I'll be quick."

He didn't wait for a response, already striding toward the restroom he'd identified earlier. It was perfectly placed, close enough to the sealed area to be within range of his senses, far enough to avoid suspicion.

He slipped inside, locking the door behind him with a satisfying click. It was small, nondescript, easily overlooked. A quick sweep for cameras—none, as expected. They couldn't surveil every inch of the facility without raising eyebrows. But to his enhanced senses, it was a fucking goldmine.

He zeroed in on the ventilation shaft, the source of that piercing white noise. It was humming at a frequency that made his molars ache, a pitch that seemed almost deliberately calibrated to set his hearing on edge. There was something else beneath it, almost drowned out by the electronic whine.

Voices, pitched low and urgent.

"—compatibility is off the charts. We need to move to the next phase immediately, before the quantum window closes."

He closed his eyes and tilted his head, letting his other senses take over. His enhanced hearing stretched out, sifting through the white noise for the telltale signs of human presence. There, in the room adjacent—the low murmur of voices, the click of a keyboard, the creak of a chair.

"...the subject's neural pathways are showing unprecedented plasticity..."

"...potential for accelerated integration is off the charts..."

"...just need to fine-tune the resonance frequency..."

Resonance. The word echoed in Katsuki's mind, tangling with half-remembered fragments from his debriefings. Something about frequency harmonics, about the way his brain had lit up like a fucking Christmas tree when they'd scanned him after Sarajevo.

Dr. Nakamura. The oily fuck's smug tone was unmistakable, even distorted by distance and interference.

"Are we sure he's ready? The neural scans indicate—"

"And the omega?" The second voice, tense with unease. "Neural scans are all over the place. If we bring them together before full stability—"

"That's a risk we'll have to take." Nakamura's tone brooked no argument. "Failure is not an option. If we don't establish the quantum bridge soon, we lose our window."

Katsuki's blood ran cold as his hands clenched on the edge of the sink, knuckles white with strain. They had to be talking about him. About his fucking brain, like it was a piece of tech to be optimized. And the omega... Fuck. Had to be the one from Sarajevo, the British intelligence officer, Whitmore. The one whose had triggered something in him, something that had shattered his control.

They were going to use her. Use them both, like lab rats in some fucked up experiment. And if he didn't play along, if he didn't let them poke and prod at his psyche until they got whatever twisted result they were after...

A glance at his watch told him he was pushing the limits of plausibility. Any longer and the corporal would come looking, but Nakamura was still talking, something about neural plasticity and biochemical markers. Katsuki let the words wash over him, his mind spinning, gears turning as he tried to put together a picture from the mismatched pieces.

"And you're sure he doesn't remember?" The second voice again. "The cognitive wipe was thorough?"

"As thorough as we could make it without damaging the neural pathways we need," Nakamura replied.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, the rage settling into something cold and focused in the pit of his stomach. Cognitive wipe? Before he could further dwell on the implications of that, there was a rapid knock at the bathroom door. 

"Sir?" The corporal's voice, muffled through the door. A hint of impatience now, a touch of worry. "If you're... finished, we really should be going."

He caught another voice: "—need to prepare the testing chamber for—" before it cut off abruptly, like someone had activated sound dampeners.

Testing chamber? In a medical wing?

"Yeah, yeah." Katsuki flushed the empty toilet for show. He couldn't tip his hand, not yet. He needed more intel, needed to map the contours of this conspiracy before he made his move.

He splashed water on his face, hardening his resolve along with his expression. This wasn't over, not by a long shot. But he was Katsuki fucking Bakugo, the best goddamn operative Delta Force had ever seen. He'd stared down death on a dozen battlefields, had climbed his way through the upper echelons of the military with nothing but grit and raw skill.

He was no one's lab rat.

The building was etched in his memory now—every corridor, every security checkpoint, every camera position. He'd mapped the weak points, the blind spots in the surveillance network. And somewhere in this facility was the omega from Sarajevo, the one whose strange, altered pheromones had triggered whatever "quantum event" they were so excited about.

Whatever they'd done to her, whatever they planned to do to both of them, he wouldn't let it stand. He'd be back, but on his own terms. With his team's support, with a plan, with the upper hand.

With a last glance at the ventilation shaft, Katsuki unlocked the bathroom door and stepped back into the corridor. The corporal was waiting, relief evident in his posture. 

"Ready to go, sir?" he asked, already turning toward the exit.

This wasn't over. It was just beginning.

"Yeah," Katsuki replied, his tone deceptively casual. "I'm done here."

For now.

Katsuki, Eijirou, Mina, and Denki. To the outside world, they were just another spec ops team, highly trained and highly lethal. The kind of operators who got called in when failure wasn't an option. But to each other, they were more than that. They were the family Katsuki never admitted he needed, a unit forged in the heat of combat and tempered by the bonds of shared experience and bullets rather than DNA.

It hadn't always been that way. When they'd first been thrown together during a grueling joint training exercise at Fort Bragg that made SERE look like a fucking cakewalk. They'd been little more than strangers, each focused on their own specialties, their own ways of getting shit done.

He and Shitty Hair had already been running Delta Force missions by then, a two-man hurricane of precision and controlled violence. Katsuki provided the strategic mind and combat brutality; Eijirou brought unwavering loyalty and the rare ability to translate Katsuki's barked commands into something other humans could understand. They worked so seamlessly together that their commanding officers had stopped questioning how they got results and just started pointing them at problems.

Mina had joined as signals intelligence, her bubble-gum personality and easy laugh a perfect cover for a mind that could unravel encrypted communications faster than most people could take a piss. She'd shown up to their first briefing with pink-dyed hair that somehow passed regulation and a smile that hid the fact she could destroy someone's entire digital existence between sips of coffee.

Then there was Denki, the tech genius who spoke to computers in their native language. Half the time, the kid seemed to exist in a different dimension, his dumbass fingers flying across keyboards as he hacked his way through security firewalls like a fucking savant. He'd been temporarily assigned to their unit for "technical support" but somehow never left, becoming as essential as ammo.

The crucible that had forged them into something more than colleagues had been a nightmare training exercise in the Amazon. Designed to test their limits, to push them to the brink and see if they'd fucking shatter. Sixty hours of sleep deprivation, hostile territory, and impossible parameters. The kind of tests that could make or break a team, the pressure cooker that would either rip them to pieces or turn them into something unbreakable.

It should have gone sideways with three alphas and one beta, each with distinctly different strengths crammed into high-pressure scenarios where failure meant simulated death. But instead, something had clicked. Katsuki's strategic mind and Ei's unwavering loyalty, Mina's sharp insights and Denki's unconventional problem-solving.

Somehow, against all odds, they'd not only completed the exercise but had set a record that still stood. They'd clicked in a way that went beyond training, beyond protocol. They'd learned to anticipate each other's moves, to cover each other's blind spots.

After that, they'd become inseparable in the field. Off-books missions in hostile territory; extraction operations when diplomatic options failed; intelligence gathering too sensitive for conventional teams. 

It was unconventional as fuck, but that was par for the course with them. The brass knew it too, although they might not have known the specifics, they gave them increasing latitude because they got shit done, even if they didn't always follow the rulebook to get them.

Somewhere along the way, mission briefings had evolved into late-night bitching sessions over contraband alcohol. Training sessions turned into contests of increasingly creative shit-talking. They'd bled together, fought together, walked through hell side by side to face the Reaper and flipping him off when he came to collect.

Now they weren't just a team—they were a goddamn unit in every sense, ride or die down to the last man. When one called, the others came running, no questions asked. And tonight, despite every instinct screaming at Katsuki to protect them by keeping them in the dark, he needed them more than ever.

The evening shadows lengthened as Katsuki approached the little Vietnamese restaurant Mina had chosen for their meeting. It was perfect, a hole-in-the-wall with private rooms in the back and an owner who didn't ask questions when cash changed hands. The kind of place where conversations could happen that should never see official light.

The scent of chili oil and slow-simmered broth washed over him as he entered, instantly triggering memories of post-mission gatherings in similar establishments across a dozen countries. Places where they'd celebrated successes and nursed failures, always together, always unified despite whatever clusterfuck they'd just survived.

Katsuki paused outside the private room, his enhanced hearing picking up the familiar cadence of his team's voices. For a moment, he just listened, letting the normalcy of it ground him after the bullshit and overall invasive environment of Walter Reed. Denki's unrestrained laugh, bright and genuine. Mina's warm voice, affectionately teasing Eijirou about something. The low rumble of Eijirou's good-natured response.

His team. His people. The ones he trusted when he trusted no one else.

Drawing in a deep breath, Katsuki pushed open the door. Three pairs of eyes snapped to him immediately, conversation dying as they took in his appearance. He knew he looked like shit—exhaustion carved into the lines of his face, his shoulders tight with tension even his enhanced physiology couldn't fully erase.

His muscles still ached from the hours of tests, his mind racing with fragments of overheard conversations. Quantum resonance. Neural pathways. Compatibility with the omega.

He scanned the room, eyes automatically checking exits and potential threats—a habit that never quite switched off, even in supposedly safe spaces. The room was small but elegantly appointed, with rich crimson walls and gleaming dark wood that absorbed sound—perfect for conversations that weren't meant to travel. A single round table dominated the space, already surrounded by his waiting team. Three empty glasses suggested they'd been here a while, though Denki, as usual, was nursing the same craft beer he'd probably ordered an hour ago.

"About time, boss," Mina quipped as he approached, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "We were starting to wonder if you'd gotten lost."

"Traffic," he grunted, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of an empty chair. It was a lie and they all knew it, but it gave him a moment to scan the room, his sharp gaze cataloging every detail.

Katsuki nodded, sinking into his chair with a sigh that seemed to come from his very bones. Across from him, Eijirou was watching him with that steady, assessing gaze. The redhead pushed a fresh beer toward him without comment, understanding without words when conversation could wait.

"So," Mina broke the silence, leaning forward with the intensity that had made her one of the best intelligence specialists in Delta. "What the hell happened at Walter Reed? Eijirou said they had you there forever."

"Let's just say,” Katsuki paused, taking the beer Eijirou pushed toward him. "I've had enough bullshit for one day."

Mina leaned forward, her sharp eyes taking in the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse." Katsuki took a long pull from his beer, letting the bitter cold wash away the lingering taste of antiseptic. "Hours and hours of tests. Nothing fucking standard about it. It was focused on my brain activity, nerve responses, pheromone reactions. All of it was so weird.”

"What kind of tests exactly?" Eijirou asked, his normally carefree expression tightening with concern. Denki looked up from his tablet, fingers pausing on the keyboard. "Weird how?

Katsuki's jaw clenched as he recalled the QEEG scanner, the frequencies that had pulsed through his skull, the strange modified scent that had triggered something deep and primal within him.

"Brain scans, for one. Not a normal MRI. Something called quantum neural mapping." He traced the condensation on his glass, organizing his thoughts. "They were measuring frequency patterns, testing my responses to specific stimuli. Particularly... pheromones."

"Pheromones?" Mina's eyebrows shot up. "Whose?"

Katsuki hesitated, the memory of that strange, altered scent still vivid. "Omega pheromones, but... modified somehow. Synthetic, maybe. It was familiar but wrong at the same time. Nothing I've encountered before." He took a breath. “It reminded me of the omega from Sarajevo, I’m sure it was Whitmore.”

"Yeah, definitely nothing standard about that," Denki muttered, frowning at his tablet. "Post-implant evaluations are supposed to be basic physicals, blood work, maybe some cognitive tests. Not... whatever the hell you just described."

"You think I don't fucking know that?" Katsuki snapped, then immediately regretted his tone when he saw Denki's flinch. He exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. "Sorry. It's been a long day."

"Don't worry about it, let’s circle back to the omega in a second,” Denki waved him off, already tapping at his device. "I've been digging while we waited. Found some weird chatter about Walter Reed's research wing. Apparently, they've been bringing in specialists from other agencies, expanding their neurological research division."

"What kind of research?" Eijirou asked, leaning forward.

"That's the thing, it's buried under so many layers of classification I can barely find the edges." Denki turned his tablet, showing a complex web of redacted documents and security protocols. "Whatever they're doing, it's compartmentalized to hell and back. Different security clearances for different wings of the same project."

"Like a maze where nobody gets to see the whole picture," Mina observed.

"Exactly," Denki agreed. "Classic need-to-know structure, except taken to an extreme. I've seen less security on nuclear launch codes."

Katsuki's eyes narrowed. "There was something else. I overheard the doctors talking, something about 'compatibility patterns' and 'neural resonance.' They seemed... excited about my results."

"That doesn't sound ominous at all," Mina muttered sarcastically. She pulled out her own secure tablet, sliding it toward the center of the table. "While you were getting your brain mapped, I talked to my NSA contact. Been tracking some strange patterns in global intelligence chatter."

The screen displayed a map with clusters of data points spread across multiple continents, concentrated most heavily in major cities.

"What am I looking at?" Katsuki asked.

"Reports of what they're classifying as 'designation incidents.' Alphas, omegas, and even some betas are experiencing extreme physiological responses. Heightened aggression, sensory overload, and some extreme cases that are even further redacted."

Eijirou leaned closer, frowning at the data. "That could be anything. Training accidents, medication interactions—"

"That's what I thought too," Mina cut in. "Until I noticed the pattern." She manipulated the display, and the data points began to pulse in sequence, a wave moving across continents. "These aren't random. They're occurring in clusters, and the timeline..."

"They're accelerating," Katsuki finished, seeing it immediately. His tactical brain automatically identifying the pattern that was emerging across the dates.

"Exactly. Whatever this is, it's spreading. And here's where it gets really interesting." She zoomed in on specific regions. "These red zones? They all correspond with areas where new batches of military-grade designation regulators and suppressants were distributed in the past three months."

A chill worked its way down Katsuki's spine. "You're saying there's a connection between the regulators and these incidents?"

"I'm saying it's a statistical anomaly I can't ignore," Mina replied carefully. "Could be correlation, not causation. But my contact mentioned 'supply chain irregularities' with three major pharmaceutical suppliers. Quality control issues, supposedly."

"Supposedly?" Eijirou's voice carried a note of skepticism.

Mina's expression hardened. “I haven’t heard from them in two days ago. Completely off-grid. No explanation."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Katsuki's mind was racing, connecting dots he hadn't even realized were part of the same picture. The tests at Walter Reed. The strange focus on his pheromone responses. The modified omega scent that had affected him so strongly.

"There's more," Eijirou said quietly, breaking the silence. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded paper that he slid across the table. "My Pentagon source passed this to me before he went dark three days ago."

"Went dark?" Katsuki's head snapped up. "What do you mean, went dark?"

Eijirou's expression was grim. "Reassigned suddenly to an 'undisclosed location.' No contact since, not even with his family. His wife got a letter saying it was a 'matter of national security.'"

Katsuki unfolded the paper, finding a heavily redacted document. Most of it was blacked out, but a few phrases remained visible: "neural enhancement," "designation amplification," and "resonance stability." At the bottom, partially obscured, was what appeared to be a project designation, though only "Gen—" was visible before the redaction.

"This is military?" he asked, studying the classification markings.

"That's the thing," Eijirou said, tapping the header. "It's not standard military classification. Look at the security code, it's not DoD format. This is something else entirely."

Denki leaned over, examining the document. "Multi-agency task force, maybe? But why all the secrecy for medical research?"

"Unless it's not just research," Mina suggested, her voice dropping. "What if they're developing something? Something they don't want anyone to know about."

"Like what?" Eijirou asked, skepticism clear in his tone. "A bio-weapon? Mind control? Come on."

"Don't dismiss it so quickly," Katsuki said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "Something was off about those tests. The way they watched me, like they were waiting for a specific reaction. And that scent..."

He trailed off, remembering the pull he'd felt, the way his entire body had responded to those modified pheromones. It had triggered something primal and powerful, bypassing his conscious control in a way that should have been impossible.

“Now what about the omega from Sarajevo?" he asked suddenly. "Whitmore. British intelligence. Status?"

His team exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.

"That's another weird thing," Denki said, tapping his tablet again. "According to official channels, she was transferred back to UK custody after a brief medical evaluation at Walter Reed. Standard protocol for foreign operatives."

“That doesn’t make sense?” Katsuki pressed, sensing the hesitation.

"I hacked into MI6's secure comms," Denki admitted, not looking particularly remorseful about the international espionage. "They've been demanding her return for weeks. Multiple diplomatic channels, increasingly urgent. They have no idea where she is."

“I know she’s still at Walter Reed. Eijirou’s intel was solid and my nose doesn’t lie,” Katsuki said. It wasn't a question.

"I hear you, but I can't confirm it,” Denki hedged. "Their security is too tight for remote access. But the timing lines up with your evaluation schedule, and the way they were testing your reactions to omega pheromones..."

"We need to think clearly about this." Eijirou cautioned, ever the voice of reason. 

"What, you think it's all just coincidence?" Katsuki challenged. "The fucking brain shock tests, the focus on pheromones, the omega I'm almost certain they were talking about."

“What I'm saying is that we need more information before we start leaning into conspiracy theories," Eijirou countered, meeting Katsuki's glare without flinching. "This is serious shit, boss. Medical testing? Secret projects? Intelligence operatives disappearing? If we're right, we're talking about accusations that could get us all disappeared if we push too hard."

"He's not wrong," Mina said reluctantly. "My NSA guy went dark for asking basic questions. Your Pentagon source too, Ei. Whatever this is, someone's protecting it at the highest levels."

Katsuki's jaw clenched, frustration and determination warring within him. "So what? We just ignore it? Pretend I didn't spend five hours getting my brain scanned while they pumped artificial omega pheromones into the room?"

"No," Eijirou said firmly. "But we need to be smart about this. Strategic."

"Walter Reed is a fortress," Denki added, pulling up schematics on his tablet. "Not just the regular hospital, but the research wing—it's a base within a base. Multiple security checkpoints, biometric access, classified areas that don't even appear on official floor plans."

"But I have access," Katsuki pointed out. "I'm scheduled for follow-up tests on Thursday. I can get in legitimately."

"To the medical wing, sure," Denki conceded. "But the research levels? Different story."

"Maybe not," Mina said slowly, clearly turning over possibilities. "The regular hospital operates on a hierarchy where officers can pull rank in certain situations. The research wing might be classified, but it's still housed within a military structure that operates on a chain of command."

"You're thinking I could use my clearance to get deeper access," Katsuki said, seeing where she was heading.

"Not unlimited access," she cautioned. "But enough to poke around, maybe find some answers before anyone realizes you're not supposed to be there."

"It's risky," Eijirou warned. "If you're caught in a restricted area..."

"I'll play dumb," Katsuki shrugged. "Say I got lost looking for the bathroom. It happens all the time in that maze."

"And if someone recognizes you from your evaluation?" Eijirou pressed. "If they're already watching you specially?"

"Then I'll deal with it," Katsuki replied, his tone making it clear the matter was decided.

Eijirou sat back, frustration evident in his posture. "This isn't a battlefield decision, Katsuki. This is deliberately investigating a classified military project, potentially against direct orders. There are consequences beyond just getting shot at."

"You think I don't know that?" Katsuki growled, leaning forward. "But something is happening—to me, to that omega, maybe to others. And it involves military-grade designation suppressants, the same fucking technology that's been implanted in my body for the last decade."

A tense silence fell over the table. Katsuki could see the conflict playing out across his team's faces, loyalty warring with professional caution, curiosity with self-preservation.

"Look," he said, moderating his tone with visible effort. "I'm not asking any of you to put your necks on the line. This is my shit to deal with."

"Bullshit," Mina interrupted, her expression fierce. "We're a team. If you're in this, we're in this. But I agree with Ei, we need to be smart about it."

"Define 'smart'," Katsuki challenged.

"Reconnaissance first," she replied immediately. "Information gathering, not storming the castle. You go in for your scheduled follow-up, keep your eyes open, see what you can find without raising alarms."

"I can help with that," Denki added, already typing. "I'll map what we know of the facility's layout, identify likely areas where they might be keeping sensitive information, or people. Give you targets to check out."

"And if you find something concrete," Eijirou continued, clearly still unhappy but accepting the inevitable, "then we plan a real operation. Something coordinated, with backup plans and extraction protocols."

Katsuki looked between his team members, feeling a grudging appreciation for their loyalty despite his refusal to include them in his concerns. Even with his ego and stubbornness pushing him to act immediately, he recognized the perspective in their approach.

"Fine," he conceded. "Recon first. But if I find evidence that the omega is being held there, if I confirm they're doing something more fucked up..."

"Then we move to phase two," Eijirou finished for him. "But not before. And not without a real plan."

Katsuki nodded his agreement, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders. It wasn't the immediate action his instincts demanded, but it was a path forward, a way to find answers without putting his team at unnecessary risk.

"So," Denki said, pulling up detailed schematics of Walter Reed on his tablet, "let's talk about what you need to look for on Thursday..."

The team leaned in, voices dropping as they began planning in earnest. Outside the private room, the bar buzzed with the normal sounds of off-duty personnel unwinding, a perfectly ordinary evening in DC, while in this small, secured space, four soldiers plotted to uncover secrets that powerful forces clearly wanted to keep buried.

Katsuki's thoughts drifted briefly to that strange, compelling scent from the lab, the modified omega pheromones that had bypassed his implant's regulation. Something about it nagged at him, a familiarity he couldn't place, like a word on the tip of his tongue he couldn't quite catch. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on Denki's breakdown of the facility's access points.

Whatever answers waited at Walter Reed, he would find them. And if those answers confirmed his growing suspicions that he and others like him were being manipulated, he might genuinely lose his shit.

For now, though, they gathered information. Planned. Prepared. And tried not to think about what had happened to the others who had started asking these same questions.

The Walter Reed military medical complex sprawled like its own city, all sterile corridors and security checkpoints that might as well have been international borders. Katsuki strode through the main entrance with the calculated confidence that had gotten him through a thousand combat zones. Combat boots hitting polished linoleum with deliberate force, shoulders squared beneath his uniform jacket, he was the picture of an officer who belonged exactly where he was.

Thursday, 0900 hours. Right on schedule for his "follow-up assessment."

Security was tighter than his last visit. Two additional guards at the main checkpoint, retinal scanners active instead of the usual badge checks. Something had the facility on edge, and Katsuki's instincts hummed with anticipation. Denki's intel had been right.

"Captain Bakugo," the guard said, checking his tablet. "Lab station 4."

"That's right." Katsuki flashed his military ID, expression bored. Inside, his senses were on high alert, cataloging every detail. Tracking the guard's elevated heartbeat, the faint scent of adrenaline permeating the checkpoint, communications equipment that hadn't been there three days ago.

"Escort policy in effect today, sir," the guard continued, gesturing to a young lieutenant who stepped forward. "lieutenant Togata will accompany you."

Shit. That wasn't part of the plan. Katsuki's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but his expression remained neutral.

"That won't be necessary. I know my way around." He infused his voice with just the right mixture of boredom and command.

The guard's posture stiffened. "I'm sorry, sir. Direct orders from Medical Command. All visitors to specialized facilities require escort today."

Specialized facilities. Not "the medical wing" or "testing areas." Interesting choice of words.

"Fine," Katsuki bit out, not having to fake his irritation. "Let's get this over with."

His assigned lieutenant—Togata according to his name tag—nodded, his scent betraying nervous energy as he led Katsuki through the first set of security doors. Young, probably fresh out of training, perfect for what Katsuki had in mind.

As they walked, Katsuki mentally overlaid the facility map Denki had constructed. The medical wing lay to the east, but the classified research levels were believed to be in the north wing, down three levels. If Whitmore was still here, if there was evidence of whatever the hell they'd done to him during his evaluation, that's where it would be.

"First time on escort duty, lieutenant?" Katsuki asked casually as they passed through a second checkpoint.

"Yes, sir," Togata replied, a hint of surprise in his voice at being addressed directly.

"Thought so." Katsuki kept his tone conversational, disarming. "You're too tense. Walking like you've got a rod up your ass. In the field, that gets you noticed. Gets you killed."

Togata flushed slightly. "Sorry, sir. I—"

“I’m not a sorry sir, so don’t apologize. Fix it. Shoulders down. Longer strides. Act like you belong." The lieutenant adjusted his posture, clearly taking the advice as genuine mentorship rather than manipulation.

Too easy. Three more minutes of walking, another security checkpoint. The medical wing loomed ahead, the place where he was officially supposed to go. Instead, Katsuki paused, frowning at his watch.

"Shit," he muttered, loud enough for Togata to hear. "They changed my fucking schedule again."

"Sir?"

"Just got a notification." Katsuki held up his phone, showing a complex schedule screen Denki had mocked up. "My neurologist was pulled into some emergency. I'm supposed to report to the research wing first."

Togata hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. "I don't have orders for that, sir. My instructions were to escort you directly to Medical."

Katsuki let his frustration show, an alpha officer inconvenienced by bureaucratic incompetence. "You want me to call Colonel Chen and tell him his staff can't get their shit together? Because I fucking will."

The name-drop worked exactly as intended. Chen was high enough in the command structure to be known but not so high as to immediately raise suspicion.

"No, sir, that won't be necessary. I can..." Togata glanced around, clearly torn between his orders and the wrath of a superior officer. "Which section of research needs to see you?"

"Neurology. Level B-3." Katsuki kept his expression irritated but not overly intense. Just an officer pissed about schedule changes, not someone with an agenda.

"That's a restricted area, sir. I'm not sure I have clearance—"

"I have clearance," Katsuki cut him off. "And you're just walking me to the door. They'll take it from there."

Another hesitation, but the lieutenant's resistance was crumbling. Katsuki could smell it, the subtle shift in his scent as his resolve weakened. "Sir, I'm supposed to escort you directly—"

"Then escort me.” Katsuki gestured in front of him to continue walking.

"Uh...yes, sir. This way." Bingo.

They turned left at the next junction instead of right, heading toward the north wing. Katsuki kept his pace unhurried, his senses scanning for any sign that his misdirection had been noticed. So far, nothing unusual. Just the normal hum of the facility with equipment beeping, staff moving with practiced efficiency, the underlying antiseptic scent that never quite masked the smell of sickness and stress.

"You been stationed here long, lieutenant?" Keep him talking. Make this seem normal.

"Three months, sir. Transferred from Fort Benning."

"Infantry?"

"Yes, sir. 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment."

Interesting. Not just some random MP, then. A Ranger assigned to escort duty at a medical facility. Further confirmation that whatever was happening here was fucking abnormal.  

"Good unit," Katsuki acknowledged, letting a flicker of respect show. "So how'd you end up playing hospital security instead of kicking down doors?"

Togata's posture shifted, almost imperceptibly. Discomfort. "Specialized assignment, sir. That's all I can say."

And there it was. The validation Katsuki needed that Walter Reed wasn't just running unusual tests, they were pulling combat-experienced personnel for security. This definitely couldn’t be standard medical research. 

They reached the elevator bank that would take them to the research levels. Togata swiped his access card, but when the doors opened, his hesitation returned.

"Sir, I should really check with command before—" A commotion down the corridor caught both their attention. Security personnel moving with urgency, radio chatter increasing. Something was happening.

Katsuki seized the opportunity.

"Looks like someone's day just went to shit. But it's not gonna be mine." He stepped into the elevator. "You can make your call from here, or you can go check that out. Either way, I've got an appointment to keep."

The lieutenant's divided attention was all Katsuki needed. Togata glanced back at the commotion, then at his watch, then back at Katsuki.

"I'll just make sure you get to the right department, sir. Then I'll report the schedule change." The elevator doors closed. Togata pressed B-3, used his access card to authorize the descent. The elevator hummed to life, dropping them deeper into the facility.

Katsuki kept his expression neutral, but inwardly, a cold satisfaction settled in his chest. First hurdle cleared. Now for the hard part.

The elevator opened onto a corridor that immediately looked different from the medical wing above. Darker lighting, reinforced doors with electronic locks, fewer windows. The research level hummed with a different kind of energy. 

"Neurology is down that corridor, sir," Togata said, pointing to a hallway branching to the right. "Section 12-B. Should I—"

"I've got it from here, lieutenant." Katsuki cut him off with a dismissive gesture. "Go check on whatever shitstorm is happening upstairs. I'll find my way back when I'm done."

Togata hesitated one final time, his training warring with the natural deference to a superior officer. "Protocol states—"

"Listen, there's clearly something going on, and you standing here with your thumb up your ass isn't helping anyone. Dismissed, lieutenant."

The combination of direct order and implied emergency did the trick. Togata snapped a quick salute and retreated to the elevator, leaving Katsuki alone on the restricted level. The moment the elevator doors closed, Katsuki moved. Not toward Neurology, but deeper into the research wing.

According to Denki's intel, the most classified sections would be toward the center of the complex, away from exterior walls, harder to access or escape from. His enhanced senses stretched to their limits, tracking movement behind doors, cataloging scents and sounds. The usual antiseptic smell of a medical facility was present, but underlaid with something else. Chemical compounds he couldn't identify, the faint metallic tang of specialized equipment, and beneath it all, the complex tapestry of human pheromones, altered and unaltered.

Katsuki forced himself to move casually, to appear as if he belonged. A captain on legitimate business, nothing to warrant a second glance. Most of the staff he passed were too absorbed in their own work to question his presence. The few who looked up quickly returned to their tasks at his confident nod.

He rounded a corner and froze. Twenty meters ahead, a security checkpoint blocked access to what appeared to be an even more restricted area. Two armed guards, a scanner that looked like it required biometric confirmation, and surveillance cameras covering every angle.

Shit. No way past that without legitimate access or causing an incident. He'd have to find another route.

Katsuki turned, heading down an adjacent corridor, mentally recalculating. If the most restricted area was there, then there might be secondary access points like emergency exits or maybe something the janitors used.

A door marked "Authorized Personnel Only" caught his attention. Maintenance access, maybe? He glanced around, confirmed the corridor was momentarily empty, and tried the handle. Locked, as expected.

He pulled out his phone, activating the electronic bypass Denki had installed. He has it officially for emergency field operations, but unofficially it was also for situations exactly like this. The small device interfaced with the electronic lock, cycling through possible access codes.

Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. The device hummed softly as it worked. Katsuki kept his back to the door, appearing to anyone passing by as if he was simply checking messages while waiting for someone.

The lock clicked as the door automatically opened. Katsuki pocketed the device and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He found himself in a dimly lit service corridor, narrower than the main hallways, with exposed pipes and conduits running along the ceiling.

Perfect. Service corridors would connect throughout the facility, possibly bypassing the main security checkpoints. He moved quickly now, following the corridor deeper into the complex as the service passage branched and turned, forming a maze that roughly paralleled the main corridors. Maintenance panels and access hatches dotted the walls at regular intervals. Katsuki memorized his path, ensuring he could find his way back if necessary.

After several minutes of navigation, he came to a section where the corridor widened slightly. Ahead, voices echoed, professional but urgent. Katsuki slowed, approaching with silent caution.

The voices came from behind a partially open access panel. Through the narrow gap, Katsuki could see a laboratory space with high-end equipment, holographic displays, staff in specialized protective gear. They were gathered around what appeared to be biological samples, their conversation didn't fully make sense, but he could hear snippets.

"...quantum resonance instability continues to increase despite the stabilizer adjustments..."

"...neural pathway degradation in seventy percent of subjects..."

"...doctor wants results before the Security Council vote, regardless of stability concerns..."

Katsuki's pulse quickened. This was it, direct confirmation of the same kind of testing related to what he'd experienced during his evaluation. He needed to get closer, to see exactly what they were working on, to find anything that might help him understand what was actually going on. Confirmation was good, but he needed hard evidence like documentation, research parameters, or something he could take back to prove what was happening here.

The staff would be returning to their individual workstations now. Katsuki thought if he could access one of their stations while they were gone, maybe he could download data or photograph documentation. He continued down the service corridor, seeking another access point closer to the individual offices and workstations on the floor. He found one that opened into what appeared to be a cold storage room, currently unoccupied.

Impeccable timing per usual, he thought with a smirk as he slipped inside, finding himself surrounded by secure cabinets and digital storage systems. The room connected back to the main corridor through a standard door, allowing him to reenter the public areas of the facility without being seen emerging from a maintenance panel. He checked the corridor—clear—and stepped out, immediately assuming the purposeful stride of someone with legitimate business.

Now back in the main research area, he needed to locate the offices and workstations where he might find useful information. A directory on the wall provided orientation. He was in Section 11, with laboratories to the north and administrative offices to the south. Logical choice: head south. Administrators would have broader access, more comprehensive documentation of any projects in their totality, rather than just specific technical aspects.

As he turned to head that way, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Something was happening, and the commotion seemed to be coming from the direction he needed to go. He heard raised voices and the faint but distinctive scent of stress pheromones. He turned his head a fraction, catching a glimpse of a familiar uniform. He weighed the decisions to avoid the disruption and seek another route, or use the moment as cover to get closer to his objective? 

Katsuki opted for the latter. Chaos created opportunities.

He moved toward the loud voice, maintaining his purposeful stride but staying alert for any sign that the commotion was security-related. As he rounded the corner, he saw an office with a flash of golden hair that made Katsuki's steps falter momentarily. Now the source of the noise made sense. 

Stars and Stripes, in the fucking flesh. Captain Catherine Bate, callsign "Stars and Stripes."

Not someone he'd directly served with, but her reputation preceded her. They'd worked on a few joint-programs and crossed paths at enough official functions over the years like award ceremonies, tactical briefings, the kind of formal bullshit where decorated officers had to play nice. He remembered her from last year's Military Ball, holding court among a crowd of brass while dressed in crisp dress blues, her academic credentials and field commendations marking her as someone who'd earned her place the hard way.

The stories about her were already becoming legend in certain circles, the brilliant researcher who'd traded her lab coat for tactical gear, moving from theoretical work to practical application in the field. Some whispered it was because she'd discovered something in her research that demanded a more... hands-on approach. Others claimed she'd been recruited specifically for her unique combination of scientific expertise and operational capabilities.

Katsuki didn't know which version was true, but he respected the hell out of her track record. She'd come up through DARPA's biological technologies division before transitioning to field operations, and her mission success rate spoke for itself. The kind of officer who could discuss complex molecular theory one minute and execute a perfect breach the next.

Katsuki's mind raced to process this new variable, he couldn't think of what business she could possibly have in this area. What he did know is that Stars' presence here couldn't be a coincidence, he didn’t think anything about her really was. If she was involved, this went far deeper than some routine medical experimentation. She wouldn't be anywhere near this facility unless something big was going down, something that required both her scientific expertise and her operational capabilities.

As if sensing his attention, Stars glanced up, her eyes meeting his across the corridor. For a fraction of a second, surprise flashed across her features before being replaced with the calculating assessment of a professional recognizing another prime. They were peers, both cut from similar cloth, both highly decorated officers who'd proven themselves in their respective fields.

Katsuki made a split-second decision. Whatever was happening here, Stars had to know something. And that meant she might have answers he needed. He immediately changed his trajectory, heading straight for her with the confident stride that had bulldozed through a thousand obstacles before. The security personnel surrounding her shifted nervously at his approach, uncertain whether to intercept another officer clearly moving with purpose.

The corporal who had been trailing behind Stars stepped forward, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of a superior officer. But Katsuki kept his own posture loose, his expression carefully neutral. "Sir, this area is restricted—"

“This is an old friend,” Katsuki cut him off, projecting the casual arrogance of an alpha who expected to be obeyed. "Haven't seen her since Kuwait."

There was no Kuwait connection, but the corporal wouldn't know that. More importantly, he wouldn't risk questioning a senior ranking captain about his personal connections.

"You can watch me catch up with my buddy. Unless you want to explain to your CO why you prevented two officers from a brief conversation?" The corporal's scent spiked with uncertainty. Poor kid was probably fresh out of basic, not prepared for Katsuki’s particular brand of asshole.

The corporal made a questioning noise. "I... suppose that would be fine, sir. But we really shouldn't be long—" Katsuki silenced him with a look. He was fucking over being led around like a dog on a leash. 

Stars was chewing gum, her jaw working in a steady rhythm that was just shy of obnoxious. Her voice carried down the hall, an animated complaint about the shit state of the coffee in this place. She looked for all the world like just another bored officer killing time between assignments.

But Katsuki wasn't fooled. He recognized another predator when he saw one, even through the carefully constructed facade. He clocked the way her lean put her in perfect position to monitor the corridor junction, the subtle tension in her frame that didn't match her easy stance. Her hands moved expressively as she talked, but he caught the glint of her tablet, the telltale flicker of advanced encryption tech that no basic device would need.

She was running a fucking op. Right here, right under their noses. And if the way her eyes cut to him, brief and sharp as a scalpel, was any indication, he was somehow now involved in it.

Stars straightened as he approached, her grin widening a fraction. "Well if it isn't the man of the hour," she drawled, lazy as a summer afternoon. "Heard you've been keeping the docs on their toes, Captain." The nurse Stars had been chatting with stiffened, but she waved him off, her casual dismissal a sharp contrast to the way her eyes never left Katsuki's face.

Katsuki's mind raced, trying to reconcile the woman before him with the whispered rumors that had followed her meteoric rise through the ranks. He'd heard stories of her work in Japan, the classified missions that had originally earned her the moniker "Stars and Stripes." But he was at a loss for what the fuck she was doing here, in the heart of a stateside medical facility?

"We need to talk," he bit out, pitching his voice low as he closed the distance. "Privately."

Stars cocked an eyebrow, popping her gum. "That so? You got something on your mind, Bakugo?"

He met her gaze head-on, letting a hint of his rage bleed through his careful control. "I think you know damn well what's on my mind, Stars."

"Sir, we should really—" The corporal tried to interject, but Katsuki cut him off again with a growl.

"Dismissed, corporal." Katsuki didn't spare him a glance back. 

"Sounds like the Captain and I need to have a little officer-to-officer chat." She jerked her head toward the far end of the hall. "Give us the room, corporal." Katsuki bristled at her tone, the casual familiarity grating against his already frayed nerves, but the order in her tone was unmistakable. The corporal hesitated a moment longer, duty warring with common sense, before saluting crisply and beating a hasty retreat.

He shook his head, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I'm not an idiot. Everything about this place stinks of a setup."

Stars' expression flickered, a hairline fracture in her devil-may-care mask. "Careful, Captain. Those are some serious allegations you're throwing around." Her perfect military stance shifted a fraction. "Especially for someone who's supposed to be here for a routine medical assessment."

"Cut the fuck shit. You really expect me to believe you just happened to show up at the same facility where I'm being put through all of these weird tests? It feels like something straight out of a shitty spy movie."

Stars' eyes narrowed fractionally. She was good, he had to give her that. If he hadn't been trained to notice the micro-expressions that gave away trained operatives, he might have missed the way her fingers twitched toward a concealed weapon. 

"Interesting theory, Captain." Her voice remained perfectly casual, but her eyes had turned calculating. "Got any evidence to back that up? Or are we just sharing wild speculation?"

"Don't need evidence when you're being this fucking obvious about it." Katsuki stepped closer, deliberately using his height advantage. "The way you're positioned to monitor both exits? How you've been timing the security patrols?" His teeth gleamed in what could technically be called a smile. "You're running an op. And I want to know why."

For a long moment, Stars just studied him, her expression unreadable. Then something shifted in her eyes, a decision being made as she sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. 

"You're sharper than your file suggests, Bakugo." She glanced at the empty corridor, then back to him. "But trust me when I say you don't want to pull this thread. Some questions are better left unasked."

The growl that ripped from Katsuki's throat was pure alpha frustration. "That's not good enough. Not when it's my ass on the line, my brain they're trying to pick apart. I heard them talking about neural plasticity, about resonance frequencies. About the omega from Sarajevo. And now you're here, talking about my fucking file...”  Stars was silent for another long moment, her gaze searching his face. Katsuki stared back, unflinching, letting her see the determination burning in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

He stepped back, his voice dropping to a hiss. "So don't give me that 'better left unasked' bullshit. I've got a right to know what the fuck is going on here."

There was a pause.

"What do you know about quantum neural mapping?" she finally asked, her voice so low it was barely audible.

The unexpected question caught Katsuki off guard. "Not enough. Just that they were scanning my brain talking about it, matching patterns to some kind of database."

Stars nodded slightly, as if confirming something to herself. "And the omega? Whitmore? What's your interest there?"

"They're testing her," Katsuki replied bluntly. "Same as they did on me. She shouldn't be here, her country doesn't even know that she's being kept here."

Something flashed across Stars' face—concern, maybe, or anger. It was gone too quickly to identify with certainty.

"You shouldn't be down here either, Bakugo," she said, her tone hardening. "This isn't just classified research. You've walked into something else entirely."

"Too late for that warning," Katsuki retorted. "I've already seen enough to know something fucked up is happening. The tests, the secret labs, the quantum whatever-the-fuck they're using... And now you, looking like you're about to either blow this place up or steal everything not nailed down."

Stars' mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite. "Perceptive. But let me be very clear, you need to walk away. Right now. Before they realize you're not supposed to be on this level, asking questions you shouldn't be asking."

Katsuki stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Not happening. Not until I get some fucking answers. What are they doing to her? What did they do to me? And why the fuck is everyone so interested in what happened in Sarajevo?" The air between them crackled with tension, two prime alphas colliding like storm fronts. Neither willing to back down, neither willing to show weakness.

Before she could respond, alarms started blaring from deeper in the facility. A different tone than standard medical alerts, something more urgent. Stars' head snapped up, her body tensing like a predator scenting prey.

"Well," Stars said, her voice carrying an edge of dark amusement. "Looks like time's up for playing coy." She checked her watch with deliberate casualness. "I'd say we have about three minutes before this place goes into full lockdown."

"What the hell?" Katsuki growled, fighting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears as the sound pierced through his skull.

"Medical emergency," Stars said tersely, already moving. "Come on." She took off down the corridor, her strides purposeful and sure.

Katsuki hesitated for a split second before following. He had to consciously dial back his senses, filtering out the panic that filled the air. His nose caught the acrid tang of fear-sweat, his ears registering the rapid thud of racing heartbeats. But beneath the surface chaos, he detected a pattern of movement that felt too coordinated to be random.

Tactical teams, he realized, catching glimpses of black uniforms and comm gear through the intersecting corridors. They moved with the precision of a practiced containment protocol, herding panicked medical staff and patients like sheep. He'd seen this before. Hell, he'd orchestrated maneuvers like this himself. Someone was using the emergency as cover to lock down the facility.

Stars seemed to know exactly where she was going, navigating the labyrinthine halls with an ease that spoke of familiarity. Katsuki stayed close, his senses stretched to their limits as he tried to piece together the larger picture from fractured sensory input. Then suddenly, he heard the sharp crack of a distant gunshot, almost lost beneath the blaring alarms. The cloying stench of fresh blood. And underneath it all, something that hooked into his hindbrain and tugged. Omega distress, strong enough to taste.

"Fuck," he breathed, realization crashing over him like ice water. They were close, close enough for him to catch the unique signature of her terror even through the sea of other scared people.

Stars must have caught his reaction. She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze with a look that was equal parts warning and understanding.

"Whatever you do, follow my lead." Before Katsuki could respond, a new set of alarms started blaring a more insistent tone that made his bones vibrate.

"What—" He started to ask, but Stars was already moving again.

"Quantum stabilization protocols," she said tersely. "We need to move. Now." In another context he might have been impressed with her toughness and professionalism combined; even now, with chaos erupting around them, she maintained an air of calm control. A born operative through and through.

"For what? What the hell are they doing here that needs quantum anything?" Stars didn't answer, but he caught the flicker of something in her expression. Fear, maybe, or grim certainty. Whatever it was, it made his stomach twist. 

The sterile corridors had given way to something else entirely. The walls now looked industrial, gray, and maybe reinforced with what looked like blast-resistant panels. The fluorescent lighting had been replaced by recessed LED strips that cast everything in a harsh, clinical glow. Even the air felt different, processed and recycled.

They rounded another corner, and Katsuki's blood ran cold. Ahead of them, a security team in full tactical gear was converging on a laboratory entrance. Through the glass wall, he could see medical staff frantically working over a figure on an examination table.

Whitmore. It had to be the omega from Sarajevo. 

"The fuck is this place?" Katsuki muttered under his breath, his hackles rising. Every instinct screamed that this must have been the restricted lab areas. Hidden access levels. 

He caught more movement in his peripheral vision and the low murmur of voices in the lab ahead that read "ADVANCED BIOLOGY INTEGRATION". Stars veered left down a corridor, the subtle shift of her weight telegraphing her intent a split second before she turned. Katsuki matched her, long-honed instinct and training overriding conscious thought.

Two flights up brought them to another security panel door that Stars scanned them through. The room opened up to an observation deck overlooking the main laboratory space. The vantage point gave them a clear view of the clustered figures below, all moving around banks of equipment that looked more suited to a physics lab than a hospital.

Through the reinforced glass panels of the observation deck, Katsuki could see at least eight heavily armed operatives in tactical gear, their faces obscured by sleek masks. They moved like professionals, covering angles, maintaining clear lines of sight. It made his blood boil, they were trained. Organized.

"This is some serious fucking hardware," he growled softly, eyes scanning the laboratory below. The space was massive, easily three times the size of a standard operating room, filled with equipment that looked like it belonged in a science fiction movie. Holographic displays flickered and pulsed along the walls, showing everything from vital signs to what looked like a digital recreation of brain patterns.

He glanced at Stars, a question in the lift of his eyebrow. She shook her head minutely, as they eased further into the room, careful to make no sound. Don't engage, the look said. Not yet.

The omega's scent was stronger now, thick with primal terror. It made something in Katsuki's chest twist painfully, made his fingers itch for the familiar weight of a weapon he didn’t have. He clenched his jaw hard enough to make his teeth creak, forcing himself to focus past it. The scent was wrong up here, distorted by air filtration systems and the lingering chemical tang that seemed to permeate everything.

The view expanded, revealing more of the laboratory—the quantum stabilization chamber below was a gleaming monstrosity of metal and advanced polymers, dominating the center of the room like some kind of futuristic altar. Through the observation window, Katsuki could see a supine form strapped down, surrounded by a dizzying array of equipment that he probably couldn't name with a gun to his head. And there, next to the table...

Dr. Nakamura.

The neurologist's face was a mask of concentration as his fingers flew over a console, inputting commands faster than Katsuki could track. At his side was one of the lab techs from earlier, a younger man in a lab coat was frantically adjusting dials. His eyes were glued to a holographic display that pulsed with jagged, writhing lines. And there, on a central display, biological scan results that looked disturbingly similar to the ones shown to him during his own evaluation.

But these weren't his. The genetic markers were different, the neural patterns showing a different configuration. And beside the display, clinical notes with a designation at the top:

SUBJECT: WHITMORE, MARGARET
STATUS: CRITICAL

No question now. The omega from Sarajevo was here, undergoing the same types of tests he had. And her condition looked like it was deteriorating. The omega's vital signs, he realized with a distant sort of horror, they were going haywire. Katsuki felt a cold fury building in his chest, his instincts responding to the omega in distress, the other hostages being kept here without consent.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to move, to act, but he held himself still with a tremendous effort of will. This wasn't a combat scenario. He couldn't just kick down the door and start shooting, no matter how much his hindbrain howled for it. Emotions would only compromise the mission, instead of finally giving him some goddamn answers.

The underground laboratory sprawled beneath four observation rooms positioned at compass points around the circular chamber, each elevated three stories above the main floor. The setup reminded Katsuki of an amphitheater designed by someone with a hard-on for military tech, all gleaming metal and reinforced glass panels that offered commanding views of the quantum stabilization chamber below.

From their position in the northern observation deck, Katsuki and Stars had a perfect view of both the laboratory floor and the other observation rooms across the void. The eastern and western chambers appeared empty, their darkened windows reflecting the harsh LED strips that illuminated the space. The southern observation deck, directly opposite them, was shrouded in shadow.

It was eerily quiet for a breath as Katsuki took in his surroundings. And then all hell broke loose.

The reinforced glass of the southern observation deck shattered with explosive force, a constellation of crystal fragments catching the harsh light as they cascaded into the laboratory below. Stars moved before Katsuki could process what was happening—her hand shooting to his chest, shoving him down and sideways as she drew her sidearm in one fluid motion. Pure combat reflex, no hesitation.

In that fractional moment when time seemed to slow, Katsuki caught a glimpse of the intruder—narrow-shouldered, tactical gear, close-cropped sandy hair—before the figure launched through the spray of glass like a dark missile. The masked intruder dropped thirty feet to the laboratory floor, a fall that should have shattered human bones. Instead, he rolled with inhuman grace, a katana materializing in their right hand as their left drew a matte black handgun with practiced precision.

"Holy shit," Katsuki hissed, enhanced senses cataloging every impossible detail.

The intruder moved like liquid death. The first guard's throat opened in a crimson arc before he could even raise his weapon, arterial spray painting the sterile walls. The second and third went down to precisely placed double-taps, suppressed rounds barely louder than a cough in the cavernous space. The fourth guard managed to squeeze off a burst of automatic fire, but the masked intruder was already moving, sliding beneath the stream of bullets with serpentine fluidity. The katana flashed again with a surgical stroke that severed the guard's hands at the wrists, a second swing immediately followed that nearly decapitated him.

Guards five and six attempted to flank, which was a textbook counter-assault maneuver that might have worked on a normal target. But the masked figure flowed between them like smoke, his movements almost beautiful in their lethality. The pistol cracked once, catching five under the chin with a shot that exited through the crown of his skull. While the katana found six's heart with surgical precision, sliding between the third and sixth ribs as if guided by anatomical GPS.

Seven actually landed a glancing blow with his combat knife, scoring a line across the intruder's tactical vest. Although the momentary victory earned him a devastating combinations as the masked figure knocked the soldier’s weapon away before their katana separated the guard's head from his shoulders in one fluid motion. At that, the last guard broke, survival instinct overriding training as he turned and ran. He only made it three desperate steps before a pistol cracked one final time. His body crumpled mid-stride, a neat hole centered on his forehead, face frozen in a mask of terror.

The lab-coated assistant didn’t see the dark figure move, never saw death coming. One moment standing, the next dropping like a puppet with cut strings as a suppressed round punched through his sternum. Dr. Nakamura tried to run, but a katana flashed in a surgical arc that seemed to whisper through the air. The sickening sound of the doctor's legs giving way after being sliced at the knees echoed through the chamber.

"Going somewhere?" The masked man asked with disturbing pleasantness, voice carrying easily in the sudden silence. He casually wiped his blade clean on a fallen guard's uniform, the practiced motion suggesting this wasn't his first time ensuring someone stayed put for questioning. He crouched beside the screaming Nakamura, head tilting with predatory interest. "Now then, about the doc. What's he planning with this iteration?"

The doctor spat blood, defiant despite his ruined limbs. "I won't tell you anything. Come back t—"

"Wrong answer." 

The masked man's hand moved faster than even Katsuki's enhanced vision could track. What happened next demonstrated exactly how far beyond normal human limits the attacker's strength went—Nakamura's jaw ripped free from his face in a spray of bone fragments and tissue, the doctor's scream cut short by the devastating injury.

Stars fired once, shattering the glass of their observation room. She retrained her weapon on the intruder a heartbeat later, her stance combat-perfect. "Hands where I can see them," she barked, voice hard as battlefield steel. "Slowly."

The only sound in the room was the wet gurgling of Nakamura as he tried to inhale through shattered bone and bloody cartilage.

The masked man turned toward them, and Katsuki's enhanced vision captured details that set every combat instinct screaming. The mask covered his face from the eyes down, seemingly melded to the contours of his jaw. His eyes were sharp and calculating behind wisps of sandy blonde hair. Everything about him radiated lethal competence, his weapons held with casual familiarity.

But what really fucked with Katsuki's head was the complete absence of scent. Even over the coppery tang of blood and gun oil filling the lab, he should have detected something from the intruder. Everyone had a scent signature, especially after the kind of exertion this guy had just demonstrated. But there was nothing, like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

The intruder raised his weapons with exaggerated slowness before making a show of holstering them, his movements fluid and almost playful?

"Aww, come on now," he drawled, cocking his head to one side. "Is that any way to thank the guy who just saved your asses? I mean, I did put on quite the show." He gestured at the bodies scattered around him like macabre confetti. "Stellar reviews only, please."

"The fuck?" Katsuki snarled, confusion morphing into white-hot anger as he pushed himself up. "Who the hell are you?"

Katsuki's hand instinctively reached for his waistband before remembering he was unarmed. He could feel his pulse hammering in his temples, enhanced senses on high alert as he assessed the nightmare unfolding below.

"Just your friendly neighborhood...cleanup crew, not to be confused with your friendly neighborhood Spider-man," the man replied, spreading his arms wide like a carnival barker. The eyes behind his mask crinkled with obvious amusement. "Though I gotta say, you two have made quite the mess. Breaking into secret labs, antagonizing shadowy organizations, I'm impressed. Never a dull moment.”

"We're not playing twenty questions with you," Stars bit out, her weapon never wavering. "You just executed ten people in front of us. Give me one good reason I shouldn't ventilate your skull right now."

The man's posture shifted subtly, still relaxed on the surface, but Katsuki caught the way his weight redistributed. The minute adjustments that screamed 'ready to move.'

"Well, for starters," he said, voice pitched low. "I just saved you from that kill squad and cleanup crew, who definitely weren't here to give you a friendly escort out. And that person strapped to the table?" He jerked his thumb toward the quantum stabilization chamber where the omega's vital signs continued to deteriorate on the monitors. "They're the reason for this whole mess. But hey, if you'd rather shoot first and ask questions never, be my guest. Just know there are about thirty more heavily armed friends heading this way, and I don't think they'll be half as charming as me."

Katsuki's eyes narrowed, battlefield calculus running behind crimson irises. This masked fucker was dangerous—impossibly so—but he seemed to know something about what was happening. About why a British intelligence officer was strapped to some kind of quantum chamber in the basement of an American military hospital.

"Stars," he growled, not taking his eyes off the intruder, "lower the weapon. Let's hear what this psychopath has to say."

Stars' jaw tightened, but she didn't lower her gun. "He's a wild card, Bakugo. We don't know his agenda."

"Yeah, well, right now he's the only one offering answers instead of trying to kill us," Katsuki countered, frustration bleeding into his tone. "And in case you missed it, he just carved through a tactical team like they were made of fucking tissue paper. If he wanted us dead, we'd be cooling on the floor already."

The masked man's eyes crinkled again. "Oh, I like this one," he said cheerfully. "He's got good survival instincts under all that rage. If I was an omega, I would swoon."

"What do you know about all of this?" Katsuki demanded from the masked man, his voice rough with the effort of holding himself back. Stars shot him a look, quick and sharp, but he ignored it. Fuck protocol, they needed answers. "What the hell are they doing to her?"

"Jeez, straight to business huh?" The masked man stretched lazily, completely unbothered by the carnage at his feet. "Nothing good, I can tell you that much. But here I was hoping we could all get to know each other first. Maybe grab a coffee?" His eyes glinted with amusement above his mask. "Though I guess I did make a bit of a mess. But if you want specifics..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy in the air between them.

Something about this fucker's casual attitude made Katsuki's blood boil. Ten bodies on the floor and he was acting like this was some kind of social call.

"You have a name?" Stars asked, her gun never wavering.

"Icarus," he said with an exaggerated bow that somehow managed to be both graceful and mocking. "And you're Stars and Stripes. The famous Dr. Catherine Bate." He whistled low. "Gotta say, you're even scarier in person."

Katsuki's teeth bared in an honest to god snarl. "Cut the shit! Stars won't fucking hesitate to shoot you if you don't start talking. Now."

“Aww you’re no fun, so aggressive," the man sighed dramatically, though his eyes remained razor-sharp. "But, we're on a tight schedule anyway." He gestured toward the omega's still form. "That's Margaret Whitmore. British intelligence, officially listed as a diplomatic attaché. She was investigating something called Project Echo when she disappeared in Sarajevo. Ring any bells?"

Katsuki felt his blood run cold. The hostage rescue. The military-grade equipment during that fire fight. 

"What's Project Echo?” Stars asked, her gun still trained on the intruder but her tone shifting toward professional curiosity.

"The better question," the masked man countered, "is what isn't it? Bio-enhancement. Quantum acceleration. Designation amplification. The creation of soldiers who can do things like—" he gestured to himself, to the carnage surrounding him, "—this. All wrapped up in a neat little package of human experimentation that would make Josef Mengele proud."

Katsuki's stomach twisted as he looked at Whitmore, still strapped to the table. Her skin had taken on an ashen cast, monitors beeping with increasing urgency as her vital signs continued to deteriorate.

"She's dying," he said, the words tasting like ashes.

"Yes," the masked man agreed, his voice suddenly stripped of its playful edge. "Quantum feedback loop. They were trying to activate something in her genetic structure, but her system couldn't handle the stress."

What. The. Fuck. 

"And what exactly is your angle in all this?” Stars demanded.

Icarus lazily rolled his shoulders, the motion at odds with the calculating gleam in his eyes. "Oh, well this whole thing is you know, just your standard illegal human experimentation ring. Really brings back memories." He tapped his mask thoughtfully. "Though I have to say, their methods have gotten a lot more... sophisticated since my time."

"Your time?" Stars' gun hadn't wavered an inch. "You were a test subject?"

"Among other things." Icarus's eyes crinkled with what might have been amusement. "Let's just say I had a rather intensive internship with the advanced research division. Really hands-on experience, if you know what I mean?"

“If you're not with them..." She jerked her chin at the bodies on the floor. "Then who the hell are you?"

"Me?" Icarus placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I'm just a concerned citizen making sure certain interesting secrets don't stay buried. Speaking of secrets..." His gaze locked onto Katsuki, all traces of playfulness vanishing. "Isn't that right, Captain Bakugo?"

Katsuki's eye's narrowed, a muscle clenching in his cheek. "The fuck are you talking about? I've never been near this kind of—"

"Your implant," the masked man cut him off. "The one that conveniently failed in Sarajevo. Did you really think it was just a standard military suppressant? That your senses, your combat awareness, your ability to process information faster than any normal human—did you think that was all just military engineered?"

The floor seemed to shift beneath Katsuki's feet, fragments of memory colliding like tectonic plates. The classified medical procedures listed vaguely as "performance optimization." The months of "specialized training" that he couldn't quite recall in detail. The way his body had always seemed to respond just a fraction faster, heal just a bit quicker than even other prime alphas.

"You're lying," he rasped, but the denial sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"Well, that's the beauty of it, isn't it?" The masked man—Icarus—spread his hands. "You'll never really know for sure. But the evidence is right there in your own body, if you know how to look. You're not the first toy soldier they've wound up and pointed at a target. There were others before you. Other 'prime candidates'." His voice took on a sing-song quality that somehow made the words more menacing. 

Others... How many? And what the fuck had they done to them?

Stars' eyes narrowed dangerously. "So this is revenge? You're here to get back at them for what they did to you?"

"Revenge?" Icarus actually snorted. "Please. If I wanted revenge, this place would already be on fire. No, what I want is the truth. Disclosure. About all of the little science projects..." He cocked his head, studying Katsuki like a particularly interesting specimen. "About all of it."

"What the FUCK are you talking about?" He hated what it sounded like this guy was implying. Another fucking piece that didn't fit, another shadow lurking just out of sight. 

Icarus's eyes sharpened, genuine surprise flickering across what was visible of his features. "Oh, now that's interesting. They really kept you in the dark, didn't they?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Figures. They're not big on informed consent."

The casual way he switched between flippant asshole and deadly serious was giving Katsuki whiplash. Every instinct screamed that this masked fucker was dangerous, but Katsuki couldn't get a proper read without any scent to work with. The masked man’s eyes flicked toward the omega's still form, the playfulness dropping from his voice for a split second. "If you want answers, if you want to know what they've got planned for you and that poor soul on the table... you're gonna have to trust me."

The casual way he switched between flippant asshole and deadly serious was giving Katsuki whiplash. Every instinct screamed that this masked fucker was dangerous, but he couldn't get a proper read without any scent to work with. It was like fighting blind.

"Trust you?" Stars bit out, incredulous. "After this little stunt, you expect us to follow you down some weird rabbit hole?"

"No," Icarus said simply, and for once there wasn't a trace of mockery in his tone. "I expect you to make a choice. The same choice we were all given, in the end. Play along with their games and hope they let you live at the end of it. Or..."

Another alarm blared through the facility, red emergency lights bathing the laboratory in crimson. Icarus cocked his head, listening to something only he could hear.

"And that's my cue to leave," he said, already backing toward an emergency exit. "Reinforcements arriving. Very nasty people with very big guns and very specific orders to contain me, permanently."

He jumped back onto the sill of the broken window he had come through, his form silhouetted against the brightness of the hallway. The movement was too graceful, too controlled. Another reminder that whatever the fuck this guy was, he wasn't normal.

"Wait!" Katsuki shouted. "You can't just drop this shit on us and walk away!"

Icarus paused, studying him with suddenly serious eyes. "Tell me, Captain Bakugo, what will you do with what I've told you? Go back to your superiors? The same people who implanted that device in your neck?"

Before Katsuki could respond, the masked man’s hand moved toward his belt with deliberate slowness, retrieving something that he tossed casually toward them. Stars caught it reflexively, a thumb drive, matte black with no identifying markings. High-end. Military grade encryption if he had to guess. The kind of hardware that was only authorized and sanctioned for government and global security agencies.

"Captain Bate," Icarus said, tossing it to Stars with casual precision. "I believe you'll know what to do with this. When you're ready for the truth, that will have everything you'll need to start unraveling their web of lies." His eyes crinkled above his mask, but there was nothing playful about it now. "But fair warning..." He stepped back onto the sill of the broken window, his form silhouetted against the brightness of the hallway. The movement too graceful, too controlled. Another reminder that whatever the fuck this guy was, he wasn't normal.

"Once you start pulling on those threads..." His voice dropped to something almost gentle. "There's no telling how deep the rot goes." Katsuki's hands clenched at his sides, frustration building like a pressure cooker in his chest. Every question answered just spawned ten more, and this cryptic bastard was playing in their faces.

"Oh, and Captain Bakugo?" The playful lilt was back in his voice. "Don't worry too much about all this. I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again soon."

With that, he was gone, disappearing as abruptly as he had arrived. Katsuki surged forward before he could stop himself, alpha instincts roaring to chase, to hunt, to tear answers from that masked throat. But Stars' hand on his arm stopped him short, her grip like iron.

"Don't," she said, her voice tight. "We have bigger problems right now." She was right, and he fucking hated it. The thumb drive in Stars' seemed like a ticking time bomb, promising answers to questions he hadn't even known to ask. But the omega's distressed scent still clouded his senses, and the sound of approaching boots was getting closer.

Katsuki followed her gaze to the stabilization chamber, to the omega writhing on the table. Her heart rate was spiking dangerously, her brain activity a jagged mess on the monitors. Whatever they'd been doing to her... it was killing her.

"Fuck," he breathed, already moving. "We have to get her out of there." He was a soldier. He'd sworn an oath to defend the weak, to protect the innocent. He'd failed her once in Sarajevo. He wouldn't fail her again.

Stars held him back, her grip like iron on his bicep.

"Wait," she snapped, her eyes darting over the equipment. "If we disconnect her incorrectly, it could cause irreversible damage. We have to be smart about this."

Katsuki wanted to argue, to protest, but he could see the logic in her words. But even as he wrestled with his instincts, Stars was already moving, her fingers flying over the console. Katsuki held himself still by sheer force of will, fighting the urge to pace. Every second felt like an eternity, every shallow breath from the omega a countdown to disaster.

Stars' brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to make sense of the dizzying array of readouts and controls. Katsuki hovered at her shoulder, his enhanced senses stretched to their limits as he tracked every flicker of movement, every hitch in the omega's labored breathing.

"Come on," he muttered, the words harsh and desperate. "Come on, you can do this. Just hold on a little longer." But even as he spoke, the shift hit his nose like a slap to the face.

The omega's scent was changing, the sharp edge of distress dulling into something quieter, emptier. His training kicked in before his emotions could, cataloging the failing vital signs: weakening pulse, irregular breathing, dropping body temperature.

"No," he growled, the word ripping from his throat. "No, don't you fucking dare."

Stars' hands stilled on the console, her head bowing for a moment before she stepped back.

"Bakugo," she said, and there was a terrible gentleness in her voice that made his teeth grind. "She's gone."

The words didn't compute at first. Gone? After all of the shit he's gone through and the masked fucking assassin dropping cryptic hints, this was how it fucking ended? What kind of sick joke was this?

He crossed to the table in two long strides, combat boots silent on the polished floor. Up close, there was no denying the truth his senses had already confirmed. Her face was slack, all traces of pain and fear wiped away by death's finality. The scent of her was dissipating into the recycled air, like she'd never existed at all.

Katsuki's hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to sting. The sharp pain helped focus him, cut through the static building in his head. What had started as a routine fucking pheromone scan had spiraled into... this.

A dead omega. An assassination conspiracy. And a thumb drive full of secrets.

"Bakugo." Stars' voice cracked like a whip, cutting through his thoughts. "We need to move. Now."

He looked up, watching as Stars efficiently wiped down the console, erasing any trace of their presence. The practiced ease of her movements spoke volumes about how many times she'd done this before.

"The techs outside will have heard the commotion," she said, not meeting his eyes. "They'll be calling for additional backup for containment. We need to be gone before they get here."

Katsuki nodded mechanically. His brain was already shifting gears, tactical assessment overriding everything else. Two exits. Unknown number of hostiles incoming. Possible reinforcements from multiple vectors. He reached out, fingers brushing the omega's cold cheek in a gesture that felt both necessary and futile.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. What he meant was: I'll find out who did this. I'll make them pay. I'll burn their whole fucking operation to the ground. No one deserved this. Then he straightened, shoulders squaring as he locked everything down tight. The time for questions would come later. Right now, they needed to survive.

"Lead the way," he said to Stars, his voice as cold and hard as the metal table beneath the omega's cooling body. She met his gaze for a moment, something like understanding flickering across her features, before nodding once and moving toward the door.

They slipped out into the corridor, Katsuki's enhanced senses on high alert for any sign of pursuit. The alarms had stopped at some point, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. Katsuki could hear the distant thud of booted feet, the crackle of radios as security teams coordinated their response.

Then they were running, following Stars' lead through service corridors as alarms continued to blare. Behind them, the sounds of heavy boots and shouted orders grew louder, reinforcements flooding into the laboratory they'd just left.

Katsuki's mind raced, trying to process everything Icarus had revealed. The implant. The human experimentation. If even half of it was true...

"Stars," he said as they reached an emergency exit that would take them back to the main hospital. "What the fuck did we just walk into?"

Her expression was grim, the thumb drive clutched tightly in her hand. "I don't know. But whatever it is, it goes all the way to the top. And they'll kill to keep it quiet."

The next door opened onto the seemingly normal hospital corridor, the chaotic scene they'd left behind suddenly feeling like a nightmare glimpsed through a cracked door—real but disconnected from the ordinary world.

"What now?" Katsuki asked, adrenaline still pumping through his system. His hand kept going to his neck, to the spot where his implant had failed in Sarajevo, imagining he could feel something alien beneath his skin.

"Left," Stars murmured, barely audible even to his ears. "There's another service corridor that leads to the lower levels. Less chance of running into anyone."

Katsuki followed her lead, his body moving on autopilot. His mind was still back in that room, still replaying those final, terrible moments over and over again. If he had been faster, if he had been armed, if he had just fucking done something...But it was too late for what-ifs. The omega was dead, and nothing he did now could change that. All he could do was try to make sure her death meant something. That the people responsible paid for what they'd done.

Stars led them through a dizzying series of turns and junctions, always seeming to know exactly which way to go to avoid the worst of the chaos. Katsuki followed in her wake, his senses stretched as he watched their backs. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached a nondescript door at the end of a long, dimly-lit hallway. Stars paused, her hand on the handle, and turned to look at him.

"This leads out to the delivery bay," she said quietly. "From there, you should be able to slip away in the confusion. Get as far away from here as you can."

"What about you?" Katsuki's eyes narrowed, every instinct screaming that splitting up was asking for more shit to go wrong.

Stars shook her head. "I have to stay. Need to make sure the scene is secured, that all of the evidence survives for us to use."

Evidence. The word hit like acid in his gut. That's what the omega had been reduced to, another fucking piece in whatever game they were all playing. His hands clenched, the urge to break something, to explode this whole place sky-high, burning through his veins.

"Bakugo." Stars' voice cut through the red haze of his thoughts. Her expression was hard, but there was something else there too, a weariness that spoke of too many scenes like this, too many bodies turned evidence. "I know what you're thinking. But the best thing you can do right now is walk away." Katsuki's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Every instinct in him screamed to stay, to fight, to tear this whole fucking place down brick by brick until he had answers, until he had justice for the dead woman cooling on that table. For his failed mission. 

But Stars was right. As much as it killed him to admit it, he knew she was right. Him going off half-cocked now would only make things worse. It would put everything they'd learned, everything they'd risked, in jeopardy. And it would dishonor the omega's memory, turning her death into just another footnote in all of the lies and shadows.

"Fine," he bit out, the word feeling like glass in his throat. "But this isn't over. I'm not going to let this go." 

Stars met his gaze steadily. "No," she agreed. Her hand moved to her pocket, withdrawing the thumb drive Icarus had tossed her. She studied it for a moment, something calculating flickering behind her eyes. "I need you to hold onto this," she said finally, pressing it into his palm. "Keep it safe until I can get it back from you. I can't risk it being found here, and right now, you're the only one I can trust with it."

Katsuki stared at the small device, feeling its weight like a loaded gun in his hand. More secrets. More questions. And he still had to deal with the rest of his team, trying to explain this shitstorm when he barely understood it himself.

Questions still burned at the front of his brain: How had a simple medical follow up turned into this mess? What the hell was really going on in this facility? And who was the masked assassin Icarus?

Stars held his gaze, unflinching. "I know it might be difficult," she said simply. "But for now, you need to trust me. Trust that I'll do everything in my power to get to the truth."

Katsuki stared at her for a long moment, reading the steely resolve in her eyes, the set of her jaw. "You better," he said, and it was a threat and a plea rolled into one. 

"You have my word."

He nodded once, sharp and precise, then turned toward the delivery bay. He didn't look back, didn't let himself think about what he was leaving behind. There would be time for that later, when he was alone and the adrenaline had faded and the enormity of what had happened finally hit him.

The sound of approaching boots echoed through the corridor as he slipped away, leaving Stars to handle the cleanup. But as he merged with the crowd of panicked hospital staff and patients being evacuated, Katsuki couldn't shake the feeling that they were already being watched. That somewhere in the chaos, eyes were tracking their every move. That Icarus had only given them a glimpse of something far darker, far more pervasive than either of them realized.

And he couldn't stop hearing Icarus's words echoing in his mind: Trust no one. Especially not the ones giving the orders. His mind was already racing ahead, mapping out next steps, contingencies, and who he could trust with this shit. 

The door to Katsuki's apartment crashed open with enough force to rattle the framed West Point diploma on the wall. He kicked it shut behind him, his boots leaving scuff marks on the polished hardwood. The smell of Walter Reed clung to him like a disease, antiseptic overlaid with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of fear. Everyone else's fear. Not his.

Never his.

Katsuki stood in the entryway for a moment, taking inventory of his surroundings with the automatic precision drilled into him through years of special operations. Windows intact, security system armed. No signs of forced entry or surveillance beyond the standard bugs he'd already identified and neutralized when he'd returned from his Sarajevo.

The air in the apartment felt stale, undisturbed. At least no one had been here while he was having his brain scanned and stumbling into a fucking conspiracy.

"Secure," he muttered to himself, the tension in his shoulders dropping a fraction.

He strode directly to the kitchen sink, cranked the water as hot as it would go, and thrust his hands under the scalding stream. The heat bit into his skin as he scrubbed viciously, watching as water circled the drain. Washing away the phantom traces of Whitmore's death. Of Icarus's carnage. Of his own damn impotence in that sterile laboratory.

Too little, too late. Again.

The omega was dead. Another failure to add to his growing collection, right next to Sarajevo.

Katsuki shut off the water with a savage twist and grabbed a kitchen towel, drying his hands with unnecessary force. The clock on his microwave read 22:37. It had been just over three hours since he'd slipped away from Walter Reed, since Stars had pressed that thumb drive into his palm with instructions that bordered on desperation.

"Keep it safe until I can get it back from you."

Like he was some fucking courier service instead of the senior tactical officer who'd just witnessed an assassination and government conspiracy in the basement of a military hospital. He pulled out his secure phone, not his official military device that had tracking hardware integrated into the chipset, but the specialized unit Denki had modified for the team's private communications.

Still no response from Stars. Three voicemails, five increasingly urgent text messages, all unanswered.

"Goddamn it," he growled, tossing the phone onto his kitchen counter with enough force to send it skidding. Either she was deliberately ghosting him, or she couldn't respond. Neither option boded well.

His dining table sat in the open-concept living area, a slab of polished teak strong enough to support the weight of a grown man—which it had, on multiple occasions during particularly enthusiastic team celebrations. Now it would serve a different purpose. With methodical precision, Katsuki emptied his pockets. The thumb drive came out first, a small matte black rectangle that he placed it in the center of the table, a gravitational singularity around which everything else would orbit.

Next came his phone, which he'd used to snap quick photos whenever his escort's attention had wavered—schematics glimpsed on computer screens, personnel badges captured in reflective surfaces, medical readings on Whitmore's vitals. He hadn't had time for finesse, just quick opportunistic documentation of anything that might prove useful later.

From his inner jacket pocket, he withdrew a small notepad with handwritten observations. Special forces habit to never fully trust critical information to electronic devices alone. Paper couldn't be remotely wiped or hacked. The cramped, precise writing detailed everything he could remember: snippets of overheard conversations, security checkpoint protocols, the names and ranks of personnel he'd encountered.

Last came the stolen medical files, three pages he'd managed to palm from a workstation when alarms had first started blaring, stuffed hastily into his waistband and now creased from being pressed against his body during his escape. Katsuki stood back, surveying the meager collection. It wasn't enough. Not nearly fucking enough to explain what he'd witnessed or to prove any of it had happened. A dead British intelligence officer. A masked assassin who moved like a ghost and killed with casual precision. A facility beneath Walter Reed that didn't officially exist.

And the thumb drive that might contain answers to it all.

His eyes kept returning to it, a black hole of information he couldn't access. After a moment of consideration, he walked to his bedroom, returning with his personal laptop—another of Denki's modified devices, stripped of tracking capabilities and hardened against intrusion.

Dropping into a chair at the table, Katsuki connected the thumb drive and was immediately greeted with a request for credentials far beyond standard password protection. A complex quantum authentication protocol that shifted its parameters even as he watched, the security algorithms evolving in real-time to prevent brute force attempts.

"You smug fucking bastard," he muttered, uncertain if he meant Icarus or whoever had designed this security system. Probably both.

After fifteen minutes of increasingly creative attempts to circumvent the security, Katsuki slammed the laptop shut with enough force to make the table shudder. This wasn't amateur hour encryption. This was military-grade, possibly beyond anything in official channels. The kind of protection reserved for the darkest of black ops.

He needed Denki. There was no getting around it.

But bringing in the team meant widening the circle, making them targets for whatever shadow organization was running experiments under Walter Reed. People with enough power to operate unopposed within a major military medical facility, to hide the detention and death of a foreign intelligence officer, to employ enhanced soldiers like Icarus.

Katsuki's hands clenched into fists. Fuck it. His team was already involved, had been since he first asked them to help investigate and do recon. They'd proven their loyalty a hundred times over in situations far more dire than this. He stood abruptly, pacing toward the wall adjacent to his dining table. It was the only wall in his apartment without windows, offering both privacy and ample space. Perfect for what he needed to do next.

From a closet, he retrieved a roll of cork board, thumbtacks, red string, and a marker. The cork went up first, covering nearly the entire wall. Then the photos, arranged in chronological order. The medical documents, secured with thumbtacks at each corner. Printouts of previous research his team had compiled, showing facility layouts and personnel hierarchies.

In the center, he placed his own military ID photo, and beneath it went the security badge photo of Stars that Denki had pulled from military records, and finally, a sketch Katsuki had made of Icarus based on his memory of the masked assailant. Red string connected these key players, creating a visual representation of the tangled relationships. Katsuki stepped back, marker between his teeth, studying the emerging pattern. It wasn't enough. The connections were tenuous, the evidence circumstantial. But it was a start.

He uncapped the marker, writing directly on the cork board in his precise military print.

PROJECT ECHO

QUANTUM RESONANCE 

NEURAL PATHWAY MAPPING?? 

OMEGA: WHITMORE (DECEASED) 

ICARUS: ENHANCED OPERATIVE? 

IMPLANT: PURPOSE?

The marker squeaked against the cork as he underlined the last item three times, his hand pressing hard enough to tear the surface slightly. The implant. The military-grade suppressant that had regulated his alpha biology since his induction into special forces. Had the device failure been deliberate, as Icarus suggested? Had his own military been experimenting on him, using the implant not just to suppress his designation but to mess with him in ways he hadn't consented to? He'd dedicated his entire life to service, sacrificed any semblance of normalcy, followed orders even when they made no tactical sense—all because he believed in the mission. In protecting people who couldn't protect themselves.

And this was how they repaid that loyalty? By turning him into a lab rat?

Katsuki stalked to the bathroom, flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. In the mirror, his reflection looked back at him with eyes like burning coals, the crimson irises that marked him as a prime alpha seeming to glow with internal fire. His features were sharp, all hard angles and taut lines, exhaustion and anger etched into each plane.

He tilted his head, fingers probing at the back of his neck where the implant site used to sit just below his hairline. Was Icarus right? Had it been more than just a suppressant? His instincts roared at the thought of being manipulated, used as a weapon without his knowledge or consent. The urge to tear something apart with his bare hands was nearly overwhelming, a visceral need to reclaim autonomy over his own body. 

Katsuki returned to the living room, retrieving his secure phone from the counter. Still no response from Stars. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing to "secure the scene," she either couldn't or wouldn't communicate.

Time to bring in the team. He sent a group message to a specially encrypted channel:

"0600. My place. Priority Alpha. Bring equipment for quantum encryption. Compromised medical."

The response came less than thirty seconds later, first from Denki:

"On it, boss. Full kit?"

Then Mina:

"Clearing schedule. Need intel prep?"

And finally, Eijirou:

"Weapons status?"

Katsuki's fingers hovered over the screen. The last question gave him pause. Were they at that point already? Ready to go armed against their own government?

After a moment's consideration, he typed:

"Defensive posture. Be discreet."

That would tell Eijirou everything he needed to know. Come prepared, but don't show up looking like you're about to storm the fucking Pentagon.

Messages sent, Katsuki turned back to his investigation board, eyes tracing the red strings that connected the fragments of information. Tomorrow his team would help him start piecing together the puzzle. Tonight, he needed to organize everything they had so far, prepare a coherent briefing that wouldn't sound like the paranoid ravings of a soldier who'd witnessed something impossible.

He moved methodically through his notes, writing key points on index cards and attaching them to the board. The testing protocols he'd undergone. The lab equipment he'd glimpsed during his escape. The conversations he'd overheard about "neural pathway degradation" and "quantum resonance instability."

As he worked, his mind kept returning to Whitmore. The omega had been at the center of all this, somehow. Important enough that Walter Reed had risked an international incident by holding her against the explicit demands of British intelligence. Important enough that Icarus had slaughtered an entire security team to reach her.

And she'd died before Katsuki could get answers. Before he could understand why his mission in Sarajevo had gone so catastrophically wrong, or why his alpha biology had responded so powerfully to her distress. He paused, index card in hand, as a memory surfaced of the scent of Whitmore's fear even through layers of containment, calling to something primal in him. It had been the same in Sarajevo, that bone-deep certainty that she needed protection, that it was his responsibility to provide it. Not just standard alpha protective instincts, but something more specific. More personal.

Why her? What made Whitmore special? And why had his implant failed at the exact moment when he'd been closest to her?

Katsuki added another note to the board: WHITMORE — CONNECTION?

The clock on his wall read 01:22 when he finally stepped back, surveying his work. The cork board was covered now, a complex web of information and speculation that looked like something from a conspiracy theorist's fever dream. But it was organized, methodical with each connection backed by evidence, each question stemming from observed fact rather than imagination.

He needed sleep. The team would be here in less than five hours, and he'd need to be sharp for whatever came next. But rest seemed impossible with his mind racing, processing and reprocessing everything he'd learned. Instead, he walked to his kitchen, pulling a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet. Not to get drunk—never compromised operational readiness—but a single finger of the amber liquid might take enough edge off to let him rest.

Glass in hand, he returned to the living room, dropping onto his couch with a sigh that seemed to come from his bones. The events of the day played in his mind on endless loop: the security checkpoints at Walter Reed, the young lieutenant he'd manipulated, the sterile corridors of the research level. Stars appearing like she'd been waiting for him, her cryptic warnings. Icarus, moving with inhuman grace, slaughtering trained operatives as casually as swatting flies.

And beneath it all, a sense that he'd only glimpsed the surface of something vast and terrifying. Project Echo.

Katsuki took a sip of whiskey, letting it burn a path down his throat. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new dangers. But it would also bring his team, the only people in the world he trusted implicitly. Together, they'd start unraveling the web of secrets he'd been pulled into.

His hand went to his neck again, fingers tracing the outline of his former implant. Whatever it was, whatever it had been doing to him all these years, he would find out. And if his suspicions proved correct, if his own military had been experimenting on him without his knowledge or consent, there would be blood to pay. 

This time, he'd get answers. No matter what it took. No matter who stood in his way. Even if it meant bringing down the very institution he'd sworn to serve. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. A message from an encrypted number he didn't recognize.

"Asset secure. Communication blackout initiated. Trust no one. Will contact when safe. -S"

Stars. Finally confirming she was alive, at least. But what asset? And why go dark now?

Katsuki drained the last of his whiskey, setting the glass aside with a soft click against the wooden table. Questions for tomorrow. For now, he needed whatever rest he could get. He stood, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension that had accumulated there.

As he moved toward his bedroom, his eyes fell once more on the investigation board, on the red strings connecting disparate pieces of information like veins in a living organism. Something was happening. Something bigger than rogue operatives or secret labs. But one thought kept circling back, sharp as a blade: whatever this conspiracy was, whoever was behind it, they had absolutely fucked with the wrong alpha. 

Katsuki would tear the whole thing down brick by brick until he found the truth. And God help anyone who tried to stop him.

Chapter Text

The Blackhawk touched down on J-SAP's private helipad as dawn painted Tokyo's skyline in shades of gray. Each blade cut through the silence with rhythmic precision, a physical manifestation of the mental tempo already organizing Izuku Midoriya's thoughts. The debrief with Aizawa aboard the Gulfstream had been draining, the conversation circling like vultures around the disasters that needed containment.

Izuku stepped onto the tarmac, the tailored lines of his charcoal suit immaculate despite the exhaustion pulling at him. He adjusted his tie, his free hand brushing the edge of the messenger bag slung across his chest, its contents already sorted into priority tiers in his mind. Then he looked up and his carefully organized thoughts scattered like debris in rotor wash.

Shoto Todoroki stood by the helipad entrance, leaning against the steel railing with casual grace. The morning sun caught in his dual-colored hair, white on one side and crimson on the other,  creating a halo effect that made Izuku's breath catch despite himself. His flight suit hugged his lean, muscular frame in ways that reminded Izuku of all the reasons they'd been a terrible idea from the start. Even exhausted from whatever mission had brought him here, Shoto moved with a quiet confidence that had always managed to unsettle and steady Izuku in equal measure.

What is he doing here? The thought caught Izuku off guard. He had sent Shoto a casual message last night suggesting they grab dinner soon, an olive branch after weeks of silence. He hadn't expected a reply so soon, let alone for Shoto to be waiting for him at dawn.

"You look like hell, Midoriya," Shoto called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the mechanical whine of the slowing rotors. His words carried no malice, only the kind of blunt familiarity born from years of shared history.

Izuku hesitated, just long enough to feel it. The weight of exhaustion, the lingering tension from the debrief, and now this—Shoto, standing here like a memory brought to life. He recovered quickly, the edges of his lips curling into a small smile. "Pot, kettle," he shot back, his voice steady despite the whirlwind in his chest. "Shouldn't you be terrorizing cadets in that shiny new stealth fighter of yours?"

"Flight's delayed. Technical issues," Shoto replied, his voice cutting cleanly through the mechanical whine of the slowing rotors. Izuku fell into step beside Shoto as they made their way toward the elevator. His movements were fluid, precise, his flight boots barely making a sound against the tarmac. Izuku caught the faintest trace of his alpha scent—clean snow and cedar, subtle and controlled. It was a welcome reprieve from the suffocating aggression he'd endured in Kiev.

"Plus, you owe me drinks. I feel like you might need a distraction after whatever classified nightmare had you flying back at this ungodly hour," Shoto added. "Brasserie Taka in Omotesandō has a table at eighteen-hundred. We can pick up where your last text ended, somewhere after 'dinner soon?' and before 'classified hell-scape.'"

His flight suit bore the insignia of the experimental aviation division, where he tested next-generation aerial vehicles, a role steeped in secrecy and prestige. It was work that Shoto often leveraged as common ground, though Izuku knew it was a thinly veiled attempt to draw him out. 

Always too observant for his own good, Izuku thought, fighting the instinct to check if his stabilizer patch was visible above his collar.

"Is that what this is? A distraction?" Izuku kept his tone light, professional, even as his mind cataloged the subtle changes in Shoto since they'd last seen each other. The new scar at his temple, barely visible beneath white strands. The slight tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. The way his eyes lingered just a fraction longer than they should.

"That depends," Shoto said, a hint of his rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Is it working?"

Izuku adjusted the messenger bag digging into his shoulder. The three-inch thick Kiev debrief marked URGENT NOW in Aizawa's handwriting weighed like a stone as memories of the operation flashed through his mind. 

"If my inbox survives the next two hours I'm in," Izuku replied, diplomatic. "I just need to drop these files at the office, grab a shower that doesn't smell like the elements, and—" 

"—pretend you're not already working while texting me that you're 'just wrapping up'?" Shoto cut in, his mismatched eyes, one stormy gray, the other blue like the afterburn of jet fuel studied Izuku with uncomfortable perception. "I know the pattern, Zuku."

He said it without heat, but the barb landed. Izuku's cheeks warmed. A familiar ache bloomed beneath his ribs, a reminder of how easily Shoto could still read him, even after everything that had driven them apart.

"Eighteen-hundred then," Izuku countered. "Meet me at Meiji-Jingū's inner garden? Less chance of paparazzi and I could use actual oxygen after forty-thousand feet."

Shoto studied him a moment longer, cataloging the subtle changes that only someone with years of shared history would notice. The slight tension in Izuku's shoulders, the carefully controlled exhaustion, the way his green eyes held shadows that hadn't been there before. "Cherry-blossom diplomacy. Works for me."

Nothing else about the rendezvous needed to be set. It didn't have to be; they'd spent half their adolescence moving in formation. Shoto clapped him once on the shoulder, the feeling heavy and grounding, then turned for the stairwell with an easy stride that spoke of equal parts muscle memory and muted frustration.

As Izuku watched him go, he felt the old, dangerous temptation to follow—to let himself believe that some things, at least, hadn't changed. But the weight of Kiev, of what he'd seen there, of what he still couldn't share, anchored him in place until the stairwell door closed behind Shoto's retreating form.

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of cherry blossoms, casting dappled patterns across the stone pathway of the Meiji Shrine's inner garden. Classical music drifted through the air while a string quartet was performing for the garden's exclusive visitors, the notes of Vivaldi's "Spring" providing a serene counterpoint to the tension Izuku felt coiling within his chest.

How did I let him talk me into this? Izuku wondered, watching Shoto navigate their way past the security checkpoints with practiced ease. The alpha had always been persuasive, especially when he deployed that rare, genuine smile that made his mismatched eyes crinkle at the corners. A smile that had once been exclusively Izuku's, in moments stolen between training exercises and midnight strategy sessions.

"You're overthinking again," Shoto observed, leading them to a secluded corner overlooking a koi pond. The carefully maintained gardens provided a perfect illusion of privacy while remaining public enough to avoid suspicion. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

Izuku exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders. "Force of habit."

"Some habits are worth breaking," Shoto replied, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. He gestured to a stone bench situated beneath a blooming cherry tree. "Best seat in the house."

As they settled onto the bench, the music shifted to something slower, more contemplative. A cello solo that seemed to echo the complexity of emotions swirling in Izuku's chest. Below them, koi fish created rippling patterns in the pond's surface, their orange and white bodies flashing in the sunlight.

“You know,” Shoto said suddenly, his voice softer now, “back then, I thought you’d end up in the air force. Maybe even on the same flight team as me.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the comment. “Really?”

Shoto nodded, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “You had the discipline for it. The drive. I figured we’d spend the next ten years trying to outfly each other.”

Izuku’s chest tightened at the thought, memories brushing against the edges of his mind like a phantom. “Things change,” he said simply, his voice heavy with the weight of understatement.

Shoto didn’t reply immediately, but the faint tilt of his head signaled his dissatisfaction with the answer. “C’mon, Izuku,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “You’ve been doing more ‘special consultations?’” The air quotes in his voice weren’t subtle. It was a gentle prod, but one that carried a sharpness beneath its surface.

“Something like that,” Izuku replied, keeping his tone practiced and casual. His answer landed softly but not convincingly. Shoto’s slight frown flickered, almost imperceptible, but Izuku caught it. Another brick added to the wall they’d been building for years.

Shoto raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the evasion. “Pretty vague for someone who’s supposed to be working on engines and structural designs. Unless engines have gotten a lot more interesting since I last checked.”

Izuku let out a soft laugh, an almost sheepish sound designed to deflect. “I’m trying to avoid shop talk.” He shifted the conversation smoothly, his tone brightening just enough. “Besides, what about you? Did you finally decide if you’re taking that spot on the long-haul rotation?”

Shoto’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “You’re good at that, you know.”

“Good at what?” Izuku asked innocently, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a slight twitch.

“Turning the conversation around,” Shoto replied, crossing his arms loosely. “But fine. I’ll play along. No, I haven’t decided yet. I’m not sure I want to be stuck in a cockpit for twelve hours straight, even if it’s over some pretty scenery.”

Izuku hummed thoughtfully, carefully maintaining the rhythm of their exchange. “Fair enough. You’d miss out on all the chaos back here, anyway.”

“Oh yeah, can’t miss the chaos,” Shoto said dryly, though there was a flicker of something warmer beneath the sarcasm. “Honestly, though, I’d probably miss the early morning chats with you more.” The comment was so casually delivered, it almost slipped past Izuku’s guard. Almost. He felt the faintest shift in the tone between them, a subtle weight added to Shoto’s words. The air grew heavier, though neither man acknowledged it.

Izuku grinned reflexively, the rare, genuine expression softening his features. “Careful. You’ll make me think you actually enjoy my company.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Shoto teased, but his voice carried a warmth that was harder to dismiss.

“You know,” he started, his tone carefully measured, "I didn't think you'd actually meet me," Shoto said after a moment, his voice carrying that particular blend of confidence and uncertainty that always managed to slip past Izuku's defenses. "Not after Kiev."

So we're jumping right into it, Izuku thought, resisting the urge to sigh. Izuku’s posture remained relaxed, but a subtle tension crept into his frame. He'd hoped for at least a few minutes of normalcy before work intruded, as it inevitably did.

“The news does love a dramatic story,” Izuku replied, his tone even, almost dismissive. 

Shoto glanced at him, watching the answer land, his expression calm but far from casual. “And Sarajevo?” he continued, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly. “Lots of chatter about that, too. Funny how your ‘consulting’ projects always seem to overlap with international incidents.”

Izuku forced a small chuckle, brushing off the comment with practiced ease. “You’ve been reading too many headlines, Sho.” Izuku caught Shoto's jaw tighten slightly at the non-answer.

Izuku kept his expression neutral, though something twisted in his chest. This was the dance they always did—Shoto trying to piece together the puzzle of Izuku's work, thinking his own classified position gave him the right context. But flying planes was a world away from what Izuku really did, even if he could never explain that.

"Must be quite the engineering consultations,” Shoto pressed, his tone carrying a mix of concern and carefully hidden hurt. "The kind that has you disappearing for days or weeks without warning." Shoto’s scent shifted slightly, still the familiar clean snow and cedar, but now laced with something heavier. Frustration. Concern. The combination made Izuku's chest ache with possibilities that his work would never allow.

“You know how it is with classified projects,” Izuku felt his carefully constructed walls pressing against Shoto's natural ability to see through his bullshit. It had been easier in the academy, when their biggest secrets were copied homework assignments and smuggled sake. 

“Do I?” Shoto’s mismatched eyes narrowed, the shift in his posture almost imperceptible, but Izuku caught it. The pretense of casual conversation evaporated, leaving something sharper in its place. “Because last I checked, engineering consultants don’t usually carry quantum encryption keys. Or have their security clearance upgraded every other year.”

Shit. Izuku felt the tension coil through his muscles, a visceral reaction honed by years of fieldwork. The same tension he’d felt in Kiev, reviewing Sarajevo, and in countless other missions where control was the difference between success and catastrophic failure. Except this wasn’t a field operation, this was Shoto. Someone who mattered. Someone who was dangerously close to crossing a line.

"You’ve been checking my clearance?” Izuku’s voice carried an edge now, not entirely professional. Three days of life-or-death decisions, juggling multiple agencies, and narrowly escaping kill teams had worn his patience thin. Shifting into command mode with Shoto felt like emotional whiplash.

"No," Shoto said quietly, his scent sharpening with that particular mix of concern and determination that always spelled trouble. "But you just confirmed it."

Years of training kicked in automatically, the same instincts that let him influence and lead alphas who could tear a person apart with their bare hands, who were responsible for things so dark they made his current situation look practically transparent. He'd mastered the art of keeping deadly predators in check, of maintaining control even when missions spiraled out of control. But somehow Shoto still managed to slip past his defenses, using nothing but shared history and genuine concern like precision strikes against his emotional armor.

"Shoto—" Izuku let his tone shift to something harder, allowing a fraction of his command presence to leak through. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. He could sense Shoto's alpha instincts registering the change, fighting between natural dominance and instinct.

"I'm not stupid, Izuku." Shoto's voice carried that particular tone Izuku had heard thousands of times from alphas who thought they were being reasonable while pushing boundaries. "We were in the same class. I remember your designs for propulsion systems, your test scores in advanced mechanics. The way you could solve problems that had our instructors stumped."

Shoto turned to face him fully, his scent sharpening with determination, the same aggressive concern Izuku had dealt with from operators who thought they knew better than command. The familiarity of it made his teeth clench. After the bullshit he had to deal with in Kiev, the clusterfuck of a mission he hasn't even fully reviewed yet, having to handle this from someone he actually cared about felt like salt in raw wounds.

"Then suddenly you're transferred to the Science and Technology division doing consulting and showing up at odd hours with security credentials that make senior officers nervous."

"How much do you know about Kiev?" Izuku asked suddenly, eyes fixed on the koi pond rather than Shoto's penetrating gaze.

"Enough to be concerned," Shoto replied, his scent shifting subtly, the cedar notes deepening with worry. "The official story mentions a terrorist attack at a private art exhibit. The unofficial whispers suggest something far worse."

Izuku's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Unofficial whispers was code for intelligence leaks, the kind that could get people killed if they reached the wrong ears. "You shouldn't listen to whispers, Sho. They tend to be unreliable."

"And you shouldn't deflect," Shoto countered, his tone gentle despite the challenge in his words. "Not with me."

The music swelled around them, the cello's mournful notes creating a soundtrack to their careful dance of words and unspoken history. Izuku found himself leaning into it, allowing the melody to fill the spaces between his thoughts.

"You know my father's been acting Chief of Joint Programs since Spring," Shoto said, eyes fixed on the pond where koi moved like liquid shadows beneath the surface. "He's reorganized flight testing twice in six months. Yesterday he asked for my sortie telemetry before I'd even landed."

"That's Endeavor for you—results yesterday, paperwork five minutes earlier."

Shoto's voice turned dry, fingers tightening slightly around his cup. "And now Toshinori Yagi is flying back to take Pacific command again. Dad nearly shattered his valuables when he heard. 'The Symbol of Peace' is done playing negotiator, of course he is,' Shoto said." The bitterness in Shoto's tone revealed old wounds that had never properly healed. "He's terrified Toshinori will undo every change he made."

A light sparked in Izuku's eyes at the mention of Toshinori, the legendary All Might, as he'd been known during his field days. The man whose tactical genius and leadership had a hand in Izuku's career choice inspiration.

“All Might’s return is politics, Sho, not a rebuke." Shoto caught the shift immediately, a knowing half-smile forming. 

"There it is, that look. All these years later and you still light up like a cadet whenever anyone mentions the great All Might."

Izuku flushed slightly, straightening. "Toshinori," he corrected, though the formality felt hollow even to his own ears. "Like I said, his return is political."

"Politics is just family dinner with more knives. You'd know if you actually came to any." The jab slid in soft, hurt disguised as humor. Izuku opened his mouth to reply, but Shoto pressed on, voice dropping into a more vulnerable register that few ever heard from him.

"Do you remember sneaking out of first-year orientation to watch the JSDF fly-past? I thought we'd end up in the same cockpit one day, two halves of the same maneuver." His mismatched eyes finally met Izuku's, carrying a weight of shared history that made Izuku's chest tighten. "Then you took the consultancy track and started collecting secrets like merit badges."

Izuku turned his glass slowly, watching condensation halo his fingers. That day felt impossibly distant now, two cadets with nothing but ambition and potential ahead of them, before his "special consultancy" work had built walls between them brick by classified brick. The memory of Shoto's victorious smile when they'd outmaneuvered their instructors that day still burned bright, a reminder of everything they'd once planned together.

"You ended up where you belong Sho, top of the division. Your dad's successor.”

Shoto snorted, a sound both bitter and resigned. “Successor? More like asset. He only trusts blood, until Toshinori steps back in, anyway." His expression darkened. "After Touya's..." He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening at the mention of his brother. The wound was too fresh, even years later.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the wind stirring fallen petals along the stones and the distant notes of the string quartet. The unspoken weight of their divergent paths hung in the air, as tangible as the scent of cherry blossoms.

"Sometimes I wonder if you left the cockpit because you knew you'd spend the next decade answering to my father." Izuku looked up sharply, the accusation stinging because it grazed something true. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his cup.

"I left because I was better suited elsewhere." Because the things he was entrusted with demanded sacrifices Shoto couldn't begin to imagine. The strange device from Kiev flashed in his mind, its impossible geometry, the way it seemed to drink in light. The kind of classified technology that had shaped his path away from the youngest Todoroki.

Shoto watched him with an unsettling mixture of frustration and longing, his scent shifting subtly in a way that only someone intimately familiar with him would notice. "You never did tell me the real reason."

Izuku's phone buzzed, a single, muted pulse felt more than heard. He ignored it, unwilling to break this tenuous connection they'd established.

"See?" Shoto gestured toward Izuku's pocket, a hint of his rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Even the universe wants your attention."

Izuku pocketed the device, forcing a smile. "Later."

Shoto's expression softened slightly, the professional mask slipping to reveal something more genuine beneath. "I'm not angry you're busy, Izuku. I'm frustrated you won't let me carry any of it with you."

A cherry blossom landed on Shoto's crimson half. Without thinking, Izuku reached out to brush it away. Their fingers brushed, lingered. For a breath, everything unsaid hummed between them. The ghosts of what they'd almost had, the heat of shared moments in academy dormitories, the weight of decisions that had driven them apart. Electricity skittered across Izuku's skin at the contact.

"I also heard you're integrating a new alpha onto your team," Shoto said, changing tactics when it became clear Izuku wouldn't elaborate on Kiev. "Katsuki Bakugo. Bit of a wild card, from what I gather."

Of course he knows about Bakugo already. A flicker of irritation sparked in Izuku's chest. "News travels fast."

"It does when the alpha in question has a reputation for turning operations into international incidents," Shoto replied, turning slightly to study Izuku's profile. "His field record reads like a cautionary tale with an unusually high body count."

And yet Aizawa insists he's essential to whatever game we're playing, Izuku thought, the directive still fresh in his mind: integrate Bakugo into the team, assess his capabilities, determine his connection to any shadow operations. All while maintaining operational security and managing a volatile prime alpha who'd already demonstrated questionable control.

"Is that why you wanted to meet? To warn me about an operative whose file you shouldn't have access to?" Izuku finally looked at Shoto directly, allowing another hint of his professional authority to color his words.

"No," Shoto admitted, his scent shifting again. The cool snow now tinged with something warmer, more personal. "I wanted to see you. The Bakugo situation just gives me a legitimate excuse that won't get both of us flagged by security protocols." The honesty caught Izuku off guard, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. He tamped it down quickly, well aware of the dangers of letting old feelings resurface.

"You could have just asked," Izuku said, softening his tone slightly. "No excuse needed."

"Could I?" Shoto's gaze was steady, searching. "The last time I tried, you were suddenly called away for a 'routine consultation' that kept you in Prague for three weeks."

Prague. The memory of that particular mission, a designation-related hostage situation that had gone sideways within hours of his arrival flashed through Izuku's mind. He'd returned with two broken ribs and a new scar along his collarbone, both carefully hidden beneath tactical gear and mission reports marked "classified."

"That was different," Izuku said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.

"Was it?" Shoto leaned in slightly, close enough that Izuku could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like the same pattern we've been stuck in for years. You disappear into classified operations, I worry, you return looking like you've seen ghosts, and we pretend everything's normal until the next crisis pulls you away."

Izuku's fingers curled against the stone bench, frustration building beneath his carefully maintained composure. How does he always know exactly where to push to make it hurt? He took a slow breath, centering himself as the music transitioned to something lighter, a violin piece that seemed almost mocking in its joyful cadence.

"I'm just concerned," Shoto continued, his voice softening. "Adding a volatile alpha like Bakugo to your team seems like an unnecessary risk, especially after whatever happened in Kiev."

"It's a direct order from above," Izuku replied, keeping his tone neutral despite the storm brewing inside. "Not my choice."

"Since when has that stopped you?" Shoto's lips curved into a slight smirk, reminiscent of easier days. "Remember the night before our wilderness survival exercise? When you convinced me to help you 'borrow' the instructor's maps?"

The unexpected memory hit like a physical blow, vivid images flooding Izuku's mind: Shoto's muffled laughter as they crept through darkened hallways, the triumph in his mismatched eyes when they'd successfully copied the route markers, the way his lips had tasted afterward when adrenaline and accomplishment had morphed into something far more intoxicating.

"That was different," he managed, fighting the flush threatening to creep up his neck. "We were cadets. The worst they could do was make us run extra laps."

"We ran those laps for a week," Shoto reminded him, his expression softening into something that made Izuku's pulse quicken despite his best efforts. "But it was worth it. We finished the course three hours ahead of everyone else." The unspoken "we" hung between them, heavy with meaning and memory. Izuku found himself caught in Shoto's gaze, momentarily transported back to a time when their biggest concerns had been passing examinations and sneaking moments alone between training exercises.

Stop it, he scolded himself, forcibly dragging his thoughts back to the present. That's ancient history. Focus.

"Things have changed," Izuku said quietly, deliberately putting distance between them, both physically and emotionally.

"Have they?" Shoto's voice carried a weight that couldn't be ignored. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still the same person who ran into that burning building during our second year, despite orders to evacuate. The only difference is the stakes are higher and the buildings are more metaphorical."

The accusation stung precisely because it held truth. Izuku's gaze drifted to the garden's other visitors. Tourists capturing photos of the blooming trees, a young couple sharing a moment by the pond's edge, security personnel disguised as groundskeepers maintaining a discreet perimeter. Even here, in this attempt at normalcy, he remained acutely aware of the apparatus of secrets and security surrounding them.

"It's not that simple, Sho," he said, the nickname slipping out before he could catch it. "You know it isn't."

"Isn't it?" Shoto scooted closer, his scent enveloping Izuku in familiar comfort that made his stabilizer work overtime. "We were good together, Izuku. As cadets, as friends, as..." He trailed off, the memories too potent to voice aloud. "But then you got recruited into your 'special consultation' work, and suddenly I wasn't allowed to know anything about your life."

Izuku turned away, his jaw tightening. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Shoto's laugh held no humor. "What's not fair is watching you come back from missions looking like you've seen ghosts, and not being allowed to ask why. What's not fair is knowing that you're being assigned a potentially unstable alpha right after a mission that clearly left its mark," Shoto countered, gesturing subtly to the dark circles under Izuku's eyes. "I know that whatever happened in Kiev was serious enough to warrant an emergency extraction and a full debrief with Aizawa himself. And I know that you're pushing yourself to the breaking point, as usual."

If you knew what we found in Kiev, what it means for designation stability… Izuku cut the thought short, the classified details locked behind mental barriers reinforced by years of training.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, the standard response so ingrained it felt like muscle memory.

"Are you?" Shoto's hand moved, hesitating just inches from Izuku's own where it rested on the bench between them. "Because Mei mentioned your stabilizer levels were compromised. That you experienced some kind of pheromonal interference during the operation."

Ice flooded Izuku's veins. "Mei told you about my post-mission medical check-ups?” The betrayal cut deeper than he wanted to admit, professional violation tangling with personal hurt.

"Someone had to," Shoto replied, unapologetic. "Since you certainly won't. Do you have any idea what it's like, hearing through the grapevine that you nearly died? Then to find out your stabilizer is failing?"

Anger flared hot and sudden in Izuku's chest, the emotion so raw it nearly overwhelmed his professional compartmentalization. "You have no right to access my medical data, Shoto. That's a violation of at least six different security protocols, not to mention personal fucking boundaries."

"And you have no right to throw yourself into danger without backup," Shoto shot back, his alpha scent sharpening with protective frustration. "But here we are. Listen Zuku, I'm just worried about—"

"No," Izuku cut him off, green eyes sharp with warning. He was too tired for this, too raw from Kiev, too worried about Sarajevo to maintain the gentle barriers he usually kept between them. "You're using our friendship and your position to push for classified information. Information that could get us both court-martialed if the wrong people started asking why you're so interested." His voice dropped lower, letting real concern seep through the command presence. "Don't make me choose between our friendship and national security. You won't like my choice."

The hurt that flashed across Shoto's mismatched eyes felt like a physical blow. But Izuku had seen that look before too, from alphas he'd had to shut down hard when they crossed lines, from case officers who thought personal loyalty should trump operational security. He'd learned to push through it, to maintain the barriers that kept people alive and missions secure.

They sat in tense silence, the music suddenly seeming too cheerful for the weight of emotions between them. A cherry blossom drifted down, landing on Izuku's knee, a delicate pink contrast to the dark fabric of his pants. He brushed it away, the gentle motion at odds with the storm raging inside him.

Why does he always do this? Izuku thought, frustration building. Why can't he understand that some distance exists for a reason?

"I'm sorry," Shoto said finally, his voice softer. "I shouldn't have gone behind your back. But Izuku..." His hand moved again, this time making contact, fingers brushing lightly against Izuku's knuckles in a touch so brief it might have been imagined. "I worry about you. Is that really so terrible?" The touch sent electricity skittering across Izuku's skin, memories surfacing of nights when those hands had mapped every inch of him, when secrets had seemed less important than the heat building between them. He withdrew slightly, needing the distance to think clearly.

"Bakugo isn't just another alpha, is he?" Shoto asked, letting his hand fall back to his side. "There's something else going on. Something connected to what happened in Kiev."

Izuku studied Shoto for a long moment, weighing professional obligation against the lingering trust between them. "His enhancement profile is...unique," he admitted finally. "Similar to patterns we observed in Kiev, yes. That's all I can say."

"Which is why they want you to handle his integration personally," Shoto concluded, the pieces clicking into place behind his mismatched eyes. "Or why you should stay as far away from him as possible."

Izuku raised an eyebrow. "I can handle myself, Sho."

"I know you can, but I worry." Shoto's expression softened into something dangerously close to affection. "You've always had a blind spot for dangerous alphas who need fixing. It's what makes you exceptional at your job, but it's also what keeps landing you in medical."

The observation hit a little to close to home, landing exactly where Izuku felt most vulnerable. His work with enhanced alphas, his ability to manage volatile personalities and navigate pheromonal minefields, had earned him a reputation within J-SAP's classified divisions. But it had also left scars, both physical and otherwise, that he preferred not to examine too closely.

"Bakugo is a mission parameter, not a project," Izuku said firmly, needing to believe it himself. "And whatever happened between us is irrelevant to the current situation."

"Is it?" Shoto's analytical gaze cut through Izuku's defenses with practiced ease. "Or is that what you keep telling yourself to make the job easier?" 

Before Izuku could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much, phone buzzed again—this time an insistent triple-pattern he couldn't ignore. He glanced down. No preview. Highest-level cipher. He checked it automatically, professional instinct overriding personal tension.

Emergency meeting requested. New arrival from stateside requires immediate operational assessment. Your presence requested at central command, 1930 hours.

Izuku tucked the phone away, already mentally calculating the 20 minute commute back to his office. 

"Let me guess," Shoto said, a sad smile playing at his lips. "Duty calls?"

"Something like that," Izuku confirmed, guilt threading through his relief at the interruption. "I'm sorry, operations is screaming and I need to get back to HQ. Something I can't delegate."

"Of course you can’t.” Shoto stood, jaw clenching as he brushed invisible dust from his flight suit. The movement was casual, practiced, but Izuku didn't miss the disappointment he tried to conceal. "Work first. I should have known the second you actually showed up on time."

Izuku winced. "Sho, I—"

"Save it. Rain-check our rain-check, right?" He tried for lightness but the fracture showed in the tightness around his eyes, the slight shift in his posture.

Izuku touched his arm, feeling the solid strength beneath the flight suit. "I'll make this right."

Shoto stepped back, masking hurt with formality. The withdrawal was both physical and emotional, a defensive maneuver Izuku had seen too many times before. "Will you at least have dinner with your mother before you leave? She mentioned she hasn't seen you in weeks."

The mention of his mother caught Izuku off guard. "You've been talking to my mother?"

"Someone has to check on her too," Shoto replied, his tone deliberately light. "She makes better udon than the mess hall."

Izuku shook his head, exasperation warring with reluctant fondness. Even after everything, he still keeps tabs on my family. The thought shouldn't have warmed him as much as it did.

"Yes, I'm having dinner with her soon,” he confirmed. "Assuming I can find some time before I have to head back sateside."

"Good." Shoto nodded, seemingly satisfied. "The joint-chiefs meeting is tomorrow, right? With General Todoroki presiding?"

Izuku tensed slightly. Enji Todoroki, Shoto's father and the current head of Joint Special Access Programs was scheduled to lead the briefing on designation-related security concerns, including the Kiev and Sarajevo incidents. "That's classified," he said automatically.

"Of course it is," Shoto replied, a hint of the old bitterness creeping into his voice. "Everything about your life is classified these days."

The music swelled to a finale, the string quartet concluding their performance with a flourish that seemed to underscore the moment. Around them, garden visitors applauded politely, the sound creating a strange backdrop to their unresolved tension.

“I’m sure my father will be pleased to see you," Shoto added, his tone carefully neutral. "He's mentioned your work a few times since... well, since we ended things."

The casual reference to their breakup sent a pang through Izuku's chest. Ended things. Such a polite way to describe the night Shoto had finally reached his limit with Izuku's secrets, the classified missions, the unexplained absences and injuries. The night he'd said, voice breaking with emotion, "I can't compete with ghosts, Izuku. I can't fight shadows I'm not allowed to see."

"I should go," Izuku said, checking his watch to avoid meeting Shoto's gaze. "This emergency request..."

"Right," Shoto moved to give Izuku space. "Wouldn't want to keep you from your classified emergencies."

As they walked toward the garden exit, the tension between them gradually eased into something more familiar, a bittersweet understanding built on years of shared history and mutual respect, despite the barriers that had eventually driven them apart.

"Whoever you're meeting," Shoto said as they reached the main gate, "try not to let them get under your skin too much. You look like you could use a full night's sleep for once."

Izuku smiled faintly. "Is that your professional medical opinion, Captain Todoroki?"

"No," Shoto replied, surprising Izuku by reaching out to straighten his tie, a casual intimacy that sent warmth spreading through his chest. "It's the observation of someone who still cares about you, classified complications and all."

The touch lingered for a heartbeat too long, Shoto's fingers brushing against the silk fabric in a gesture that felt both innocent and charged with meaning. Izuku found himself caught in the alpha's gaze, momentarily transported back to easier times when touches like this had been commonplace, expected, welcomed.

This is why we can't keep doing this, Izuku thought, even as part of him leaned into the familiar comfort Shoto offered. It's too easy to forget why we stopped in the first place.

"Take care of yourself, Izuku," Shoto said softly, finally stepping back. "And…just survive your inbox, Commander."

As they parted ways, Shoto toward the Air Force base and Izuku toward the waiting government car, the weight of everything unsaid hung between them, heavy with regret and lingering affection. Izuku watched Shoto's retreating figure for a moment, allowing himself a rare indulgence in what might have been, before turning resolutely toward what was.

Behind him, the koi pond stilled, capturing a perfect mirror of two men drifting in opposite directions, further and further apart with every breath. The string quartet's final notes hung in the air like a eulogy for something precious and unrecoverable. As he cleared the shrine gates, Izuku thumbed open the new encrypted message:

Estimated arrival of subject: 15 minutes. Briefing materials uploaded to secure server.

The car pulled away from the shrine, cutting through Tokyo's afternoon traffic with the efficiency of a vehicle bearing government plates. As the city blurred past the tinted windows, Izuku closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts on the mission ahead. Shoto, the music, the brief reprieve from duty—all of it had to be compartmentalized, filed away where it couldn't interfere with what needed to be done.

The ghost of Shoto's touch lingered, a phantom warmth against his chest where those fingers had straightened his tie. Izuku pushed the sensation aside, slipping back into the professional armor that had carried him through countless missions and briefings. Weakness, whether it be emotional, physical, or otherwise was a luxury he couldn't afford, not with what was at stake.

But as the car approached J-SAP headquarters, a treacherous thought slipped through his carefully maintained barriers: Would it really be so terrible to let someone in? To have someone who understood the weight he carried?

The question remained unanswered as Izuku stepped from the car, already shifting his focus to the meeting ahead. There would be time for personal reflection later after the joint chiefs meeting, after Bakugo's evaluation, after whatever crisis inevitably followed. And somewhere, buried beneath layers of mission protocols and classified urgency, the part of him that still wanted to turn back toward Shoto waited too—for a tomorrow that never seemed to come.

For now, there was only the mission, and the duty he had sworn to uphold no matter the personal cost.

Izuku's security badge barely scanned before the main doors of J-SAP headquarters parted. The building hummed with activity despite the evening hour, a testament to the ceaseless work of Japan's most classified intelligence division. Techs with thousand-yard stares rushed past him clutching tablets with redacted screens, while comms officers maintained blank faces despite the chaos flowing through their earpieces.

It wasn't just another day at the office, something had shifted while he'd been with Shoto. The subtle changes in personnel movements, the higher alert status on the security panels, all signs pointing to elevated threat conditions.

Izuku had barely made it three steps into the central atrium when Inasa Yoarashi materialized beside him, falling into step with practiced casualness. The Counter-Trafficking Division chief towered over most personnel, his broad shoulders and booming presence making him impossible to miss despite his attempts at subtlety.

"Evening walk interrupted?" Inasa asked, voice pitched low beneath the ambient noise of the facility. "Or did my message manage to save you from another awkward reunion with our favorite test pilot?"

Izuku shot him a look that would have made lesser agents flinch. "I'm not in the mood, Yoarashi. What's so urgent it couldn't wait until morning?"

"Not here," Inasa muttered, subtly directing them toward the west corridor. "Sub-level briefing room."

They navigated through the busy headquarters in silence, passing multiple security checkpoints. Each scan required progressively higher clearance, winnowing out potential observers until they were alone in the restricted wing. The lack of personnel in this section made Izuku's tactical mind catalog details—Inasa had been clearing paths, ensuring privacy for whatever bombshell he planned to drop.

The sub-level access required Inasa's personal security card, a matte black technology that wouldn't be declassified for decades. The encrypted credentials caught the light strangely as he swiped it through a hidden reader. A panel slid back in the brushed steel wall, revealing a keypad glowing with protocols that made standard military encryption look primitive.

The doors sealed with a soft hiss, leaving Izuku alone with Inasa in one of the facility's new-generation transport capsules. Security lights pulsed along the elevator's edges, marking it as something far more sophisticated than its mundane appearance suggested. These capsules could move in more than just vertical directions, connecting various classified sections of the HQ.

"You know," Izuku said dryly as Inasa input a complex sequence, his fingers moving with practiced ease, "most people just say hello. Maybe send an email. But you? You have to dramatically interrupt private conversations." The memory of Shoto's disappointed face as he left the shrine garden still weighed on him.

"Most people aren't trying to prevent an international incident," Inasa replied, his usual booming voice dropping to something more serious. The elevator shuddered slightly as hidden machinery engaged, and then the sensation of movement changed. Instead of dropping vertically, they began sliding horizontally, moving through the building's hidden transport network. The lateral movement always set Izuku's teeth on edge. His inner ear protested the unusual motion as inertial dampeners kicked in, compensating for the shifts in direction. Soft lights pulsed along the walls as they passed through security sectors, each barrier marked by subtle changes in shielding frequency. 

Their paths crossed more often than either division liked to admit. The same hidden routes used to smuggle classified technology often carried Inasa's targets, and the trafficking networks his team infiltrated frequently dabbled in stolen military research. It created an uncomfortable symbiosis between their operations—Science and Technology providing the technical expertise while Counter-Trafficking supplied the human intelligence.

The elevator's shielding hummed as they passed through another security barrier, the sound changing pitch as different encryption protocols engaged. Down here, even the air felt different. The temperature dropped another few degrees, a reminder that they were entering the truly classified sections of the facility. Then the door slid open to reveal one of the facility's classified briefing chambers, a room so secure it existed off most official blueprints.

The chamber was a testament to J-SAP's paranoia—quantum-shielded walls, anti-surveillance measures built into every surface, and atmospheric processors that neutralized any potential airborne surveillance devices. As head of J-SAP's Counter-Trafficking Division, Inasa's security clearance let him access these restricted spaces that few knew existed. While Izuku's Science and Technology teams chased stolen advanced materials and experimental weapons, Inasa's division tracked something equally dangerous—the corrupt networks that moved everything from drugs to human cargo across global borders.

"Speaking of incidents," Inasa continued as the security systems engaged behind them, sealing the room from both physical and digital intrusion, "heard that Sarajevo went to shit. Tough break about your asset." He leaned against the briefing table, trying to appear casual despite the tension radiating from his frame. "Interesting timing too, wouldn't you say? Right when certain other operations were heating up?"

Izuku's eyes narrowed as he studied the case officer's face. Case officers didn't share intel without reason, and Inasa's network of informants rivaled his own. The casual mention of Sarajevo was too deliberate, too carefully placed in the conversation. "What do you want, Yoarashi?"

"Can't I just be checking on an old friend?"

"We're not friends." The words came automatically, their familiar rhythm almost comfortable after years of similar exchanges. "We're two people who occasionally have to work together without killing each other. And you never 'just check' on anyone."

Inasa's grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Aw, you say the sweetest things." He activated the room's holographic systems with a gesture, and the lights dimmed as projections hummed to life. "But since you asked so nicely... I do need a favor."

"No."

"You haven't heard what it is yet."

"Don't need to," Izuku said, watching the classified systems boot up around them. "Your favors always end up complicating my life. Usually right when I don't need the extra complications."

"This is different," Inasa said, his voice losing its playful edge. The shift in his tone made Izuku's tactical instincts prickle. "This is about your kind of problem. The kind that involves certain classified materials, and certain people who know too much about them."

Izuku turned slightly, studying the case officer's expression. Inasa was one of the few people who knew what Izuku and his team really did, if not the full scope of their operations. For him to invoke that particular connection... "Either start talking sense or don't bother me with this again. I've got enough shit to deal with today without adding yours to the pile."

"Trust me," Inasa said quietly as he brought up the first holographic files, "you'll want to hear what I have to say."

The holographic display materialized between them—grainy surveillance footage showing a prison transport moving through Kazakhstan's empty highways, the vehicle's markings partially obscured but recognizable to experienced field operators.

"I've got three agents in deep cover," Inasa said without preamble. "They were working an operation involving certain... materials of interest."

Izuku's eyes narrowed at the careful phrasing. After Kiev, after the strange device they'd recovered, his tolerance for vague intelligence speak was dangerously low. "Your people weren't just tracking normal shipments."

"Nothing normal about what they found." Inasa's typical grin had vanished entirely. "Which is why I need access to someone who can tell me why these smuggling routes suddenly look like military research black sites. All I know is that after mission clearance I couldn't make contact." Inasa's usual confidence was replaced by something harder, more desperate. "They got made. Local authorities picked them up two days ago. Standard procedure would be to let them sit in detention until we could arrange a quiet extraction."

"But?"

"But somebody's pushing for immediate extradition." More images appeared—diplomatic cables marked with clearance levels Izuku had never seen, transport schedules that shifted faster than normal bureaucracy should allow, documents so heavily redacted they were more black ink than paper. "Extradition to the U.S."

"Fuck." Izuku felt a headache turning into a migraine behind his eyes. "Let me guess. Same channels that are blocking access to my Sarajevo hostage?"

"Bingo!"

This was why their divisions maintained an uneasy alliance despite some organizational rivalry. Inasa's human intelligence networks often caught the first hints of technological threats, while Izuku's technical expertise helped identify what was actually being moved through those networks. They might approach operations from opposite directions, but their objectives frequently aligned.

Izuku studied the intel feeds, mind racing through scenarios. "So you want me to loan you some of my operators. For an unsanctioned extraction. On foreign soil." He turned to face his fellow case officer fully. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Look—"

"No, you look," Izuku cut him off sharply. "I've got the CIA breathing down my neck, Russian intelligence probing our networks, and Chinese MSS watching every move we make in the western hemisphere. I'm about to fly to DC to evaluate a psycho Alpha who just compromised a major operation and also brief the joint-chiefs in 16 hours." The mention of Bakugo brought back Shoto's questions from earlier, another complication he didn't need. "And you want me to risk more of my people on an illegal prison break?"

"My guys know something though," Inasa pressed, bringing up more holographic data streams—signal intercepts, pattern analyses, mapping systems showing unusual traffic at classified facilities across three continents. "Something big enough that certain parties are willing to break international law to get to them first. Just like they're willing to block access to the MI6 hostage from Sarajevo, even though the hostage was gathering intel on your orders."

The pieces clicked together in Izuku's mind. "You think all of these separate events are related."

"Three of my best undercover assets get burned at the same time your mission goes sideways? When we now know that both situations involved classified tech? That's not coincidence." Inasa's fingers danced across the holographic interface, pulling up more files. "Same group that arranged your operation in Kiev. They're collecting assets, Midoriya. People who've seen things they shouldn't. Working with technology that I assume they don't want to—or can't—publicly acknowledge. And they're using legitimate channels to do it."

The implications hit like physical force. Someone was manipulating international intelligence agencies, using geopolitical strife to gather up loose ends. Which meant...

"Sarajevo wasn't a failure," Izuku said slowly, the realization tasting like ash in his mouth. "It was bait. They took that omega as hostage because they knew we had an asset in place."

"Just like they knew about my agents in Kazakhstan." Inasa's voice carried none of its usual bombastic energy. "Just like they knew exactly when to hit that art hall. We're being played, Midoriya. All of us. And whoever's doing it has clearance levels at the very top."

The holographic displays cast harsh shadows across their faces as more data scrolled past—patterns of operations, movements of resources, a web of connections that stretched across the globe from Kiev to Sarajevo to Kazakhstan to Shanghai. All pointing toward something bigger than either of their departments had imagined.

"I need access to your Red Echo operators,” Inasa said quietly. "My guys… they found something. Something they couldn't explain. But the keywords in their last transmission match certain classifications that only your team is authorized to handle."

Izuku stiffened. Red Echo was the codename for his team and the most classified technologies, experimental systems and weapons that might as well be science fiction to anyone without proper clearance. The fact that Inasa even knew the name was troubling enough.

"You know I can't—"

"Can't officially acknowledge Red Echo's existence? Can't confirm or deny specific operational parameters?" Inasa's laugh held no humor. "We're past that, Midoriya. Whatever my people found, whatever your asset saw in Sarajevo, whatever you recovered in Kiev... it's all connected. And somebody very high up is cleaning house."

The classified data streams cast blue shadows across plans that could reshape nations or end careers. After Kiev's impossible technology and the figure who'd saved his life, Izuku had known things were escalating. But this pattern suggested something far worse, players moving pieces across a board he couldn't fully see.

"What exactly did your people find?" Izuku asked, stepping closer to examine the transmission logs.

Inasa pulled up a secured file, one that required his personal biometric authentication to access. "They were tracking a smuggling operation through the southern corridor when they stumbled across this."

The screen shifted to show grainy photos of what appeared to be a research facility built into a mountainside, a structure that shouldn't exist according to any official records. Transport vehicles moved in and out of heavily fortified gates, while satellite imagery showed electromagnetic shielding that would block most conventional surveillance.

"This facility doesn't appear on any international registry," Inasa continued. "Not NATO surveillance, not Chinese intelligence, not even our own deep-cover networks. It's a ghost."

"And yet someone's funding it," Izuku noted, studying the sophisticated security measures visible even in the poor-quality images. "Those aren't standard private security contractors at the perimeter. Those are specialized mercenaries."

"That's what my team thought too. So they went in for a closer look." Inasa's voice tightened. "What they found inside triggered keywords on three different classification protocols. The equipment being transported matches fragments of intel from both Kiev and Sarajevo." 

Izuku felt the weight of Kiev pressing down again—the strange device, the unexplained figure who'd saved his life, the sense that he'd brushed up against something beyond conventional understanding.

"If I help you," he said carefully, "this goes through my channels. My protocols. My rules."

"Agreed." Inasa's immediate acceptance only heightened Izuku's concern. Case officers never gave up operational control this easily. "But we need to move fast. The extraction order for my agents processes in eighteen hours. After that, once they hit U.S. soil..."

The sentence hung unfinished, heavy with implications. They both knew what happened to assets who'd seen too much, the same thing likely happening to the hostages from Sarajevo right now. Clean disappearances, redacted files, families getting carefully worded letters about training accidents.

"You understand that if this goes wrong," Izuku's voice dropped to that dangerous quiet his team knew well, "it's more than career ending. We're talking international incidents, dissolved alliances, probably some creative disappearances of our own."

"If it goes right, we might figure out what the hell is really going on." Inasa leaned forward, his usual bombastic presence stripped to raw urgency. "My people have been cultivating these contacts for over two years. Whatever they found, it's big enough to spook some very serious players."

Izuku paced the briefing room, mind calculating angles and consequences. In twenty-four hours he'd be at Langley, and next week he would be evaluating an alpha who'd lost control badly enough to warrant transfer to his program. In eighteen hours, Inasa's agents would either disappear into the U.S. intelligence apparatus or be extracted in an operation that could start a war if traced back to them.

Everything in his training screamed that this was a terrible idea. But his instincts, the ones that had kept him alive through countless classified operations, whispered that Inasa was right. The pattern was there, just slightly out of reach.

Izuku pulled up another file, one that Inasa hadn't shown him. His personal access codes revealed data that even the Counter-Trafficking chief couldn't see, patterns that J-SAP's quantum systems had been tracking since Kiev.

"You missed something," Izuku said, expanding the holographic display. "These energy signatures from the Kazakhstan facility? They match exactly what we saw in Kiev. Not similar, identical."

Inasa stepped closer, eyes widening slightly. "That shouldn't be possible. The tech you recovered in Kiev was—"

"Classified beyond your clearance," Izuku finished smoothly. "But let's just say it's not something that should exist in multiple locations. And definitely not something that should be showing energy patterns in a black site facility in Kazakhstan."

"So you'll help?" Inasa asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Izuku continued analyzing the data, pieces clicking together in his mind. Shoto's words from earlier echoed in his thoughts: "You started collecting secrets like merit badges." If his former partner only knew how deep those secrets went, how far the rabbit hole extended beyond conventional understanding.

"Two operators. You can take Mirko and Dabi," he said finally, coming to a decision he'd probably regret. It felt like lead in his stomach. "No more. They go in clean, no connections to either of our departments. No comms, no backup, no paper trail."

"That's not exactly—" Inasa’s face shrank at the mention of Izuku's more prickly officers.

"Those are my terms," Izuku cut him off. "I'm about to spend an unknown amount of time in the states. I really don't need the CIA finding out I authorized an illegal extraction on their soil while I'm there."

Inasa studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Two it is. I've got transport arranged. Your people can—"

"I don't want to know the details," Izuku interrupted. "In fact, this conversation never happened. I'm going to walk out that door, brief the joint-chiefs tomorrow, then fly to Langley and play nice with our American friends when I brief them. Whatever happens in Kazakhstan, I don't know a single fucking thing about it."

"Understood." Inasa's grin finally returned, though it held more edge than usual. "And Midoriya? Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," Izuku said as he headed for the door. "If this goes sideways, I'll deny everything and let them feed you to whatever alphabet agency wants to string you up."

The security fields powered down with a soft hum. Izuku stepped out into the corridor, making his way to his office, mind already calculating timelines. He needed to coordinate with his team before tomorrow's briefing with General Todoroki about the Sarajevo incident. And then there was the matter of Captain Katsuki Bakugo.

He'd never heard of the alpha before he indirectly blew up his world, but he now knew he'd be dealing with a prime alpha who'd lost control spectacularly enough to draw attention from top brass. The memory of Shoto's warning echoed in his thoughts: "His field record reads like a cautionary tale with an unusually high body count." How had Shoto known about Bakugo before Izuku had even had time to fully process the assignment? The thought troubled him more than he wanted to admit.

Izuku's office was sparse, functional, like everything else in his life. His stabilizers waited in a hidden compartment, he retrieved the slim case, checking the supply. Enough for two weeks, if he maintained standard dosage. If not... He pushed the thought away.

As he settled at his desk, he began drafting secure messages to his team. Mirko and Dabi would need to be briefed on the Kazakhstan extraction—carefully, with plausible deniability built into every layer of communication. Hitoshi would need to coordinate temporary reassignments to cover their absence. And Stars would need to be alerted to the potential connections between Kiev, Sarajevo, and whatever was happening in Kazakhstan.

He glanced at the photo on his desk, the only personal item in the otherwise sterile space. His mother and father, taken before his father's disappearance. Before Izuku had dedicated his life to finding answers that seemed perpetually out of reach. Sometimes he wondered if his father had faced similar impossible choices, similar sacrifices in service of secrets.

Izuku finished his secure communications and locked his systems. Morning would come too soon, bringing more questions than answers. But for now, he had set events in motion that might finally connect the dots between these seemingly disparate threats. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself one moment of weakness. The memory of Shoto in the garden, cherry blossoms falling around them, their fingers touching for that brief moment threatened to test his resolve.

How many times had he walked away from that connection? How many times had duty called him back from the brink of something genuine?

He couldn't let an alpha like Katsuki Bakugo threaten that. Wouldn't let anyone else close enough to compromise what he'd built. The mission in Kazakhstan was a calculated risk, but one that might finally reveal the pattern connecting all the threats. And if it didn't, if Inasa's intelligence failed or his agents couldn't deliver, then at least he'd tried.

The moment passed. He couldn't afford distractions, not with what was at stake.

Tomorrow would bring its own complications. The joint chiefs meeting with Enji Todoroki would be a political minefield, especially with Toshinori's imminent return to Pacific command. Add in the unknown variables of Bakugo's evaluation and Inasa's unsanctioned operation, and Izuku was looking at a perfect storm of classified chaos. His team would be waiting for direction, for the clarity only he could provide.

Izuku secured his office and headed for the residential wing. A few hours of rest, then back to the mission. The web of secrets was expanding, but so was his understanding of the pattern. Somewhere in the connections between Kiev, Sarajevo, and Kazakhstan lay answers he'd been seeking for years.

He just had to be ready when they finally emerged.

The morning sunlight slanted through reinforced windows, casting geometric patterns across J-SAP's primary briefing room. Izuku had arrived an hour early to prepare, arranging data streams and security protocols with methodical precision. Military efficiency was more than habit at this point, he was a control freak too.

The room itself was a testament to J-SAP's dual nature: sophisticated technology disguised beneath mundane facades. What appeared to be standard conference furnishings concealed quantum-encrypted terminals and biometric authentication systems. Even the air was filtered through classified technology, scanning for chemical signatures and surveillance compounds with each circulation.

Izuku stood at the central console, emerald eyes tracking multiple data feeds simultaneously. His white dress shirt was crisp despite the early hour, sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm, tie knotted with military exactness. The only hint of his exhaustion was the slight tension around his eyes, a detail most would miss but his team would notice immediately.

He discreetly adjusted the scent-masking patch at his collar, ensuring it remained firmly in place. The standard issue patches were becoming less effective each month, but he couldn't risk anyone noticing the difference. Not today, not with everything else at stake.

The door whispered open as Mei Hatsume entered, her distinctive pink hair pulled into a messy bun secured with what appeared to be specialized screwdrivers. As J-SAP's lead development engineer, she balanced brilliance with barely-contained chaos. Today she carried three tablets and wore specialized glasses that likely violated six different security protocols.

"Morning, boss!" Her voice rang with the familiar enthusiasm that both energized and exhausted everyone around her. "Got the analytics from Kiev ready for presentation. Also," she lowered her voice, stepping closer and slipping something into his pocket with practiced subtlety, "that special project is updated. We should discuss refinements later."

The weight of the slim case against his side provided more comfort than it should. Mei was the only one who fully understood what he needed, experimental compounds beyond standard military grade, tailored specifically for his unique biology. Their arrangement remained strictly off-record, a necessity neither questioned.

"Any changes I should know about?" he asked quietly.

"Not here," she replied with uncharacteristic discretion. "But yes. The latest batch should help with the... side effects we discussed."

Izuku nodded once, grateful for her rare moment of subtlety. The stabilizer needs was his most closely guarded weakness, one that could compromise everything if widely known. The patches were merely for show at this point, theater for those who might wonder why an officer in his position showed no designation markers. The real solution remained classified beyond even his team's clearance.

"The Kiev data, what's your assessment?" he asked, redirecting to safer territory.

Mei's eyes sharpened behind her glasses. For all her chaotic energy, her mind was precision-engineered. "The quantum signatures don't match anything in our databases. Not even close." She lowered her voice despite the room's security. "Whatever that device is, it's not just advanced, it's different. Fundamentally different."

"Different how?"

"Like comparing a steam engine to a nuclear reactor." She pulled up schematics on one tablet. "The metal composition adapts to scanning frequencies. The energy signatures fluctuate in patterns that aren't random but don't follow any known algorithmic structure. It's..." she hesitated, which was rare enough to command Izuku's full attention, "...it's like it's alive, boss. Not organic, but... responsive. Aware."

Before Izuku could pursue this troubling assessment, the door opened again. Mirko strode in with her characteristic confidence, combat boots silent against the polished floor. J-SAP's combat specialist moved with the predatory grace that made lesser alphas instinctively step aside. Her platinum hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, accentuating sharp features and watchful eyes. The scars visible on her forearms told stories of operations from Belgrade to Caracas, victories earned in blood.

"Security sweeps completed," she reported briskly, slipping into her usual seat. "No anomalies on the approach routes. Perimeter monitors show standard movement patterns." She didn't need to mention that she'd personally checked threats beyond J-SAP's automated systems. Paranoia wasn't paranoia when you'd survived what she had.

Her gaze lingered on Izuku a moment longer than professional assessment required. "You look like shit, Midoriya. When's the last time you slept?" The blunt question carried a gruff concern she reserved for very few.

"It's nothing," he replied, dismissing her concern with practiced ease. "Just finishing the analysis from Kiev."

Mirko's eyes narrowed fractionally, but she let the matter drop as the holographic display activated, indicating an incoming secure connection. Hitoshi Shinso's image materialized above the table, his transmission originating from an undisclosed location in the United States. Even digitized, his presence carried the calm assessment that made him invaluable for high-stakes operations. 

His eyes met Izuku's with a knowing intensity that made Izuku instinctively touch his collar, checking that the patch remained in place. Hitoshi had never directly mentioned what his enhanced senses detected until recently, he knew far more than he let on about the stabilizers.

"Secure connection established," he confirmed, his voice slightly distorted by encryption protocols. "Morning, Commander. Systems indicate this briefing is classified."

"Correct," Izuku acknowledged. "Status report."

"US intelligence communities are still processing Sarajevo." Hitoshi's expression remained neutral, but Izuku detected the subtle tension in his jaw. "The official narrative is solidifying around 'terrorist action with multiple international targets.' Unofficially, there's significant interest in Captain Bakugo's performance during the operation."

"Define 'significant interest.'"

"Three different agencies have requested his medical data. Two have accessed his service history without standard authorization protocols. And someone with redacted clearance levels created a special access file called Genesis Protocol."

The term sent a chill down Izuku's spine, though he couldn't place why. Genesis Protocol—the name carried weight beyond its literal meaning, triggering something in his memory that refused to clarify.

"Any connection to the Kiev technology?" Izuku asked.

"Nothing explicit," Hitoshi replied. "But there's correlation in the access patterns. Someone with the same clearance accessed secure servers where the Kiev data is stored. Twenty-seven minutes after our extraction."

Izuku absorbed this, mentally connecting threads. Someone was monitoring both situations, someone with clearance that bypassed normal security protocols.

The door opened once more as Dabi entered without announcement. The operative moved like liquid shadow, taking position against the back wall rather than claiming a seat at the table. His extensively scarred face caught the light as he shifted, the staples and damaged tissue creating a mask few could see beyond. The room's temperature seemed to drop slightly with his presence, a subconscious reaction to the calculated menace he cultivated.

"You're late," Izuku noted mildly.

Dabi's shrug was barely perceptible. "Security sweep on the east perimeter. Found an irregularity in the sensor grid." His voice carried the perpetual rasp of someone who'd survived something that should have killed them. "Recalibrated the system. We're clear."

The words were professional, but beneath them ran an undercurrent only Izuku fully understood. Dabi's presence on the team remained one of J-SAP's most closely guarded secrets—not because of his skills, impressive as they were, but because of who he'd been before the scars. The weight of that knowledge hung between them, heavier today with General Todoroki's name on the Joint Chiefs briefing schedule.

"We're still waiting on—" Izuku began, only to be interrupted by the briefing room door sliding open once more.

"Sorry I'm late, Commander. Transatlantic flights are a nightmare these days."

Cathleen "Stars and Stripes" Bate strode into the room with the confidence that had earned her both her callsign and her reputation. The American transfer had been controversial when she joined J-SAP three years ago, but her tactical brilliance and unwavering loyalty had silenced most critics. She wore her blonde hair in a practical braid, her posture carrying the disciplined authority of someone who'd commanded elite units.

Izuku didn't bother hiding his surprise. "Stars. Last intelligence had you in Brussels."

"Brussels, Paris, then London." She claimed the chair opposite Mirko, setting down a secured tablet. "But after your message about Kiev, I caught the first transport back. Some things require face-to-face discussion." Her blue eyes carried an intensity that suggested more than professional concern. "The signatures you sent? They match fragments I've been tracking for eighteen months."

The room's atmosphere shifted subtly. Stars rarely made such direct connections, preferring to build evidence methodically before presenting conclusions.

"I thought you might be interested in this," Izuku said, activating the central display. The briefing room's lights dimmed as holographic models materialized, complex patterns of energy signatures from Kiev alongside similar readings from other locations. "The device we recovered defies conventional analysis. Mei's team can't determine its composition, much less its purpose."

"That's because we're using the wrong framework," Stars replied, manipulating the projection with practiced gestures. "These aren't technological signatures in the traditional sense. They're more like... resonance patterns." She expanded one section of the data. "Similar readings appeared in Shanghai last year, and again in Sarajevo two days ago."

Mirko leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You're saying these aren't isolated incidents. They're connected."

"They're more than connected," Stars confirmed. "They're coordinated."

Hitoshi's holographic form shifted slightly. "By whom? And to what end?"

"That," Izuku interjected, "is what we need to determine before my briefing with the Joint Chiefs today." He turned to face each team member in turn. "General Todoroki has requested a full assessment of the Sarajevo incident, particularly focusing on Captain Bakugo's involvement. Officially, we're providing tactical analysis for contingency planning. Unofficially..." He paused, weighing his next words carefully. "Unofficially, I believe we're being evaluated as much as Bakugo is."

"The General doesn't trust us?" Mei asked, looking up from her tablet.

"The General doesn't trust anyone," Dabi answered from the shadows, his voice carrying a bitterness only Izuku fully understood. "Especially not a division that operates outside normal command structures."

The tension in the room thickened perceptibly. Izuku caught Dabi's eye for a fraction of a second, a silent exchange loaded with history. He wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if General Todoroki ever discovered who really operated behind those scars, what would happen if the man learned his eldest son hadn't perished in that "training accident" after all.

"It's not just lack of trust," Izuku clarified. "It's calculation. Toshinori is returning to Pacific Command, which shifts the balance of power. General Todoroki's position as acting Chief of Joint Programs becomes more precarious. He needs to consolidate his authority before Toshinori arrives."

"And we're caught in the middle," Mirko concluded. "So what's our play?"

Izuku activated another layer of security protocols before continuing. "We give him enough to satisfy immediate concerns while protecting our operational integrity. Stars, I need you to prepare a sanitized briefing on the Sarajevo incident—factual but limited in scope. Focus on the tactical elements without speculating on causes or connections."

"Understood," she confirmed. "And the Kiev technology?"

"Classified at Ultra-9. No mention in the briefing." Izuku turned to the holographic presence at the table. "Hitoshi, continue monitoring US intelligence channels. Priority focus on anything related to Genesis Protocol or Bakugo's medical evaluation. If you can access the secure servers at Langley, I need everything they have on his deployment history."

"Already in progress," Hitoshi acknowledged. "I'm also tracking unusual movement patterns around three research facilities in the Virginia area. Something's shifting, Commander. Resources being reallocated at a pace that suggests high-level direction."

"Mei," Izuku continued, "I need a complete analysis of the stabilizer compounds found in Bakugo's system after Sarajevo. Compare them with standard military formulations. Any discrepancies, any unusual markers—I want to know immediately."

The engineer nodded, fingers already flying across her tablet. "I'll have preliminary results before your briefing with the Joint Chiefs." She hesitated, glancing up at him with a look that carried private meaning. "And I'll have that other project ready for testing by tonight. The one we discussed earlier."

Izuku acknowledged her with a slight nod, grateful that she maintained their cover even here, among the team. The experimental stabilizers she developed were his lifeline, the only thing standing between his careful control and a disaster situation.

Izuku turned to the two combat specialists. "Mirko, Dabi. After this meeting, I need to speak with you privately." The request carried weight beyond its simple phrasing—these were his most lethal assets, operators he deployed only when situations required permanent solutions.

Mirko's eyebrow rose slightly, but she didn't question the directive. Dabi remained motionless in the shadows, though his posture shifted subtly, the operative had already guessed what their assignment might entail.

"One more thing," Izuku added, addressing the entire team. "Captain Bakugo is being transferred to our program for evaluation. The official orders will arrive today, with transfer scheduled for next week."

The reaction was immediate. Mirko straightened, a predatory focus entering her eyes. Dabi's scarred hands flexed at his sides. Mei looked up from her tablet, brow furrowing in rare concentration.

"The same Captain Bakugo who just compromised an international operation?" Hitoshi asked, his tone deliberately neutral. "That's an... unexpected development."

"It's a political move," Stars said bluntly. "They want to outsource the problem while maintaining access to his capabilities."

"It's more than that," Izuku replied. "General Todoroki specifically requested his transfer to our program. Which means someone higher up wants Bakugo under J-SAP's supervision for reasons beyond standard evaluation."

"Or they want to see how we handle him," Mirko suggested. "Test our containment protocols against an alpha who's already proven difficult to control."

The unspoken question hung in the air: was Bakugo being sent as an asset or a test? A resource to be utilized or a problem to be solved?

"We'll adapt accordingly," Izuku concluded. "For now, our priority is preparing for the Joint Chiefs briefing. I expect each of you to have your assignments completed by 1400 hours. Dismissed."

As the team began to disperse, Izuku felt the familiar burn behind his sternum, a warning sign that his system was approaching another crash. He discreetly checked the time. Six hours since his last dose. The new patches Mei had provided should have lasted longer. The thought of facing General Todoroki while fighting these cramps made his stomach clench.

Stars remained seated, her tablet still active before her. Izuku recognized the deliberate delay, a signal that she had matters to discuss that couldn't be shared with the full team.

When the others had left, with Hitoshi's connection terminating last, she finally spoke. "Commander, I need to speak with you privately after your briefing with the Joint Chiefs."

Izuku studied her expression, noting the careful control masking what appeared to be genuine concern. "Regarding?"

"Certain patterns I've identified in the quantum signatures." Her voice lowered despite the room's security. "And... something else. Something personal that may be relevant to our current situation."

"Personal?" The word caught him off guard. Stars rarely brought personal matters into professional contexts.

"It relates to recent redacted findings.” She met his gaze directly. "And possibly to your father's research."

The mention of his father sent a jolt through Izuku's carefully maintained composure. Hisashi Midoriya, the brilliant quantum physicist who had disappeared twenty-two years ago during a classified deployment. The man whose absence had shaped Izuku's life and career, driving him through the military ranks in search of answers that remained frustratingly out of reach.

"My office. 1900 hours," he replied, his voice carefully steady despite the sudden thundering of his pulse. "Bring everything you have."

Stars nodded once, gathering her materials with practiced efficiency. "Be careful with General Todoroki today, Commander," she added, pausing at the door. "I've seen that look in commanding officers before. The kind who'll sacrifice pieces to win the game." Her expression softened fractionally. "Just make sure we're not those pieces."

As the door closed behind her, Izuku removed the small case Mei had slipped him. Inside, nestled in protective foam, lay three slim injectors—each containing a compound that existed nowhere in official records. He selected one, pressing it against his thigh through his uniform trousers, feeling the cold rush of chemicals that would keep his designation markers suppressed for awhile longer.

At least enough to get through the briefing with General Todoroki, a man who had no idea one of his "assets" was the son he'd presumed dead for years. The same son whose appointment to Izuku's team remained one of Izuku’s most dangerous secrets.

Izuku straightened his tie and began organizing his materials for the Joint Chiefs. In less than three hours, he would face General Enji Todoroki. The briefing would be a minefield of classified information and political maneuvering, with consequences that extended far beyond today's meeting. Whatever Stars had discovered, whatever connections existed between all of these different elements, one thing was certain: the puzzle was larger and more dangerous than he'd initially believed.

And somewhere in its center lay answers he'd been seeking for most of his life.

A couple of hours later, Izuku strode down the polished corridor of J-SAP headquarters toward the secure briefing room, the weight of his responsibilities pressed against him like a physical force. The stabilizer Mei had provided earlier was holding, but barely, he could feel the telltale warmth beneath his skin that signaled it would need reinforcement soon. Not ideal timing with what awaited him beyond those doors.

His footsteps echoed against marble floors, each one bringing him closer to a confrontation he'd been avoiding for months.

General Enji Todoroki. Prime Alpha. Japan's most decorated military commander. And Shoto's father.

"Captain Midoriya." Kota Izumi appeared beside him, falling into step with practiced efficiency. Despite his youth, the intelligence analyst carried himself with the confidence of someone determined to prove his worth. "I've prepared the briefing materials Hitoshi sent over. Analysis from Kiev, preliminary reports from Sarajevo, and the global designation incident tracking."

"Thank you, Kota." Izuku accepted the tablet, his eyes quickly scanning the intelligence summary. The young analyst had been an unexpected addition to the support staff, initially assigned as a temporary aide during staff shortages, his sharp mind and dedication had made him increasingly valuable. "Anything I should be aware of before we go in?"

Kota's expression remained professionally composed, but Izuku caught the subtle tightening around his eyes. "Dr. Garaki arrived from MIT this morning. He's joining as scientific advisor to the joint chiefs. And Director Toshinori sent his regrets, he's been called to emergency consultations in Geneva."

Izuku's step faltered slightly before he recovered. "Garaki is here personally? Not just on secure video?"

"In the flesh," Kota confirmed, his voice dropping slightly. "First time he's attended in person since Shanghai. And..." he hesitated, clearly weighing his next words, "Minister Bakugo is also attending."

The news hit Izuku like a physical blow. Mitsuki Bakugo, Japan's Minister of Defense, formidable political force, and mother to the very alpha Izuku was tasked with evaluating. The complications felt like they multiplied exponentially.

"I see." Izuku kept his voice level through sheer force of will. "Anyone else I should know about?"

"Just the usual suspects. General Todoroki is leading the session in Director Toshinori's absence."

Of course he was. Enji Todoroki would never miss an opportunity to assert his authority, especially with Toshinori away. The power dynamics in the room had just tilted toward the hawkish element of J-SAP's oversight committee.

"There's also a significant media presence outside headquarters," Kota added, his voice dropping lower. "Designation rights protesters have gathered at the main gates. Their numbers have tripled since yesterday."

Izuku nodded, mentally adding another variable to an already complex equation. The protests had been building for weeks, a global movement reacting to leaked documents about potential designation registration initiatives. What had begun as small demonstrations in Western capitals had spread across Asia, gaining momentum with each new revelation about military incidents.

"How's your..." Kota's eyes flickered briefly to Izuku's collar, the question unspoken but clear. Even as a junior analyst, he was observant enough to notice patterns, including the timing of Izuku's meetings with Mei.

"It's fine," Izuku replied automatically. "Focus on the briefing."

They reached the massive titanium doors of Briefing Room 7, biometric scanners silently verifying their identities before the reinforced panels slid open. The war room beyond was a marvel of technology and security—quantum shielding in the walls, advanced holographic displays, and enough computing power to run a small nation's infrastructure.

"I'll wait to assist with data coordination," Kota said, taking his position at one of the support stations that lined the walls. As an intern with the joint chiefs, his presence was standard but his input would be minimal, a perfect position for gathering intelligence while remaining beneath notice.

The assembled officials fell silent as Izuku entered, their conversations halting mid-sentence. Twelve of Japan's most powerful military, intelligence, and political figures gathered around a horseshoe-shaped table, with General Todoroki at its head. His massive frame dominated the space, his presence radiating authority even without the tell-tale pheromones that marked him as prime alpha. Military suppressants kept his scent contained, but nothing could diminish the sheer force of his personality.

"Captain Midoriya. Finally." Enji's voice carried the barest hint of disdain. "Perhaps we can begin now that our J-SAP expert has decided to join us."

Izuku maintained his composure, offering a crisp bow to the assembled officials before taking his designated seat. "My apologies for any delay, General. I was reviewing the latest intelligence from Sarajevo."

His gaze swept the room, cataloging faces and positions. Opposite him sat a man he recognized immediately from intelligence briefings but had never met in person, Dr. Umon Garaki. In his sixties, with neatly combed silver hair and aristocratic features, Garaki projected the image of a distinguished scientist. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on a narrow nose, magnifying eyes that carried the analytical sharpness of someone accustomed to dissecting problems and solutions with equal precision.

There was something unsettling about the way those eyes tracked Izuku's movements, an intense curiosity disguised as professional interest. Izuku felt a strange sense of recognition, though he was certain they'd never met before today.

Beside Garaki sat Mitsuki Bakugo, her blonde hair styled in a severe bob that framed sharp features. As Minister of Defense, she'd risen through political ranks with the same fierce determination that had characterized her earlier career as a military researcher. Her expression betrayed nothing, but Izuku felt the weight of her scrutiny.

"Now that we're all present," Enji continued, activating the central holographic display, "let's address the situation directly. Designation incidents have increased 47% globally in the past quarter. Intelligence suggests coordinated activity beyond random manifestation."

The hologram showed a world map dotted with red markers, each representing a designation-related incident serious enough to require military or law enforcement response. The clusters around major cities were impossible to dismiss as coincidence.

"More concerning," Enji continued, "is the growing unrest. Designation rights protests have spread to twenty-seven countries, including significant demonstrations in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka."

The display shifted to show footage of demonstrators outside government buildings. Signs in multiple languages declared: "DESIGNATIONS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS," "NO REGISTRATION, NO EXPERIMENTATION," and "PRIME JUSTICE NOW." In Berlin, London, and New York, the crowds numbered in the thousands. Even in traditionally conservative Seoul, hundreds had gathered despite government restrictions.

"Captain Midoriya's team has been tracking these patterns," Enji said, nodding toward Izuku. "Captain, your assessment?"

Izuku rose, keying in commands that brought forward specific data points. "The incidents follow distinct patterns suggesting external triggers rather than natural manifestation. Three categories have emerged: spontaneous enhancement of existing prime designations, sudden manifestation in previously standard designations, and catastrophic loss of control in otherwise stable individuals."

He highlighted several incidents, footage playing silently above the table, an alpha soldier in Germany suddenly demonstrating strength beyond human limits; an omega diplomat in Singapore emitting pheromones powerful enough to affect an entire conference room; a beta researcher in Brazil manifesting designation traits that should have been biologically impossible.

"Most concerning," Izuku continued, "is the correlation with global research facilities." He brought up a secondary map overlay. "Eighty-three percent of incidents occur within fifty kilometers of institutions conducting advanced designation research, many with military connections."

As he spoke, Izuku noticed Dr. Garaki leaning forward, eyes fixed on the data with intensity that seemed beyond professional interest. The scientist's fingers tapped against the polished table, an unconscious gesture that betrayed excitement rather than concern.

"Are you suggesting these incidents are being deliberately triggered, Captain?" Garaki asked, his voice cultured and measured, carrying the precise articulation of an academic.

"The evidence supports that hypothesis," Izuku replied, meeting Garaki's gaze directly. "The statistical deviation from natural occurrence is too significant to dismiss."

"Speculation," General Yamamoto cut in, his weathered face creased with skepticism. "Without direct evidence of causation, we risk jumping to conclusions that could destabilize international relations."

"With respect, General," Izuku countered, "the patterns are difficult to explain through any other framework. The Kiev incident provided concrete evidence of technological interference. The artifacts recovered there—"

"Are still being analyzed," Garaki interjected smoothly. "And preliminary findings suggest experimental medical applications, not weapons development." He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Your dedication to security is admirable, Captain Midoriya, but we should be careful not to conflate medical research with military threat."

Something in the way Garaki emphasized his name made the hair on Izuku's neck prickle. 

"The artifacts contained quantum resonance technology capable of manipulating designation expression at the cellular level," Izuku stated firmly. "Whether the intended application was medical or military, the capability exists to trigger these incidents artificially."

Enji Todoroki's massive hands flattened against the table. Even with military-grade suppressants, his prime alpha presence filled the room like a physical pressure.

"This brings us to the immediate concern," he said, eyes sweeping the table. "The American Enhanced Designation Act coming before their Congress next month. If passed, it would establish international frameworks for designation registration, monitoring, and potential containment."

"A solution masquerading as diplomacy," Minister Bakugo spoke for the first time, her voice sharp as a blade. "The Americans want global authorization to track enhanced designations under the pretense of public safety. Their lobbyists are already pressuring our Diet members to support similar legislation."

"The protesters aren't entirely wrong," Admiral Nezu observed from his position at the far end of the table. The diminutive naval commander's gentle voice belied his sharp tactical mind. "Registration historically precedes more invasive controls. The public fears that today's registry becomes tomorrow's restriction."

"The EDA offers necessary safeguards," Garaki countered, his tone reasonable and measured. "These incidents demonstrate the need for monitoring systems. Without proper oversight, enhanced designations pose unpredictable risks." He gestured toward the footage still playing above them. "We've seen what happens when control protocols fail."

"Enhanced individuals are citizens first, not weapons," Izuku said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "Registration frameworks historically lead to discrimination and, eventually, control measures that violate basic rights."

Garaki's smile was condescending, though perfectly polite. "A noble sentiment, Captain. But when a prime alpha can tear through reinforced concrete with his bare hands, or an omega can influence an entire room of diplomats with pheromone manipulation, standard citizenship parameters become inadequate." 

His scrutiny made Izuku's skin prickle beneath his carefully maintained composure, he felt the stabilizer's effectiveness beginning to wane, which was a dangerous development in a room full of political predators who would seize on any sign of weakness.

"The science is clear," Garaki continued. "Designation capabilities are evolving beyond our previous understanding. My research at MIT has documented accelerating changes in expression patterns over the past decade, changes that correlate with what we're seeing globally."

"Perhaps," Mitsuki Bakugo interjected, "we should discuss the situation that directly concerns Japan's interests. My son."

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the Minister. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but Izuku caught the underlying tension in her posture.

"Katsuki's... incident... in Sarajevo raises questions about control protocols for enhanced military assets," she continued. "Particularly those with prime or enhanced designation status."

"The situation in Sarajevo was mishandled from the beginning," Enji declared, seizing the opening. "American command allowed a prime alpha with known aggression markers to lead a multinational extraction. When his suppressant implant failed, the outcome was predictable."

"Predictable but perhaps not accidental," Garaki mused, his fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin. "The pattern of suppressant failure in specific operational contexts suggests something more systematic than equipment malfunction."

Izuku's interest sharpened. "Are you suggesting deliberate sabotage, Dr. Garaki?"

"I'm suggesting we consider all possibilities," Garaki replied carefully. "My laboratory has been studying designation suppressant technology for over a decade. Modern military-grade implants don't simply 'fail' without cause."

"The Sarajevo intelligence suggests more complex factors, General," Izuku added, redirecting to more concrete evidence. "Captain Bakugo's team discovered evidence of designation experimentation connected to the hostages. The compounds present may have triggered his response when his implant malfunctioned."

"Speculation again," Enji dismissed, though his eyes narrowed slightly. "What we know for certain is that a prime alpha lost control, resulting in international incident. Now the Americans want to send him here for evaluation, but more likely to distance themselves from political fallout."

"And yet," Mitsuki said coolly, "this presents an opportunity. Having Katsuki under J-SAP's supervision gives us direct access to enhanced designation data that would otherwise remain within American classification."

"Minister Bakugo is correct," Garaki agreed, nodding appreciatively. "Captain Bakugo's profile is exceptional, even among prime alphas. Studying his responses could provide valuable insights into managing future incidents." The way Garaki spoke of Bakugo, as if he were a fascinating specimen rather than a person, made Izuku's jaw tighten. 

"The scientific value is undeniable," Garaki continued, his enthusiasm barely contained. "I've reviewed Captain Bakugo's preliminary designation assessment. His alphic index exceeds standard parameters by nearly thirty percent, and his pheromone production patterns show unique signatures I've only observed in theoretical models."

"Those files were classified Ultra-7," Izuku noted, his voice carefully neutral despite his surprise. "How did you gain access to them?"

Garaki smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "The Science Ministry has certain privileges when coordinating with Defense, Captain. Information sharing is essential for progress." He turned to the others. "What makes Bakugo's case particularly fascinating is the stability of his enhancement despite its intensity. Most subjects with comparable alphic indices experience severe cognitive degradation, yet he maintains tactical coherence even during peak expression."

The clinical terminology wasn't lost on Izuku, nor was Garaki's apparent familiarity with classification details that should have been beyond his clearance.

Izuku watched the power dynamics shift, alliances forming and reforming around the table as various interests aligned. Garaki wanted access to Bakugo's enhancement data. Mitsuki wanted her son under Japanese authority rather than American scrutiny. Enji wanted to assert J-SAP's dominance in designation management.

"The question," Enji continued, "is who supervises this evaluation. Given the sensitivity and political implications, I recommend—"

"Captain Midoriya and his team is the logical choice, especially considering the Americans have already requested him," Mitsuki interrupted smoothly. "They have the most advanced research capabilities, and Captain Midoriya's personal expertise is unmatched."

Enji's expression darkened, a flash of displeasure quickly masked behind professional composure. "Captain Midoriya has other priorities. The Kiev artifacts require his attention, and his team is already stretched thin with the Sarajevo follow-up."

"On the contrary," Garaki interjected, "Captain Midoriya is precisely the right person for this assignment." His eyes fixed on Izuku with that same unsettling intensity. "His understanding of designation biology and enhancement patterns is... exceptional. I support the Minister's position," Garaki added. "Captain Midoriya's team is best equipped for this assignment. I would be happy to provide scientific oversight."

"Scientific oversight implies laboratory settings," Izuku noted carefully. "This will be an operational evaluation of a field asset, not a research study."

Garaki's smile thinned slightly. "Of course, Captain. Though the line between applied science and field operations grows increasingly blurred in designation management. Your own work demonstrates that quite effectively." My own work? Izuku kept his expression neutral despite his confusion. He had never published research or shared his methodologies beyond classified channels. Garaki's familiarity with his approach suggested access to information that should be restricted to his direct command.

Enji's jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his frustration. His gaze swept the table, assessing the political landscape and finding himself outmaneuvered.

"Very well. Captain Midoriya will oversee Bakugo's evaluation and integration. But," he added, fixing Izuku with a hard stare, "you will report directly to me on all findings. Weekly updates, full transparency."

"Of course, General," Izuku replied evenly, though the thought of frequent interactions with Enji made his stomach twist. Not just because of the complicated history with Shoto, but because of the secret he kept, the scarred alpha on his team whose true identity would shatter Enji's carefully maintained facade if revealed.

The thought of Dabi made Izuku's mind race through contingencies. If Enji increased scrutiny of his team, maintaining that secret would become exponentially more difficult. The world believed Touya Todoroki had died in a training accident years ago. The truth that he had survived, scarred by his father's brutal regimen, would destroy not just Enji's career but the entire Todoroki family's standing. He didn't even want to think about Shoto's reaction.

"There's another consideration," Garaki added, his tone carefully measured. "Recent intelligence suggests a non-state actor may be involved in the designation incidents. A group calling themselves 'Designation Liberation Army.'"

New data appeared on the display—fragmented intelligence reports, surveillance photos, encrypted communications partially decrypted.

"They appear to be a coalition of enhanced individuals operating outside governmental oversight," Garaki explained. "Their manifesto, what little we've intercepted, suggests they oppose registration initiatives and promote designation sovereignty."

"Terrorists," Enji said flatly.

"Activists, by their own definition," Garaki corrected, though his tone suggested the distinction was merely semantic. "But their methods are becoming increasingly aggressive. The demonstrations we're seeing globally? They're just the public face. Behind them operates a network of unknown individuals that should concern us all."

Garaki brought up surveillance images of figures in nondescript clothing, their faces partly obscured. "We have reason to believe they may be connected to the Sarajevo incident and possibly to what Captain Midoriya's team discovered in Kiev."

"What's their objective?" he asked, focusing on the operational implications rather than the political posturing.

"Liberation of enhanced designations from government control," Garaki replied. "They claim the registration initiatives are merely the first step toward weaponization of primes and other enhanced individuals. Their rhetoric suggests they believe governments worldwide are already conducting experimental programs." He paused, his expression grimly amused. "Not entirely without cause, one might admit."

Izuku felt a chill run down his spine. If the Designation Liberation movement had indeed discovered fragments of classified programs, their paranoia wasn't entirely unfounded. But acting on partial information could lead to escalation that endangered civilians.

"We have limited intelligence on their leadership structure," Garaki continued, "but they appear to be well-funded and technologically sophisticated. Their activities have been tracked across at least twelve countries in the past six months."

"All the more reason to accelerate Captain Bakugo's evaluation," Mitsuki concluded. "If these... extremists... are targeting enhanced individuals or research facilities, understanding the full spectrum of prime designations becomes even more critical."

Enji nodded, his decision clearly made. "Captain Midoriya, you will prepare for Bakugo's arrival. Full evaluation protocols, accelerated timeline. I want preliminary findings within seventy-two hours."

"Seventy-two hours is insufficient for comprehensive assessment," Izuku objected. "Standard protocols require at least—"

"These aren't standard circumstances," Enji cut him off. "The Americans are transferring him as soon as you get back to the states. You will be ready." His tone left no room for negotiation.

A warning flare of heat beneath Izuku's skin told him the stabilizer was definitely wearing thin. Not catastrophic yet, but close enough to concern him. He needed to conclude this meeting before anyone noticed.

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, inclining his head slightly while mentally cataloging the adjustments he'd need to make.

"Excellent," Garaki said, his satisfaction barely concealed. "I look forward to working closely with you on this project, Captain Midoriya. My research on designation enhancement dovetails perfectly with your operational expertise." His eyes seemed to look through Izuku rather than at him. "We may find we have more in common than you realize."

The statement hung in the air, loaded with implications Izuku couldn't fully decipher. 

"If that's all," Enji said, rising to his imposing full height, "this meeting is adjourned. Captain Midoriya, remain behind for operational details."

As the others filed out, Izuku caught Mitsuki Bakugo's measuring gaze. The Minister paused beside him, her voice pitched low.

"My son is not a lab specimen, Captain. Be sure to remember that during your evaluation." Before Izuku could respond, she had moved on, leaving him to wonder whether her words were a warning or a plea.

Dr. Garaki lingered by the door, arranging materials in his briefcase with meticulous precision. "Captain," he called, just loud enough to be heard across the room. "I've taken the liberty of forwarding some of my research to your secure server." He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Scientific collaboration works best when built on shared foundations."

Izuku nodded professionally, though unease twisted in his stomach. "I'll review it, Doctor."

"Please do," Garaki replied.

Before Izuku could respond, Garaki had departed, leaving only he and Enji. The General's carefully maintained composure slipped slightly, alpha irritation leaking through his professional veneer.

"This is not ideal," Enji stated flatly. "Garaki has his own agenda, and Minister Bakugo is too personally invested to be objective. But the political reality leaves us little choice."

Izuku stood at parade rest, maintaining professional distance. "I understand, sir."

"Do you?" Enji's gaze was piercing. "Because your history of... personal entanglements... raises questions about your objectivity as well."

The deliberate reference to Shoto made Izuku's spine stiffen, but he kept his expression neutral. "My personal history has no bearing on my operational judgment, General."

"See that it doesn't," Enji replied coldly. "Bakugo is a prime alpha with enhanced capabilities beyond anything we've documented. If his control fails again, the consequences could be catastrophic. I expect you to maintain appropriate protocols regardless of Garaki's scientific curiosity or the Minister's maternal concerns."

"Of course, sir."

Enji studied him for a moment longer, as if searching for weakness. "One more thing, Captain. Director Toshinori may be content to let his teams operate with minimal oversight, but I take a more direct interest in critical operations. Expect my personal attention on this matter."

The threat was clear, Enji would be watching every aspect of Bakugo's evaluation, looking for any excuse to assert control. For a moment, Izuku thought of his team, of the secrets he kept, of the fragile balance he maintained under his command. Enji's increased scrutiny threatened all of it.

"Understood, sir," he replied, his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.

Enji gave a curt nod and turned away, his massive frame silhouetted against the holographic displays still showing the global pattern of designation incidents. "Dismissed, Captain."

As Izuku left the war room, his mind was already racing through contingencies. First, he needed another stabilizer dose, the burning beneath his skin was intensifying, warning of imminent breakdown. Then he needed to secure Dabi's position, ensuring Enji's increased oversight wouldn't accidentally reveal his operative's true identity.

Kota fell into step beside him, tablet in hand. "Captain, I've compiled the preliminary data for Bakugo's integration. Hitoshi sent over the American files through secure channels."

"Thank you, Kota." Izuku maintained his professional composure despite the turmoil raging beneath. "Have those forwarded to my secure terminal. I need to review those with Stars about Dr. Garaki's interest in our operation."

"Yes, sir." Kota's expression remained neutral, but Izuku caught the flicker of concern in his eyes, the young analyst was perceptive enough to read the tension in the situation. "Should I have Mei prepare additional supplies for the next few days? The evaluation protocols will be demanding."

The discreet reference to his stabilizer needs was considerate, although he didn't want to encourage this behavior, he appreciated it. "Yes. Priority clearance."

"Captain, Stars also sent a secure message during your briefing," Kota said quietly. "She's requested an off-site meeting instead, at the top of the hour."

Izuku nodded, filing this unexpected development alongside the other complications of the day. "Location?"

"Small izakaya in Akasaka, she transmitted the coordinates." Kota's voice dropped further. 

The urgency was unusual, even for Stars. For a moment, Izuku considered his competing priorities between the stabilizer dose he desperately needed, preparation for Bakugo's arrival, and now this urgent request.

"Have Mei drop another package at my quarters within the hour," Izuku decided. "And reschedule tomorrow morning's briefings. We'll need to accelerate preparations for Bakugo's arrival."

"Yes, sir." Kota's expression remained professional, though his eyes betrayed concern. As Kota departed, Izuku felt the burning beneath his skin intensify. The stabilizer was definitely failing, another sign of his body's growing resistance to the compounds. He'd need to address that before meeting Stars, the last thing he needed was a stability crisis in a public location, even one as discreet as the izakaya she'd chosen.

One more challenge in a day already overflowing with them. Bakugo's impending arrival, Enji's increased scrutiny, Garaki's disturbing familiarity, and now whatever Stars had discovered that required face-to-face discussion beyond J-SAP's secure walls. 

Izuku checked his watch. He had an hour until he needed to meet Stars—enough time to return to his quarters, administer another stabilizer dose, and review the files Hitoshi had sent over about Bakugo. Whatever awaited him at that izakaya would either provide clarity or add more questions to an already complex puzzle. 

The sun was sinking toward Tokyo's skyline when Izuku stepped through the doors of the small izakaya tucked away in a quiet alley near Akasaka. Unlike the upscale restaurants that catered to politicians and businessmen in the area, this place maintained an intentional anonymity. Traditional wooden façade, faded noren curtains, and not a single review on any tourist app. Perfect for conversations that needed privacy without obvious security measures.

Izuku nodded to the elderly proprietor who had long ago stopped asking questions about the foreigners who occasionally appeared at his establishment requesting the back room. The old man merely gestured toward the sliding door at the rear, his wizened face betraying nothing but professional courtesy.

The private dining area was dimly lit, paper lanterns casting warm pools of light that did little to illuminate the corners. A woman sat with her back to the wall, facing the entrance. A shared habit, even in supposedly friendly territory. When she saw him, her serious expression broke into a broad grin.

"You're a sight for jet-lagged eyes, Midoriya," Stars said, rising to greet him.

Stars stood just shy of six feet tall, her athletic frame carrying the quiet confidence of someone who had proven herself in a dozen fields dominated by men. Her blonde hair was pulled back in its usual practical bun, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face. Unlike the carefully curated image she presented at international conferences, here she wore simple dark jeans and a navy shirt that wouldn't draw attention on Tokyo streets.

"I was shocked to see you at the team debrief in person," Izuku said, genuine surprise coloring his voice as he clasped her offered hand. The gesture seamlessly transitioned into a brief hug, the kind shared between people who had faced danger together too many times to stand on formality. "I sent Hitoshi stateside to rendezvous with you."

"I'm still heading back tonight, but had a slight change of plans," Stars replied, gesturing for him to sit. "The research couldn't wait, and given what's happening with designation incidents worldwide, I thought a face-to-face was warranted."

Izuku settled across from her, noting the security measures she'd already implemented. Quantum jammers disguised as cell phones placed at strategic points around the room, the tablet on the table displaying what appeared to be restaurant reviews but was actually running counter-surveillance software. Typical Stars, thorough to the point of paranoia, but he couldn't fault her methods. They had kept them both alive more than once.

"You're supposed to be on leave," he reminded her, though there was no real reproach in his tone. "After that business in Cairo, you promised Aizawa you'd take at least a week off."

Stars waved dismissively, reaching for the bottle of sake between them. "Sleep is for people without security clearances." She poured for them both with practiced precision. "Besides, I figured you could use the backup after Kiev. That was a shitshow by all accounts."

Izuku accepted the cup, his expression softening slightly. This was Stars—direct, unflinching, but with a core of genuine concern beneath the professional exterior. He'd met her six years ago during a joint operation between J-SAP and American intelligence. What had begun as a reluctant partnership had evolved into one of the most effective working relationships in his career, and something he hesitantly considered a friendship.

"How much do you know about Kiev?" he asked, taking a measured sip. The sake was good, dry and clean with a subtle warmth that spread through his chest.

"Officially? Almost nothing. Just that there was an 'incident' at a private art exhibition that required multinational intervention." Stars' blue eyes sharpened with intelligence that had made her one of the top agents. "Unofficially? That you found something that has half the intelligence community scrambling, and that it's connected to designation patterns similar to the Shanghai case from a couple years back."

Izuku's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. This was why they worked so well together, Stars could read between the lines of classified briefings, connecting dots that others deliberately kept separated.

"Not similar," he corrected quietly. "More advanced. Whatever was in that Kiev lab, it was stages beyond what we saw in Shanghai."

Stars leaned forward, her voice dropping despite the security measures. "Enhancement tech?"

"Something like that." Izuku chose his words carefully, years of operational security becoming second nature. "But with a quantum component that doesn't match any known research patterns. The science is... disconcerting."

"Hence the midnight flight back with Aizawa," Stars concluded, studying him with the same intensity she brought to her research. "You look like hell, by the way. Like you're running on stabilizers and stubbornness."

Izuku's hand instinctively went to his collar, checking that the patch was still securely in place. "That obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows what to look for," she replied, her expression softening with concern. "The new formulation from Mei isn't holding as well as the previous version, is it?"

"No," he admitted, lowering his voice further. "The effectiveness window keeps shrinking. What used to last twelve hours barely gives me six now."

Stars frowned. "That's problematic, especially with the upcoming integration."

Izuku's head snapped up. "You know about that already?"

"I was monitoring the Joint Chiefs briefing remotely. Part of my unofficial work today." Stars' expression turned serious. "I also saw that Dr. Garaki has inserted himself into the evaluation process."

The mention of Garaki made Izuku's jaw tighten. "You know him?"

"By reputation only." Stars took a careful sip of her sake. "He's been a fixture in the designation research community for decades, but he's always operated on the periphery of military applications. Brilliant but... unorthodox in his methodologies."

"That's unsettling to hear." Izuku leaned forward. "How's the balance of power looking from your perspective? The Joint Chiefs meeting today felt like walking through a political minefield."

"It's been shifting since Shanghai," Stars replied, shifting into her analytical mode. "The scientific community and military intelligence have always maintained an uneasy alliance when it comes to designation research. Scientists want discovery, military wants application."

"And control," Izuku added.

"Exactly." Stars nodded. “As you know, for the past couple of years Director Toshinori has maintained a careful equilibrium, keeping people like General Todoroki in check while still allowing research to progress within ethical boundaries. But since he's been gradually stepping back..." She trailed off, her implication clear.

"The hawks are gaining influence," Izuku concluded.

"With one surprising counterbalance—Minister Bakugo." Stars' expression turned thoughtful. "She's become the unexpected moderating force in these discussions. Her scientific background gives her credibility with the research community, while her political position demands respect from military hardliners like Todoroki."

"And Garaki?" Izuku asked, thinking of the scientist's unsettling interest in him during the briefing.

"That's where things get interesting," Stars replied, lowering her voice further. "Garaki operates outside the established power structures. He's neither firmly in the military camp nor a pure scientific idealist. He has patrons in both worlds, connections that span industries and governments."

"A dangerous combination."

"Potentially," Stars agreed. "Especially since no one seems to know whose agenda he's really advancing. Including, I suspect, the people who think they're using him for their own purposes."

Izuku digested this information, adding it to his mental map of the evolving political landscape. "And now they're all converging around Bakugo's evaluation."

"Which is why I'm heading to Walter Reed as soon as I get back to the US," Stars said, switching topics with her characteristic efficiency. "While you're dealing with all of this mess and prep, I want to follow up on the missing omega from Sarajevo."

"I thought all hostages were accounted for," Izuku said, brow furrowing.

"Officially, yes. But my sources indicate one of the omegas was diverted from the official extraction route instead of back to MI6. She supposedly arrived at Walter Reed for 'advanced medical assessment,' but no one's seen her since." Stars' expression hardened. "And she happens to be one of the world's leading experts on designation-based technology."

"You think there's a connection to Kiev?"

"I think there are too many coincidences piling up," Stars replied. "An omega scientist with expertise in designation quantum physics gets taken hostage in Sarajevo. A prime alpha with unusually enhanced capabilities loses control during her extraction. And you find advanced designation tech in Kiev that defies conventional understanding."

Izuku felt the pieces shifting in his mind, a pattern emerging that made his tactical instincts flare with warning. "You're not planning to interact with Bakugo directly, are you?"

Stars shook her head. "No need to complicate your evaluation process or muddy the waters. I'll work my channels at Walter Reed while Hitoshi continues monitoring the intelligence traffic. You can focus on Bakugo, he seems to be the most visible piece of this puzzle right now, which feels like he's drawing attention away from whatever else is happening."

The tactical implications weren't lost on Izuku. Having Stars operating on a parallel track while he handled Bakugo would give them coverage across multiple angles of the emerging threat.

"There's more," Stars said after a moment, her tone shifting subtly. "Something I haven't included in any official reports yet."

Izuku sensed the change immediately, his attention sharpening. Stars was meticulous about documentation, her reports legendary for their thoroughness. For her to withhold information from official channels meant she was treading into dangerous territory.

"Go on," he prompted quietly.

Stars glanced around despite their security measures, an ingrained habit from years of fieldwork. "While researching the designation anomalies, I stumbled onto something... unexpected. Fragments of a research initiative that was supposedly terminated twenty plus years ago. A program called Project Genesis."

The name sent an inexplicable chill down Izuku's spine, though he couldn't place why. "I'm not familiar with it."

"Few people are," Stars replied, her voice dropping further. "It's been thoroughly redacted from most databases, nearly scrubbed from existence. But I found references in some of the designation research I was analyzing, connections that someone tried very hard to erase."

"What I've pieced together suggests Project Genesis was focused on designation-based research far beyond anything publicly acknowledged," Stars continued as Izuku pocketed the device. "Not just studying designation biology, but actively working to enhance and potentially weaponize designation traits. The kind of research that crosses every ethical and legal boundary in the book."

Izuku's jaw tightened. "And you think this is connected to the current designation anomalies?"

"I think it's the foundation for whatever we're seeing now," Stars confirmed. "The research methodologies are too similar to be coincidental. I think that whoever is behind the current wave of designation manipulation is building on the work of Project Genesis."

She paused, something hesitant in her expression, unusual for someone normally so confident in her assessments. "There's something else, Midoriya. Something I wasn't sure whether to tell you."

Izuku felt a knot forming in his stomach, recognizing the rare uncertainty in Stars' voice. "What is it?"

"The research signatures," she said carefully. "The theoretical frameworks underlying Project Genesis. They're... distinctive. Only a handful of scientists in the world were working at that level twenty to thirty years ago. Most of the markers point to one primary researcher."

"Who?" Izuku asked, though something in him already suspected the answer, a cold certainty settling in his chest.

Stars met his gaze directly, unflinching in her delivery of what she knew would be a personal blow. "Dr. Hisashi Midoriya. Your father."

The name hung in the air between them, weighted with implications that Izuku couldn't fully process. His father—the brilliant whose classified work remained locked behind security clearances so high even Izuku had never gained full access.

"That's impossible," he said finally, his voice carefully controlled despite the emotional maelstrom the name triggered. "My father's research was focused on quantum energy applications, not designation biology."

"Officially, yes," Stars agreed gently. "But what I found suggests his classified work ventured into areas that were deliberately kept separate from his public research. The theoretical underpinnings of Project Genesis bear his unmistakable signature." Izuku's mind raced, reassessing memories, conversations, the fragments of his father's work he'd managed to piece together over the years. 

"Although, the data is incomplete," Stars continued, understanding the weight of what she was sharing. "Deliberately fragmented to prevent exactly this kind of discovery."

"Like the device in Kiev," Izuku murmured, connections forming rapidly in his mind. "And potentially like whatever happened to Bakugo."

"And like Dr. Garaki's current research focus," Stars added, her expression darkening. "His recent publications dance around the core principles I identified in the Project Echo fragments. Different terminology, updated methodologies, but the fundamental approach is nearly identical."

The implications hit Izuku like a physical blow. "You think Garaki was involved in this Project Genesis? With my father?"

"I can't confirm it yet," Stars replied cautiously. "But his sudden interest in your team, in Bakugo's evaluation... it suggests he recognizes something in the pattern too. Something he's been looking or waiting for."

Izuku felt the weight of personal and professional revelations pressing down simultaneously. If his father had indeed been involved in research that was now being weaponized, and if that work was being continued...

"What about Dr. Whitmore, the omega?” he asked, making connections rapidly. "Could her research be building on Project Genesis as well?"

"It's possible," Stars acknowledged. "She specializes in quantum interfaces for designation biology, technology that could theoretically bridge the gap between enhanced designation capabilities and practical applications. If she's made a breakthrough in that area..."

"She'd be invaluable to anyone trying to weaponize enhancement tech," Izuku concluded grimly. "Which makes her disappearance after Sarajevo all the more concerning."

"Exactly why I need to get to Walter Reed," Stars said. "While you're handling Bakugo, I'll track down what happened to Whitmore. Two parallel investigations that might converge on the same answers."

"Be careful," Izuku warned. "If this is as far-reaching as you suspect, they'll be watching for anyone asking questions."

Stars smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Always am. I've already set up cover as part of a medical ethics review. Official enough to open doors, vague enough to give me freedom to maneuver."

"What about Hitoshi?"

"He's maintaining his position in the intelligence network," Stars explained. "We need those electronic ears and eyes. But he'll be my emergency contact if things go sideways at Walter Reed."

Izuku nodded, mentally adjusting his operational map. Stars at Walter Reed investigating Whitmore, Hitoshi monitoring intelligence channels, himself handling Bakugo's evaluation while navigating Garaki's unexpected interest and Enji's scrutiny.

"I need time to process this," Izuku said finally, the professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the personal impact of the revelation. "And to verify the data."

"Of course," Stars agreed immediately. "All the supporting evidence I could gather has already been transferred to your secure terminal. My working hypothesis only, nothing official yet. I wanted you to have first access, given the... personal connection."

The consideration touched him deeply. Stars could have taken this directly to Aizawa or even higher up the chain, potentially advancing her career with such a significant discovery. Instead, she'd brought it to him privately, giving him time to prepare for whatever fallout might follow.

"Thank you," he said simply, the words carrying the weight of years of trust and mutual respect. "I'll need to be careful how I approach this, especially with the joint chiefs meeting tomorrow and Bakugo's integration scheduled."

"I understand." Stars reached across the table, briefly squeezing his hand in a rare gesture of personal support. "Just... be cautious, Midoriya. Whoever is continuing this research has gone to extraordinary lengths to keep it hidden. If they realize we're connecting these dots..."

The warning didn't need completion. They'd both seen what happened to operatives who stumbled onto secrets powerful enough to reshape global politics.

"What about you?" Izuku asked, professional concern for a valuable colleague mixing with personal worry for someone he genuinely respected. "If you've been tracking this, you're already on their radar."

Stars offered a wry smile. "I've taken precautions. Multiple data backups in secure locations, dead man switches if I miss certain check-ins, some insurance policies even Aizawa doesn't know about." The smile faded into something more serious. "But I can't stay in Tokyo long. I've got that meeting at Walter Reed that could give us more insight into the current research front."

"Keep me updated," Izuku said, the command flowing naturally despite Stars' seniority in years. "And Stars? Watch your back. This feels bigger than our usual operations."

"Always do." She glanced at her watch, then back at Izuku with a knowing expression. "You should get going. Your mother will be waiting, and you know how she gets when dinner gets cold."

Izuku smiled despite the weight of their conversation. "How did you—"

"I have my sources," Stars replied with a grin that briefly lightened the tension. "Plus, she makes the best karaage in Tokyo. You'd be a fool to miss it."

As they finished their sake and prepared to leave—separately, following standard protocol to avoid being connected—Stars paused at the door.

"I haven't told anyone else about the connection to your father," she said quietly. "Not even Aizawa. That's your call to make when you're ready."

The consideration in her voice, the respect for his personal boundaries even in the midst of a potentially global security concern, reminded Izuku why Stars was one of the few people he truly trusted in their shadowy world.

"I appreciate that," he replied, genuine gratitude in his voice. "And Stars? Be careful at Walter Reed. If the omega and Bakugo are connected to all this..."

"I know." She adjusted her jacket, professional composure settling over her like armor. "But someone has to put the pieces together, and we still don't know what the end goal is. Whatever they're planning with these enhanced designations, it's accelerating. The window to intervene is closing fast."

Twenty years of buried research, potentially connected to his father's disappearance and the current wave of global designation incidents. But that was tomorrow's battle. Tonight, he had dinner with his mother, who worried enough without even really knowing what her son truly did or the new shadows gathering around their family name. 

Tonight, he would just be Izuku. Son, not commander; man, not operative. 

Langley's secure facilities stretched before Izuku as the government-issued sedan pulled through the final checkpoint. Three days since Tokyo, three days of careful preparation and strategic postponement. When the brass had pushed for immediate evaluation, he'd countered with procedural requirements. Delegating necessary baseline assessments, controlled environment setup, proper security protocols. The delay had been hard-won but essential.

The warehouse compound stood isolated at the edge of the base, separated from the main facilities by several miles of carefully maintained grounds. Perfect. Distant enough for privacy, close enough for rapid response if needed. Izuku had personally selected it after rejecting three other locations that were too public, too restrictive, and too monitored.

"The modifications have been completed as requested, sir," the security officer said, handing over a digital access key. "Though I must say, some of the specifications were... unusual."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Izuku accepted the key without elaboration. Let them wonder why he'd requested reinforced walls, specialized lighting systems, and complete removal of all standard monitoring equipment. The less they understood about his methodology, the better.

Inside, the cavernous space had been transformed according to his exacting specifications. Gone were the storage racks and equipment crates, replaced by a spartan arrangement that would tell Bakugo exactly what Izuku wanted him to know, and nothing more. A table, two chairs, precisely angled for psychological advantage. Lighting designed to create subtle pressure points. Environmental controls calibrated to his exact requirements.

He checked his secure phone, noting the message from Stars that had arrived during his flight preparation.

[STARS 06:42]: Whitmore confirmed at Walter Reed. Going in tomorrow. Will update when secure.

Izuku frowned. That had been nearly eighteen hours ago, with no follow-up. Unusual for Stars, who typically maintained strict communication protocols during operations. He typed a quick response.

[MIDORIYA 15:17]: Acknowledged. Check-in when complete.

His attention turned to the tactical tablet in his hand, displaying the complete evaluation protocol he had designed for Bakugo. Not the standard psychological assessment used for military designation evaluation—those were designed for containment, for limitation. What Izuku needed was understanding. Pressure points. Breaking points. The precise limits of Bakugo's control.

E-SERE protocols—Enhanced Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—his specialty, developed specifically for prime designations. The military used standard SERE training to prepare personnel for capture and interrogation. Izuku had modified these techniques to both evaluate and strengthen designation-enhanced individuals, particularly alphas. The methodology was classified beyond even most J-SAP clearances, known only to those who had personally experienced it.

He placed small environmental markers throughout the space, subtle sensory triggers designed to provoke specific responses. Scent neutralizers positioned to create dead zones that would confuse alpha senses. Acoustic dampers to create unnerving silence. Each element carefully calculated to create controlled psychological pressure without appearing deliberate.

His phone vibrated with an incoming message from Mei:

[MEI 15:32]: Stabilizer shipment arrived at your quarters. New formulation should extend duration by 22%. Maybe. Probably. Let me know if you start seeing colors that don't exist!

Izuku allowed himself a brief smile. Mei's enthusiasm for experimental compounds was both a blessing and a concern. Still, he'd need the enhanced stabilizers tomorrow. Bakugo's evaluation would demand perfect control on his part, any hint of deviation from the plan could compromise the assessment.

In the small attached office, he pressed his palm to a biometric scanner. A line of green traced his handprint before the inner barrier unlocked. Overhead, motion-sensitive lamps activated in a slow cascade, revealing a connected sprawling subterranean laboratory humming with high-end technology.

Izuku had personally overseen the design of these US-based underground labs with Stars during the early time of their career, constructed to keep classified joint-research and signals fully contained. No outside interference. No prying eyes while working on joint initiatives with the Americans.

He stepped onto a central platform, a ring of steel that served as both workstation and observation deck, ringed by waist-high consoles. The place felt quiet and hermetically sealed, every hum of a cooling fan or crackle of electricity a sign of life in an otherwise deserted environment. It was a perfect reflection of how Izuku felt right now—tightly contained on the outside, roiling on the inside.

He peeled off his uniform jacket and set it aside, shoulders tense under the plain black undershirt. The overhead light caught a hint of silver along the collar of his neck. He reached up, running a finger over it in a rare moment of absentmindedness. The day’s events churned in his head, refusing to settle.

Izuku's fingers hovered over the control panel before Bakugo's complete file appeared on screen, both the official version and the sections he'd acquired through less authorized channels. The holographic display activated, bathing the sterile white lab in the blue-white glow of quantum imaging. Multiple screens materialized around him, each displaying Hitoshi's work, accessing database fragments that should have been beyond reach. He had sent the encrypted package just before Izuku left Tokyo with a simple note: "You'll need the full picture."

Captain Katsuki Bakugo. Prime Alpha, enhancement level eight-plus. Combat specialist with the most distinguished record in his class, and the most disciplinary actions. The psychological assessment painted a familiar picture—aggressive, territorial, resistant to authority figures. But the redacted sections revealed more interesting details. 

Rows of monitors covered the curved back wall of this circular chamber, each screen displaying a different view of the alpha’s “preliminary evaluations.” Footage compiled from overhead drones, hidden body cams, and sensor readouts. Izuku brought up a diagnostic overlay that measured vital signs: heart rate, blood pressure, muscle fiber stress. Every reading soared off the charts. He’d run these analyses on countless recruits, but Katsuki’s data redefined “maximum.” The chart displayed a glaring red line far above typical alpha benchmarks.

“Impossible…” Izuku murmured. But there it was, a digital fact staring him in the face. The spike in Katsuki’s adrenaline and endorphins remained unbelievably high, yet never collapsed into the usual burnout that followed an alpha’s exertion. Even more disturbing was the trace of quantum fluctuations measured during Katsuki’s short bursts of contact, like the moment he’d pinned one of the training staff or that fleeting instant he’d made contact with other alphas.

Izuku tapped the console again. Each time Katsuki’s skin connected with an opponent the scanner showed a localized jump in quantum readings. The data was so bizarre that half of the labs above ground would have dismissed it as a sensor glitch. But Izuku trusted his instrumentation. He’d designed it.

Most intriguing were the medical notes from his post-Sarajevo examination. The suppressant implant hadn't simply malfunctioned, it had been rejected at the cellular level, as if Bakugo's biology had changed beyond the technology designed to control it.

Izuku's fingers paused over the keyboard as a connection formed, pieces of a puzzle gradually revealing a larger design. But who was arranging the pieces? And for what reason?

A notification appeared on his tablet with the surveillance video from where Bakugo was tested for his physical training. Standard monitoring, nothing invasive, but enough to observe behavioral patterns before Izuku got to meet him in the flesh.

Izuku hesitated, then opened the feed. 

The footage showed a spartan quarters similar to those used for high-value assets. Bakugo moved with restless energy, pacing the limited space like something caged. Even through the grainy surveillance footage, his presence commanded attention with his broad shoulders, sharp features, movements that spoke of barely contained power.

Something unexpected stirred in Izuku's chest as he watched, a reaction he hadn't anticipated and couldn't immediately identify. Professional interest layered with... something that made his pulse quicken.

The patch at his collar suddenly felt inadequate, but even as the stabilizer from earlier was still in effect, the strange reaction persisted. Izuku found himself studying Bakugo's movements with an intensity that went beyond professional assessment, noting the fluid grace beneath the aggression.

Dangerous territory. He closed the feed abruptly, refocusing on the technical aspects of tomorrow's evaluation. Whatever this unexpected reaction was, he would control it. Control was what he did best, what had made him invaluable to J-SAP, what had kept him alive through situations that should have broken him.

He queued up his private audio log as the system beeped softly, indicating it was ready to record.

"Personal log, Izuku Midoriya. Time stamp: 17:03, Eastern Standard. Subject: Katsuki Bakugo preliminary assessment." He paused, organizing his thoughts. "Enhancement levels exceed documented parameters for even prime alphas. His file indicates signature fluctuations that shouldn't be possible with current suppression technology."

Izuku glanced at the darkened monitor where Bakugo's surveillance feed had been moments before. He hesitated, then continued more quietly.

"Personal note: Father's research appears increasingly connected to current designation anomalies? I need to figure out the true purpose Project Genesis and its connection to targeted genetic manipulation. The ethical implications are... sick."

Izuku took a measured breath.

"I'm beginning to question the core premise of our approach. We evaluate these enhanced incidents as potential threats requiring containment, but what if they represent something else entirely? What if what we're seeing is not malfunction but advancement? And if so... who is directing that advancement, and to what end?"

He ended the recording, the system confirming encryption and secure storage. These thoughts were too dangerous to share, even with his team. Too many questions that threatened the foundations of the very agencies they served.

He checked his phone again, noting that Stars still hadn't responded to his earlier message. Unusual, but not yet concerning. Field operations often required communication blackouts, and Walter Reed's security systems would make secure transmissions difficult.

[MIDORIYA 16:47]: Evaluation preparations complete. Report in asap.

The message sent, he turned back to his final preparations. Whatever had happened in Sarajevo, whatever had triggered Bakugo's enhancement to manifest so dramatically, tomorrow would begin the process of understanding it. And perhaps, if the connections to Project Genesis were real, understanding his father's legacy as well.

The growing darkness outside the warehouse windows matched his mood as he gathered his materials. In twelve hours, he would face Katsuki Bakugo directly. And if Stars was right about the connections they were uncovering, then the answers might reshape everything he thought he knew about his own past, and whatever catastrophe they were all hurtling toward.

Izuku sealed the warehouse behind him, security protocols engaging with quiet efficiency. As he headed toward his temporary quarters in Georgetown, he checked his phone one final time. Still no response from Stars.

Probably still on mission, he reasoned. She'd check in by morning.

He ignored the flicker of unease that suggested otherwise.

Chapter Text

Just eight hours. 

Fuck. Just fuck.

It had been less than twenty-four goddamn hours since Katsuki's world had gone to shit in that sterile fucking hospital. A whole fucking day since he'd watched another life snuffed out like a cigarette, crushed under the boot of some shadowy motherfucker's agenda. Barely a single rotation of the earth on its axis, and it still felt like he was trapped in some fucked up nightmare

He'd paced the confines of his apartment like a caged tiger, his enhanced senses picking up every creak of the floorboards, every distant siren wailing in the night. He couldn’t even play his recently gifted piano to soothe himself. And Sleep? What a fucking joke. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the omega's face, saw the light fading from her eyes. Shit like that doesn't just go away, no matter how much he might want it to.

But in the midst of all the bullshit, something had started to solidify in his gut. A cold, hard certainty that this wasn't the end. That he might not be able to change what happened, might not be able to bring back the dead, but he sure as fuck could make the bastards responsible pay. Pay in blood and broken bones.

And then there was Stars. He'd tried to reach her, to get some goddamn answers. But the number he had for her had been disconnected, her official channels rerouting to bland voicemails. She'd gone to ground, it seemed, like a fucking spook. Tch. 

But Katsuki was nothing if not a persistent son of a bitch. He'd find her, even if he had to tear the whole fucking city apart. She was a lead he couldn't afford to let go, a thread he had to pull no matter where it led. 

And with the weight of what he knew now, the omega's death had shown him just how high the stakes were, just how far these fuckers were willing to go. If he slipped up, even for a second... well, he had a feeling the consequences would be a hell of a lot worse than a broken arm and a black mark on his file.

He had to play this smart. Had to play the long game, even though every instinct in his body was screaming at him to fuck subtlety and start cracking skulls until he got his answers. And that meant watching his step, being careful about who he trusted and how much he showed his hand.

Even to his team. Even to the people who knew him better than anyone, who'd been through hell and back with him more times than he could count. Because one thing Katsuki had learned in his years was that trust was a commodity, easily bought and sold. And in a game this dirty, with players this ruthless, even the tightest bonds could become weaknesses.

But he needed them. Needed their skills, their intel, their unflinching loyalty. He couldn't do this alone, no matter how much his pride might want him to try. So he had to find a balance. A way to bring them in without putting a target on their backs.

It was with that cheerful fucking thought that the pounding on Katsuki's door started precisely at 0600, military punctuality at its finest. He'd been awake for over an hour already, having managed maybe three hours of fitful sleep before his internal clock had jolted him back to consciousness. The investigation board had seemed to watch him accusingly all night, its red strings forming connections he couldn't yet decipher.

"It's open," he called, not bothering to move from his position at the dining table where he'd been reviewing notes since 0500.

Eijirou entered first, his crimson hair pulled back from his face, carrying a duffel that clinked with the distinctive sound of weapons being carefully transported. Like all of them, he'd mastered the art of moving tactical equipment through civilian areas without drawing attention, the bag could have been gym gear to anyone who didn't know better.

"Morning, sunshine," Eijirou said, his sharp-toothed grin firmly in place despite the early hour. His eyes swept the apartment with practiced efficiency before settling on the investigation board. The smile faltered briefly. "Shit, you've been busy."

Mina slipped in next, bringing with her the faint scent of the expensive perfume she used to mask her alpha pheromones in public. Her naturally pink-tinged hair was tucked beneath a ball cap, her usual flamboyance toned down to blend in. The backpack slung over her shoulder would contain her specialized intelligence equipment, the kind of tech she'd "acquired" during her time with the NSA before joining Katsuki's unit.

"Ooh, very 'Beautiful Mind,'" she commented, gesturing at the cork board. "Though hopefully with less hallucination and more actual conspiracy."

Denki was last, balancing three equipment cases that looked like they might contain audio gear to casual observers. In reality, they held some of the most sophisticated decryption and signal analysis technology outside of the Pentagon. He whistled low between his teeth as he took in the scale of Katsuki's investigative display.

"When you said 'quantum encryption,' I was kinda hoping you were exaggerating," he said, setting down his cases beside the dining table. Katsuki pushed a mug of coffee toward him. He'd brewed a full pot, knowing they'd need it. "You couldn't have stumbled onto something simple? Like, I don't know, standard AES-256 with a complex passphrase?" Denki's groan was theatrical. 

"When have I ever made your life easy?" Katsuki asked, a hint of dark humor coloring his tone.

"Never," Denki, Mina, and Eijirou answered in unison.

For a fleeting moment, the familiar banter almost made things feel normal. Almost made Katsuki forget that they were potentially committing treason by investigating whatever the fuck was happening at Walter Reed. Almost, but not quite.

Finally Eijirou, ever the steadfast second, broke the silence. "Boss," he said carefully, and there was something in his voice that set Katsuki's teeth on edge. A wariness that didn't belong on those open features. "What exactly happened at that hospital?"

He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. "The hospital," he began, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. "There was... something else going on. Something big."

Eijirou frowned, leaning forward to brace his forearms on the table. "Something else? Like what?"

Katsuki shook his head, frustration welling up like bile. "I don't know. Not for sure. But there was this facility, this lab... They were doing something there. Something to do with the hostages from Sarajevo. With the omega."

He saw Mina and Denki exchange a look, quick and loaded with meaning. He knew that look, it was the same one they got when they were piecing together intel, when they were starting to see the shape of a pattern emerging from the noise.

"The omega," Mina repeated, her voice carefully neutral. "The one from the mission brief? Whitmore?"

Katsuki nodded jerkily. "Yeah. Her."

Say her name, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You owe her that much, at least. After what you let happen to her, the least you can do is say her fucking name. 

But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he'd made them understand the stakes, the scope of what they were dealing with.

"She wasn't just a hostage," he said instead, his voice low and intense. "She was... She was something different. Something important to whatever they were doing in that lab."

"Okay," Denki said slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. "So... what? You think she was, what, some kind of test subject?"

An experiment. Wasn't that exactly what he'd been thinking, in those last terrible moments? When he'd watched the light fade from her eyes, when he'd heard her final, rattling breath? The pieces were falling into place, painting a picture that made Katsuki's blood run cold. 

Katsuki blinked, coming back to himself with a jolt. He realized he was gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white with strain. He forced himself to let go, to take another deep, shuddering breath.

"They're experimenting on us," he bit out, the words tasting like lead on his tongue. "Fucking with our implants, our biology. Like we're goddamn lab rats." 

Silence followed his words, heavy and charged. He could feel their horror, their revulsion. Could sense the way their minds were racing, trying to make sense of everything he just shared.

"Fuck," Denki breathed at last, leaning back in his chair like he'd been physically struck. "That's... Shit, boss. That's heavy."

Heavy. Katsuki wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. Wanted to put his fist through someone’s face, to feel something break beneath his hands. Heavy didn't even begin to describe it.

Eijirou, who'd been uncharacteristically silent up until now, finally spoke up. His crimson eyes were hard as flint, his voice a low rumble that Katsuki felt as much as he heard. "I've been hearing things too, boss. Whispers about dead scientists and omegas?"

He'd known this was coming, known he'd have to tell them eventually. But that didn't make the words any easier to say. Katsuki took a sip of his water, buying himself a moment to organize his thoughts. The ice cubes clinked softly against the side of the glass, a strangely comforting sound amidst the muted din of the restaurant. He met Eijirou's gaze head on, letting him see the fury, the betrayal, the fucking helplessness that had been eating him alive since he'd stood over that corpse.

"The omega from Saravejo. She's dead," he said flatly, the words tasting wrong on his tongue. "I was there when it happened. In the lab. They were... doing something to her. Something I've never seen before. And then she just... she just stopped breathing."

He heard Mina's sharp intake of breath, saw Denki's fingers still on his tablet. Eijirou's eyes never left his face, steady and understanding, a silent promise of support.

"Did you see anything that might explain why?" Mina asked after a moment, her voice carefully controlled. "Any clues about what they were trying to do?"

"Before she flatlined, I overheard some shit. Stuff about neural mappings and biochemical triggers. Pheromone amplification and resonance frequencies." He paused, letting the implications sink in like a stone. "They're experimenting on us, changing us, or rewiring us to be some new breed of...fuck, I don't even know." Katsuki shook his head in frustration.

"Most of the equipment I didn’t understand and everything onsite was encrypted to hell and back. But Stars was there too. Said she'd try to get some answers."

"Stars and Stripes herself, huh?" Denki let out a low whistle. "Guess this goes a lot higher than we thought." The silence stretched, taut as a tripwire. He could see the gears turning behind his team's eyes, the pieces slotting together into a shape that none of them wanted to contemplate. 

For the next twenty minutes, Katsuki outlined everything else he'd witnessed—the strange medical tests, the research levels beneath Walter Reed, Stars and her cryptic behavior, and finally the masked assassin Icarus. He kept his delivery precise and factual, the way he would during a mission briefing, though his fists clenched involuntarily when he described the omega's final moments again.

His team listened without interruption, professional focus overriding any shock or disbelief they might have felt. This wasn't their first rodeo with classified operations going sideways, though it was certainly the first time they'd found themselves potentially on the wrong side of their own government.

When he finished, silence hung heavy in the apartment.

"What do you need from us?" Eijirou's voice, steady and sure. A lifeline in the storm of Katsuki's thoughts and rage. "What's our play, boss?"

Katsuki opened his eyes, blinking hard to clear his vision. He looked around the table, at the faces of his team. His friends. The people who'd seen him at his worst and still chosen to stand by his side.

"I need..." He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "I need your help. I need to understand what the fuck is going on. What they're doing, and why. I need to find out who's behind this, and I need to make sure they never hurt anyone else ever again."

This felt like a pivotal moment for Katsuki and his team. He realized that whatever he's stumbled into is much bigger and more dangerous than he initially thought. The death of the omega hostage has shaken him deeply, both professionally and personally. He feels responsible, like he failed in his duty to protect her. At the same time, he recognized that her death is part of a larger pattern, one that he needs to understand if he's going to have any hope of stopping it. The flash drive from Icarus represents a potential lead, a thread that he can pull to start unraveling this mystery.

He knew what he had to do. Knew it as the same anger, betrayal, and sheer what-the-fuckery of the past few days churned in his gut like a live grenade, ready to detonate at the slightest provocation. But beneath the fury, something else lurked. Something cold and calculating, the tactical part of his brain that had guided him through a hundred missions, a thousand life-or-death choices.

Giving it to Denki is a calculated risk. Katsuki knows he can trust his team, but he also knows that the more people who are involved, the greater the danger. By compartmentalizing the information, giving Denki and Mina the flash drive to work on separately from his own investigation, he hoped it would help to protect them and give them plausible deniability if things go south.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the drive Stripes had entrusted him with. The unassuming little fucker sat in his palm like the key to Pandora's shitstorm of a box. He held it up, letting the light glint off its matte black surface.

"Denki," he said, his voice rough. "I need you to take this. You and Mina. See what you can make of it."

Denki frowned, his usual easy-going expression morphing into something sharper, more focused as he reached out to take the drive. "The hell is it?"

"A lead. Maybe." Katsuki shook his head, a sharp, jerky motion. "I don't fucking know for sure. But it's from..." He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat like shards of glass. "It's from someone who says they know what's really going down. Someone who says they were part of it. Before."

He saw the moment understanding dawned, the way Denki's eyes widened, honey-brown irises eclipsed by blown pupils. His fingers tightened around the drive.

"Part of what?" Mina asked, her voice sharp with worry.

Katsuki's jaw clenched, muscles jumping beneath skin stretched too fucking thin. "The illegal human experiments," he bit out, each word tasting like blood and ashes on his tongue. "Which I get the feeling has something to do with this black project special access program they're trying to jam down my throat. I think..." He swallowed hard, forcing the words out past the snarl that wanted to rip free. "I think it might be connected to Sarajevo. To whatever happened to Whitmore."

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "That's why I have to do this," he said, his voice steadying. "That's why I have to go along with their program, with whatever fucked up evaluation they have planned for me. Because if I'm on the inside, if I have access..."

"You could find out the truth," Mina finished, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You could find out what they're really doing, and why."

Katsuki nodded, exhaustion settling over him like a shroud. "I have to try," he said simply. "I have to. For her. For anyone else who’s tied up into this shit."

"But Katsuki," Mina cut in, her face tight with worry, "you need to be careful. If they catch even a whiff of you playing double agent..."

"They won't," Katsuki said, his voice hard as granite. "I won't give them the fucking chance."

He sat back, his jaw tight. "There was a masked guy named Icarus who said he was part of it, before. Part of the experiments. And now he's running around, taking out the people responsible. The doctors, the researchers, the ones who started this whole fucking mess."

Mina frowned, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the table. "You think he's, what? Some kind of vigilante? Trying to take revenge for what they did to him?"

"Maybe," Katsuki said, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't fucking know. But what I do know is that he's got insider knowledge. He knows things about this program, about what they're doing. Things that I need to know if I'm going to figure this shit out."

There was a long, heavy silence. "So," Eijirou finally said, "to summarize: you stumbled onto a black ops medical research facility beneath Walter Reed, met a government agent who may or may not be on our side, witnessed a mercenary assassin-soldier kill a bunch of security personnel, and then got handed classified intel that might expose the whole operation." He ran a hand through his hair. "Just another Tuesday for you, huh?"

Katsuki snorted. "Fuck off. I'm as blindsided by this shit as you are."

"I don't think that's possible," Denki muttered, already unpacking his equipment. "But let's focus on what we can actually do something about." He pointed to the thumb drive. "This little bastard is our first priority. If it contains what Icarus claimed, we could have our answers right there."

"Or it could be a trap," Mina pointed out, pragmatic as always. "Malware designed to infect our systems, track our movements."

"Already considered that," Katsuki said. "That's why we're using the isolated network setup. Nothing connects to anything that could be traced back to us."

Denki nodded, his usually carefree demeanor giving way to the intense focus that had made him one of the most sought-after cyber specialists in the military. "I've got an air-gapped system with custom firmware. Even if it is malware, it won't get past the containment protocols."

While Denki set up his equipment, Mina moved to the investigation board, studying the connections Katsuki had mapped out. Her analytical mind, honed through years of intelligence work, was already finding patterns he'd missed.

"These keywords—Genesis, Echo, quantum resonance—I've seen them before," she said, tapping one of the index cards. "Not together, but individually, in redacted files. Genesis was a theoretical framework for enhanced soldier development back in the early 2000s. It never officially moved past the proposal stage." She glanced at Katsuki. "Or at least, that's what the official records claim."

"And Project Echo?" Eijirou asked, joining her at the board.

Mina shook her head. "Never heard that one specifically. But 'echo' protocols are sometimes used in genetics research to describe secondary mutations triggered by primary genetic alterations. The first change 'echoes' through the system, creating cascading modifications."

Katsuki's hand moved unconsciously to the back of his neck, to the implant site. "Like a designation enhancement that triggers primary or recessive mutations?"

"Possibly," Mina agreed, her eyes tracking the movement. "Your implant was military-grade, supposedly designed only to suppress your alpha traits for operational security. But if what Icarus said is true, if it was actually monitoring or even modifying your designation biology..."

She didn't need to finish the thought. The implications were clear. And disturbing.

"Got everything set up," Denki announced, interrupting the dark turn of their thoughts. His mobile workstation now dominated one end of the dining table with three monitors, a specialized terminal, and equipment that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie rather than a Georgetown apartment. "Fair warning: if this encryption is as advanced as you described, this could take a while."

"Define 'a while,'" Katsuki pressed, already dreading the answer.

Denki grimaced. "Hours at best. Days, more likely. Quantum encryption that evolves its own parameters? That's bleeding-edge tech, the kind of stuff they're still developing at DARPA. Breaking it would usually require specialized hardware we don't have access to."

"But you can do it?" Eijirou asked.

"I can try," Denki replied, already inserting the thumb drive into a specialized reader. "I've got some... let's call them 'unofficial resources' that might help. But I'll need time." Katsuki nodded, they'd all known this wouldn't be quick or easy. He felt something loosen in his chest, just a fraction. They had his back. They always did. Even when he was leading them into the fucking unknown, into a shadows.

"Alright. While Sparky works his magic, we need to focus on what else we've got. Mina, I want you digging into Dr. Umon Garaki. Full background, known associates, funding sources. Focus on anything related to designation research or enhancement programs."

"On it," Mina said, already pulling out her laptop.

"Eijirou, you're on security protocols. I want to know exactly what kind of response we can expect if this blows up. Containment procedures, extraction team compositions, the works."

Eijirou gave a sharp nod. "You think they'll come after us directly?"

Katsuki's expression darkened. "I think they've already killed at least one person to keep this quiet. We need to be prepared for worst-case scenarios."

"And what about you?" Mina asked, glancing up from her computer.

"I've got mandatory physical evaluation at 0900," Katsuki said, checking his watch. "Can't miss it without raising flags. After the shit at Walter Reed, I need to maintain the appearance of cooperation, at least until we know what we're dealing with." He said as the team settled into their tasks with the practiced efficiency. 

Denki hunched over his workstation, fingers flying across multiple keyboards as he implemented increasingly complex decryption protocols. Mina's research method was more methodical, building detailed profiles of key players and mapping their connections. Eijirou alternated between reviewing security protocols on a tablet and checking and rechecking their defensive preparations.

For his part, Katsuki paced the apartment, adding notes to the investigation board whenever something clicked into place, reviewing the medical files he'd stolen from Walter Reed for the hundredth time, and fighting the growing urge to put his fist through a wall out of sheer frustration.

By 0830, they'd made minimal progress. Denki had confirmed that the encryption was even more sophisticated than they'd initially feared, not just military-grade, but something beyond any standard protocol. Mina had found disturbingly little information on Dr. Garaki, as if someone had systematically erased his digital footprint. And Eijirou's security assessment suggested that if they were discovered, they'd likely face a specialized extraction team rather than standard military police.

"I've gotta head out," Katsuki finally said, checking his watch. "Physical evaluation won't wait, and missing it would just put more eyes on us."

Eijirou looked up from his tablet. "Want backup?"

Katsuki shook his head. "This is standard procedure. Combat assessment against other alphas. Actually looking forward to it, I need to hit something after the last few days."

The ghost of a smile crossed Eijirou's face. "Typical. Just try not to hospitalize anyone important, yeah?"

"No promises," Katsuki replied, already heading for the door. He paused, turning back to his team. "If anything breaks while I'm gone—"

"We'll contact you securely," Mina assured him. "Standard emergency protocols."

Katsuki nodded, satisfied. "And if I don't make it back by 1500—"

"We'll assume you've been compromised and initiate contingency Alpha," Eijirou finished, referring to their pre-established emergency response plan. "We know the drill, boss."

Katsuki opened his mouth to say something else, a warning, maybe, or something closer to gratitude than he'd normally allow himself to express. But the words caught in his throat, tangled with emotions he couldn't afford right now. Instead, he simply nodded again, more sharply this time, and left the apartment.

The training facility was a thirty-minute drive from his Georgetown apartment, located on a secure military installation that housed various Special Forces training programs. As he passed through the security checkpoints that consisted of designation scanners, biometric verification, the works—Katsuki couldn't help noticing the increased personnel. More armed guards than usual, positioned at strategic points throughout the facility. Either someone was expecting trouble, or the security theater was specifically for his benefit.

Neither option particularly improved his mood.

The combat assessment was scheduled for Building 7, a state-of-the-art training complex used for advanced hand-to-hand combat scenarios. As Katsuki approached, the familiar sounds of training—the impact of bodies against mats, shouted commands, the rhythmic thud of punching bags—filtered through the reinforced walls.

For a brief moment, he felt an almost nostalgic calm settle over him. This, at least, was familiar territory. No shadowy conspiracies, no encrypted files, no dead intelligence officers. Just the simple, honest violence of combat training.

Inside, the facility hummed with activity. Several training sessions were underway, groups of soldiers moving through various drills under the watchful eyes of instructors. Katsuki scanned the area automatically, noting exits, personnel, and potential threats out of long-ingrained habit. He could pick up fragments of conversation, individual scents, the subtly elevated heartbeats of those engaged in physical exertion.

Everything came in waves now: moments of almost normal sensation followed by spikes of hyper-awareness that made him want to claw his own skin off. But before he could investigate further, a familiar voice broke through his concentration.

"Bakugo! Over here."

Sergeant Avery stood at the edge of the central training mat, clipboard in hand, his perpetually constipated expression somehow even more pinched than usual. Katsuki made his way over, deliberately adopting the slightly bored stance of a soldier enduring yet another bureaucratic hoop.

"Your assessment team is ready," Avery said without preamble, gesturing to a group of operators warming up on the mat. "Standard combat evaluation protocols. Three rounds, three opponents per round. Full contact, no permanent damage." The sergeant's expression suggested he wasn't entirely confident in Katsuki's ability, or perhaps willingness, to comply with that last part.

Katsuki eyed the first group, cataloging their builds, movement patterns, likely specializations. He recognized Martinez from Force Recon, Thompson from Rangers, and Rodriguez from his own Delta unit. All alphas, all watching him with the wary respect reserved for dangerous animals. The kind of look that might have bothered him once, before Sarajevo, before Walter Reed. Now it just seemed appropriate. Nobody believed he was truly “stable.”

"Fine," he said, already stripping off his outer jacket, leaving him in a standard-issue t-shirt and combat pants. "Let's get this over with."

As he stepped onto the mat, Katsuki rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension of the past few days coil like a spring in his chest. Part of him knew he should probably hold back, maintain the appearance of standard combat proficiency. But another part, the part that had been simmering with rage and frustration since Sarajevo, since watching an omega die in front of him, since discovering he might have been an unwitting test subject in some classified program—that part wanted to let loose. To unleash the full extent of whatever the fuck they'd done to him, right in their faces.

As the first three operators circled him cautiously. Smart. Katsuki felt his lips curl into something that wasn't quite a smile. Maybe this evaluation was exactly what he needed, a controlled environment to vent some of the fury building inside him. And if his performance raised flags with whoever was watching? Well, they'd already flagged him for "control issues" anyway.

They weren’t exactly wrong.

"Any time today, ladies," Katsuki growled, falling into a ready stance. "Or did they not teach you how to actually fight in Force Recon?" The recycled air of the training facility carried too much information—old blood, fresh sweat, the sharp tang of cleaning supplies, and underneath it all, that same faint scent he'd been catching all week. Something clean and sweet that made his hindbrain sit up and pay attention.

A faint twitch in Martinez’s lip. “Big talk for an alpha benched over ‘control issues.’”

Fucking typical. Someone else who thought they knew shit about what happened in Sarajevo. Katsuki's lip curled into a vicious smile. "Why don't you come find out exactly how much control I've got?"

Time seemed to slow as Martinez moved first, his footwork telegraphing a classic Force Recon combination. Christ, they really did all learn from the same fucking playbook. Katsuki's enhanced senses caught every detail—the slight shift in weight, the change in Martinez's breathing, even the spike in his pheromones signaling the attack. Too obvious. Like watching a training video in slow motion. 

Even before the punch launched, Katsuki was already moving. He slipped the jab with minimal movement, letting Martinez's own momentum carry him forward. A quick palm strike to the sternum sent the operator stumbling back, although it was pulled just enough to avoid serious damage. "That the best Force Recon's got? My mother hits harder."

"Shut up and fight," Thompson growled, moving to flank.

Rodriguez mirrored on the other side. Although both alphas were broadcasting aggression like they thought it would actually intimidate him. As if he hadn't spent his entire career dealing with posturing assholes who thought designation meant skill. They closed in with a high-low combination from Thompson. Attempted leg sweep from Rodriguez. Standard Special Forces tactics, executed with near-perfect precision. On any other day, against any other opponent, it might have worked. But after all of the bullshit "evaluations," Katsuki was really fucking tired of playing nice.

He moved like liquid violence.

He caught Thompson's high strike with his forearm, simultaneously dropping his center of gravity to avoid Rodriguez's sweep. The impact vibrated through his bones, each point of contact registering with greater sensitivity. Using Thompson's arrested momentum, Katsuki pulled the larger alpha forward while pivoting sharply. The movement put Thompson between him and Rodriguez, disrupting their coordinated attack.

"Amateur hour," he taunted, voice pitched to carry. "Seems like they're lowering the bar everywhere but Delta these days."

A quick elbow strike to Thompson's solar plexus, followed by a leg hook—and suddenly Thompson was airborne, his trajectory calculated to force Rodriguez to either catch his teammate or take the hit. The look of dawning horror on Rodriguez's face as he realized his mistake almost made this whole farce worth it.

Rodriguez chose wrong.

As the operators collided, Katsuki was already moving. Martinez had recovered fast, launching a series of rapid strikes aimed at Katsuki's blind spots. Good form, better speed, but still too predictable.

Katsuki read every subtle shift before each strike: the tension in Martinez’s shoulders, the micro-pause in his breath. Block. Counter. Redirect. Each movement flowing into the next like water. His enhanced strength let him match Martinez's power while his prime senses gave him a fraction of a second's warning before each strike. It wasn't just reaction time—it was reading intent in heartbeats, in micro-expressions, in the subtle tells most fighters didn't even know they had

Martinez overextended on a cross, frustration making him sloppy. Katsuki seized the opening, grabbing the extended arm and using Martinez's own momentum to flip him. The impact of body meeting mat echoed through the training room. Before Martinez could recover, Katsuki had him pinned, one arm locked in a hold that could dislocate the shoulder with minimal pressure.

Rodriguez and Thompson regrouped as they untangled themselves, circling back into attack positions. Their combined adrenaline thickening the air, mixed with growing concern. They’d planned on overwhelming him with teamwork; clearly, they’d underestimated how quickly he could dismantle their formation.

Then everything hit at once.

The world exploded into sensory overload, fucking implant withdrawal picking the perfect moment to kick his ass. Every fluorescent bulb became a miniature sun, their electric drone morphing into railway spikes drilling through his temples. Goddamn enhanced senses going haywire, turning the familiar training room into a torture chamber.

Thompson and Rodriguez saw his hesitation. Thompson's voice cutting through the chaos: "What's wrong, Bakugo? Lost your edge?”

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. He wanted to snarl it, but even breathing felt like swallowing glass. The mat's surface registered like sandpaper against his palms, each texture distinct and agonizing. His brain struggled to process the avalanche of input—heartbeats, breathing patterns, the subtle shifts of two dozen bodies watching him falter. Just like they probably expected. Just like they probably wanted.

Thompson and Rodriguez seized their opening, years of joint operations evident in their synchronized attack. The punch to his ribs landed before his scrambled nervous system could respond—amateur mistake, letting them inside his guard. The kind of error that got people killed in the field. Katsuki released Martinez and twisted away with a warning growl that came out more desperate than intended.

"Not so cocky now, are you?" Rodriguez's taunt barely registered through the sensory storm.

Another strike clipped his shoulder, sending fresh lightning through overwrought nerves. His world narrowed to fragments of sensation—boot leather creaking, fabric rustling, alpha pheromones thick enough to choke on—

Then he caught it. A subtle, clean scent—like ozone after rain, undercut by something sweet.

The mysterious scent cut through his sensory overload like a blade through fog, snapping the world back into 4K. Heartbeats, muscle tension, the subtle shift of weight before each strike. His vision sharpened just as Thompson's fist came rocketing toward his face.

Perfect. 

Fucking. 

Timing.

It was three-on-one, but now they were the ones who didn't understand what they were dealing with. Their uncertainty leaked through in a dozen tiny tells he caught like blood in water. The hesitation in Thompson's next step, Rodriguez's fingers flexing before each strike, Martinez's eyes darting to check his teammates' positions. They'd expected him to break. Instead, they'd just given him exactly what he needed, a reason to stop holding back.

His combat-enhanced mind cataloged their weaknesses with predatory precision, building a targeting solution in fractions of seconds. Thompson's old knee injury from previous missions made him favor his right side, creating a gap in his guard every time he pivoted. Rodriguez's breathing had grown ragged, already burning through his stamina and having to fall back on brute alpha strength instead of technique. Martinez kept his right side guarded after that throw, leaving his left exposed.

Time to remind these cocky fuckers exactly who they were dealing with.

Katsuki exploded into motion, the world slowing to combat speed as his enhanced agility and reflexes took over. He slipped inside Thompson's guard like smoke, every movement a study in controlled violence. Thompson's eyes widened, too late recognizing the trap as Katsuki's elbow snapped up into his solar plexus. The larger alpha folded forward with a wet gasp, right into the knee strike that followed.

But Katsuki was already moving, using Thompson's collapsing body as a pivot point. Rodriguez and Martinez converged from opposite sides, trying to box him in. Amateur shit. He rolled across Thompson's back who was still hunched over, letting their attacks crash into empty air. His fingers found purchase on Rodriguez's extended arm, redirecting the alpha's momentum into a brutal throw that sent him careening into the opposite wall.

Martinez recovered fastest, falling back into a defensive stance. Smart, but not smart enough. Katsuki could smell the fear starting to leak through the other alpha's carefully controlled pheromones. His lips peeled back in a feral grin as he stalked forward, forcing Martinez to retreat step by step.

The attack when it came was textbook perfect, a lightning-fast combination designed to create openings. Against a normal opponent, it might have worked. Instead, Katsuki dismantled and slipped through Martinez's guard like he was moving in slow motion. He delivered three crisp strikes, each one precisely targeted. One to the solar plexus to stun, the kidney to disable, and the last one to the back of knee to drop him. And Martinez hit the mat with a meaty thud.

Thompson had managed to get back to his feet, desperation making him sloppy as he charged. Katsuki stepped into the attack, and caught him mid-charge using the larger alpha's momentum against him. A quick leg sweep transitioned smoothly into an arm bar. Bone creaked under the pressure Katsuki slowly intensified before Thompson's choked grunt of surrender.

Only Rodriguez left, already looking for an opening. Katsuki didn't give him the chance, closing the distance in two explosive steps. The final takedown was almost elegant, redirecting Rodriguez's wild punch combo into a throw that ended with the alpha pinned, arm torqued to the edge of breaking.

Ten seconds. Three of Special Forces' best operators neutralized. His breath came steady and controlled, barely elevated despite the violence, even though every nerve still crackled. No one watching would guess he’d almost been overwhelmed moments ago. Hell, a week ago, he could barely handle being in the same room as another alpha. Now he stood over three of them, his enhanced senses still burning hot, but fully under his command.

For now, at least.

Tension pulsed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the space thick with sweat and the tang of adrenaline. Katsuki exhaled slowly, pushing back the roar in his head. But beneath it all, that mysterious scent lingered, making his instincts surge with predatory focus. That faint, electrifying scent lingered in the background, a reminder that something else, was here. Close now. So fucking close.

"Oi, Bakugo!"

The familiar voice shattered his concentration. Katsuki blinked, realizing he had been fixated on the upper observation windows, hunting for the source of that elusive scent. Eijirou’s alpha presence enveloped him next, familiar and grounding.

"The fuck you want, shitty hair?" Katsuki growled, but there was no real heat in it. His brain still strained to process that tantalizingly aroma, even as it began to fade.

"Got a visitor for you in the Master Sergeant's office." Eijirou's sharp-toothed grin widened as he approached the mat, careful to telegraph his movements. After years as mission partners, he knew better than to startle an alpha still riding the adrenaline high of combat. "And you might want to hurry. Avery looked ready to shit himself trying to make small talk."

Katsuki frowned, the post-fight euphoria vanishing. He hadn’t been expecting anyone and couldn’t think of a single person who would willingly endure the scrutiny that came with visiting him now. "The hell? Who is it?"

Eijirou's expression shifted, something careful settling behind his eyes. "It's your dad, man. Just got in from Tokyo, from what I gathered."

The words hit like a punch to his solar plexus. Katsuki actually rocked back a step, momentarily thrown. "My old man's here?"

"Yeah. Showed up about ten minutes ago, demanding to see you." Eijirou's voice softened a fraction. "Said he hasn't heard from you since the congressional hearing. He's worried."

Worried. Katsuki nearly laughed. As if worry could encompass the tangled knot of emotions that had been strangling him for weeks. Although, his father wouldn't have flown in from Tokyo just because his son was dodging calls. Not unless... fuck. Either his mother had sent him, unlikely given her usually direct approach, or something bad happened. The kind of something that required face-to-face conversations.

But beneath the knee-jerk dismissal and dread, a treacherous tendril of something like relief threaded through his chest. Because even if his old man couldn't grasp the full scope of the shitstorm Katsuki was weathering, the fact that he was here, that he'd waded into the red tape and bullshit to check on him...

"Alright. I'll handle it." Katsuki scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. "Need to hit the showers first."

The request for space went unspoken, but Eijirou caught it anyway. His friend hesitated, clearly weighing whether to push. But he settled for clapping Katsuki on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "You need anything after, you know where to find me. Was planning to run drills till 1400 anyway."

Katsuki nodded, already plotting his approach. A shower would give him time to think, to prepare for whatever bombshell his father was about to drop. Masaru Bakugo wasn't the type to make intercontinental flights on a whim. And with everything else spinning out of control—the Walter Reed conspiracy, the encrypted thumb drive, Stars's lack of response, that persistent scent that seemed to follow him—Katsuki couldn't afford to walk into this blind.

He just hoped his old man hadn't gotten dragged into whatever was circling him. The last thing he needed was his family getting caught in the crossfire.

"Yeah," he managed, already heading for the locker room. "I'll find you later."

As he walked away, Katsuki couldn't resist one last glance at the observation windows. No one was there, but that scent—ozone after a thunderstorm, sweet and electric—lingered in his consciousness like an afterimage, simultaneously anchoring and unsettling him.

Another fucking mystery to add to the growing pile. But right now, he had a more immediate concern. His father was waiting, and whatever had brought Colonel Masaru Bakugo all the way from Tokyo to a military training facility in Virginia couldn't be good news.

For the first time in years, the prospect of combat seemed more simple than facing his family.

Fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows as Katsuki stripped off his sweat-soaked training gear. In here he could smell the metallic tang of the lockers, the lingering traces of cleaning supplies, and hear the steady drip of a leaky shower head three stalls down. 

"Fuck." The word echoed off tile walls as he cranked the shower to nearly scalding. Steam rose immediately, and Katsuki stepped under the spray, letting the heat pound against his shoulders. 

His father. Here. The thought made something twist in his chest. Masaru hadn't pushed when Katsuki ignored his messages after the congressional hearing. Just kept sending his quiet check-ins like always—photos of the garden, updates about the neighborhood, gentle reminders that he was there if Katsuki needed him.

Water traced the defined planes of his chest and abs, years of training built into every inch of muscle. He braced his forearms against the shower wall, head bowed as water ran in rivulets down his back. The position pulled at his shoulder muscles, still a little tight from throwing operators around the training mat. He could smell his own unspent aggression in the steam—gunpowder and burnt sugar, the distinctive scent marking him as prime even without the edge of violence that usually accompanied it.

But showing up reeking of combat pheromones would only set off his father's protective instincts. Even with standard suppressants, Masaru's omega sensitivity had always been unnaturally sharp when it came to his son's emotional state. And now, without the implant regulating his hormone levels...

Katsuki's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the soap, a tell that would have infuriated him a month ago. The implant had made everything cleaner, simpler—anger was just anger, fear was just fear. Now his emotions bled into each other, sharp edges softened into something messier and harder to control. He worked the soap in mechanical circles across broad shoulders, down the ridges of his abdomen, trying to ground himself in the routine. His right thigh ached, a phantom pain that had been plaguing him since Sarajevo. He dug his fingers into the muscle, willing it to relax.

Sometimes he wondered if his father saw past the soldier he'd become, if he could still recognize the son underneath all the scar tissue and military polish. The thought sent an unexpected wave of something dangerously close to grief through his chest. Fuck. These mood swings were getting worse—one minute he was ready to tear through walls, the next he was choking on emotions he couldn't even name.

He rinsed quickly, shutting off the water with more force than necessary. Water beaded on his skin as he stood there, listening to it drip onto tile, trying to organize his thoughts into something resembling order. Part of him wanted to skip this whole thing—make some excuse about training requirements or mission prep. But he knew his father. If Masaru had flown in from Tokyo unannounced, he had a reason.

Katsuki snagged a towel, running it roughly through his hair before dragging it over his body. His reflection caught his eye—golden skin marked with scars, white-gold hair still dripping, crimson eyes sharp with an edge of vulnerability that made his stomach turn. He looked volatile. Felt volatile, raw in a way that had nothing to do with enhanced senses and everything to do with the chemical cocktail of emotions he could no longer fully suppress.

He dressed quickly, though the standard-issue PT outfit felt inadequate as he pulled it on, but it would have to do. His thigh twinged again as he pulled on the shorts, and he absently massaged the muscle. He didn't want to keep Masaru waiting any longer than necessary. His old man had seen him in worse states.

The walk to the Master Sergeant's office from the training part of the campus was both too short and interminably long. Each step ratcheted up the tension in Katsuki's frame, his mind spinning with possibilities. Though he had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.

The door to Avery's office loomed like a final checkpoint. He took a steadying breath, trying to school his features into something resembling calm. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he knocked twice and pushed inside.

"Ah, Captain Bakugo. Glad you could join us." Avery's voice was strained, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. The beta stench of unease permeated the small space, making Katsuki's nose wrinkle. But it was the other scent, achingly familiar beneath the room's cloying overlay, that made his steps falter.

"Katsuki." Masaru Bakugo rose from the chair across from Avery's desk, his movements smooth and unhurried. He looked exactly as Katsuki remembered—neat grey suit, warm amber eyes, the kind of effortless poise that made people sit up and take notice. But there was a new tightness around his mouth, a shadow behind his gaze that made Katsuki's stomach clench.

"Hey, Dad." The words felt awkward on his tongue, too informal for the stifling confines of this office. "What are you doing here?"

Masaru's smile was gentle, but it didn't quite soften the worry lines etched around his eyes. "I think that's my line, son."

Katsuki shot Avery a look, silently willing the man to take a hint. To his credit, the Sergeant seemed to read the room. "I'll just give you two a moment to catch up." He edged around the desk, movements skittish. "Take all the time you need." Then the door clicked shut, and Katsuki was alone with the one person he'd been both dreading and desperately hoping to see.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Masaru studied him, gaze tracking over Katsuki's face like he was trying to read a story from the fresh bruises and sub-dermal fractures. Katsuki fought the urge to fidget under the scrutiny, to cross his arms and hunch his shoulders like he could physically shield himself from his father's perception.

Finally, Masaru sighed, gaze flickering briefly to the security camera mounted in the corner of the nondescript government office.

"I know I should have called first. But after the way our last conversation ended..." He gestured vaguely at the standardized furniture and beige walls. "Some things need to be said in person. Even if it means meeting here."

The deliberate emphasis made Katsuki pause. His father had always been perceptive and understood exactly why Katsuki was currently restricted to supervised locations, why even this conversation was probably being recorded and analyzed. But he'd come anyway, knowing the surveillance, knowing the risk.

"I needed to see you, Katsuki," Masaru continued softly. "Needed to know you were alright." His carefully neutral tone carried layers of meaning that made something in Katsuki's chest splinter.

"I'm fine," he bit out, the lie tasting more familiar, but never better. He caught the way his father's pulse quickened slightly, concern bleeding through his composed omega scent. He wasn't fooling either of them. "Not the usual post-mission bullshit. But nothing I can't handle."

"I have no doubt you can handle it." Masaru's agreement carried a weight that made Katsuki's spine stiffen. "You've always been able to handle anything they throw at you. That's not what I'm worried about."

Katsuki's laugh sounded brittle even to his own ears. "Then what? What could possibly have been so urgent that you had to come all the way out here, knowing exactly what kind of attention it would draw?" He threw his arms wide, a sharp gesture that encompassed the office, the facility, the whole mess his life had become. "What part of this entire shitty situation was worth the risk?"

"You."

The simple answer hung in the climate-controlled air between them, heavy with everything they couldn't say while others were listening. Masaru took a step closer, hands clenching at his sides like it was taking every ounce of restraint not to reach out.

"You're what I dropped everything for, Katsuki. Because I know my son. I know what this job takes out of you, even on a good day. And now, with everything that's happened..."

He shook his head, the gesture heavy with history. With all the times Katsuki had walked out of debriefs with fresh shadows behind his eyes, with scars added to his collection and blood he couldn't quite scrub from beneath his fingernails. With every deployment that saw him leave a piece of himself in the sand and rubble of some far-flung hellhole.

"I saw the hearing transcript."

Katsuki’s stomach lurched. He’d known this confrontation was coming the moment he spotted Masaru in Avery’s office, but it still felt like a sucker punch.

"I saw what they asked you, how they tried to twist what happened in Sarajevo. I saw how they questioned your control, your capability. How they tried to make you doubt everything you've spent your entire career building." Masaru pressed on, his voice resolute despite the slight tremor threading through it. 

Each word hit like a precision strike, stripping away Katsuki's defenses. Memories of the congressional inquisition played behind his eyes, the sly insinuations, the not-so-subtle digs at his nature. The way they'd painted him as a liability, a loaded gun too volatile to be trusted.

"They don't know what the fuck they're talking about." Katsuki's voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding through his carefully constructed walls. Ever since the implant removal, he'd been struggling to contain the tide of feelings that seemed to crash over him at the most inconvenient moments. "They weren't there. They didn't see that omega's face when—"

"I know." Masaru cut him off gently, the understanding in his tone somehow worse than any recrimination. "I know you did what you had to do, son. What you thought was right in the moment. That's all any of us can ever do."

Katsuki shook his head, fury rising hot and sharp in his chest. His emotions ping-ponged between rage and something dangerously close to despair, the kind of emotional whiplash that would have been chemically regulated before. "But they're not interested in what's right. They just want an easy scapegoat, a neat little box they can shove all their failures into. And I'm the perfect fucking candidate," he whispered, hating how vulnerable he sounded.

"No." The quiet steel in Masaru's voice made Katsuki's head snap up. His father's eyes blazed with a righteous fury he had rarely seen, a fire usually kept banked behind diplomatic restraint. "You're not their scapegoat, Katsuki. You're not their punching bag or their cautionary tale. You're a hero who's given everything to keep others safe."

The words hit like a physical blow. Without the implant's dampening effects, every emotion felt like a live wire against his raw nerves. Katsuki felt something hot and wet sting the corners of his eyes, his chest constricting with an emotion he couldn't name. When was the last time someone had called him that? When was the last time anyone had looked at him and seen something other than a weapon, a killing machine one step away from destroying everything in his path?

"I know you, son." Masaru's voice softened, but lost none of its conviction. "I know your heart, your strength. I know the warrior you've built yourself into, piece by agonizing piece. They can question your control. They can doubt your command. But they cannot take away who you are."

He stepped closer, breaching the last of the distance between them. His father's omega scent wrapped around him, grounding him even as his emotions threatened to spiral. This time, Masaru reached out, one hand coming up to grip Katsuki's shoulder with a strength that contradicted his calm exterior.

"You are Katsuki Bakugo. Exemplary soldier. Proud alpha. And you are my son," Masaru repeated, each word ringing with a quiet conviction that shook Katsuki to his core. "And there is nothing—no trial, no battlefield, no force on this earth or any other—that could make me any less proud of the man you are. The man you've always been, even when the world asked you to be something else."

The words soothed, but also broke something loose in Katsuki's chest, a dam he'd been desperately trying to maintain since his implant failed and left him drowning in the full force of his own emotions. His father's scent enveloped him—old books, green tea, and something uniquely Masaru that had always meant safety. It called to something primal in him, some deep part that recognized home, family, the unshakable foundation that had weathered every storm of his tumultuous life.

Unbidden, memories flashed through his mind. Masaru holding him after nightmares, bandaging skinned knees, talking him through adolescent rages when his emotions ran too hot for his child's body to contain. His father had been the eye of the hurricane, the unwavering calm at the center. And now, with Katsuki's world crumbling around him, Masaru stood steady as ever, continuing to offer shelter against the tempest.

The tears came then, silent and scalding. They carved trails of fire down Katsuki's cheeks, each one a release of pressure he hadn't even known was building. He tried to duck his head, to hide this evidence of what felt like failure, but Masaru just pulled him in, wrapping strong arms around Katsuki's shaking frame and tucking his face into the crook of his neck where his calming scent was strongest.

Fuck. Katsuki's throat tightened, a sob fighting to break free. He hated this, hated the lack of control, the vulnerability that clawed at his ribcage and stole the breath from his lungs. He was supposed to be stronger than this, the soldier who bowed to nothing and no one. But here, enfolded in his father's embrace, he felt cracks spiderwebbing through his composure. The exhaustion, the fear, the soul-deep weariness he'd been holding at bay came crashing over him in a tidal wave.

For a long moment, Katsuki just let himself be held. Let himself sink into the familiar comfort of his father's arms, the scent and warmth of him unwinding knots in Katsuki's chest he hadn't even known were there. Time stretched and contracted, seconds bleeding into minutes bleeding into a small eternity. Masaru's grip never wavered, his scent remaining a steady anchor even as Katsuki shook apart and slowly, painstakingly pieced himself back together.

It was a reset, a recalibration, a tiny oasis of peace in the midst of the unrelenting chaos.

Then reality crashed back in, cold and unforgiving. The security camera's blinking light, the faint electrical buzz he could never quite tune out. With the knowledge that even this small moment of respite was conditional, observed, subject to judgment by people who would never understand what it cost to be what he was.

Slowly, reluctantly, Katsuki pulled away. He swiped at his face with the back of one hand, trying to regain some composure. A scowl tugged at his mouth as he registered the lingering dampness on his cheeks, the tell-tale heat in his eyes. Fucking fantastic. As if he needed another reminder of just how far he'd fallen, another crack in the armor for his father to worry over.

"So what now?" His voice came out ragged, scraping like gravel over the words. He cleared his throat, straightening his spine and trying to reconstruct some semblance of his usual bravado. "You just came to play therapist? Dispense some sage omega wisdom before heading back to your regularly scheduled life?"

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Hated the bitter edge to them, the way they made Masaru flinch like he'd been slapped. But he couldn't seem to stop them, the hurt and anger and frustration pouring out of him in a toxic flood. Masaru, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait. He just looked at Katsuki with that same steady understanding, that unshakable faith that had gotten Katsuki through some of the darkest moments of his life.

"I came because my son needed me," Masaru shook his head, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not here to play therapist, Katsuki. I'm here because I'm your father and I could see you drowning, even if you couldn't. Or wouldn't." His grip on Katsuki's shoulder tightened fractionally.

His father had always possessed that uncanny ability, that preternatural omega skill at finding the eye in Katsuki's storms, no matter how viciously they raged. When the anger burned too hot and threatened to incinerate Katsuki from the inside out, his dad was there. A gentle word, a calming touch, a reminder that beneath the uniform and the medals and the blood, Katsuki was still human. Still the same fierce, determined boy he'd always been.

Sometimes Katsuki wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn't been there to temper his mom's searing drive, her relentless expectation for excellence no matter the personal cost. If he'd been left to scorch in the crucible of her expectations without the tempering influence of his father's unconditional acceptance. After Katsuki left home, it was Masaru who never let him forget that there was more to him than what he could do, than how he could shed his humanity in the name of duty.

"I don't know what's going to happen." The words came out raw, scraped thin by the knot of emotions still lodged in his throat. But he forced them out anyway, meeting his father's gaze squarely. Letting him see the struggle, the fear, the desperate determination. "They're talking about some kind of evaluation, but no one will give me a straight fucking answer about what it entails."

Masaru hummed thoughtfully. "This would be with the operative they've brought in? Midoriya?" At Katsuki's sharp look, he shrugged. "You're not the only one with contacts in interesting places."

Despite everything, Katsuki felt his lips twitch. Of course his old man had sources. Probably had a whole network of fellow officers trading intel over beer and old military stories or some shit.

"Yeah, he's the one." he confirmed, feeling a fresh surge of the tension that had been riding him for days. "Nobody seems to know much about him, beyond his codename and that he runs some kind of black box program. But the way they talk about him..." He shook his head, frustration bleeding into his tone. "It's like he's the bogeyman and the second coming all rolled into one."

Masaru's eyes sharpened, a flicker of speculation lighting their amber depths. "Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, focusing back on Katsuki, "Have you met with him yet?"

"No." The word tasted sour on Katsuki's tongue, his alpha pride rankled at being kept in the dark. "They keep rescheduling, shifting the timeline. Feels like psychological warfare."

"Or strategic maneuvering," Masaru countered, his gaze distant like he was mentally sorting through possibilities. "Keeping you on your toes, disrupting your equilibrium before the main event."

The observation settled like a stone in Katsuki's stomach, uncomfortable in its accuracy. He'd considered the same thing himself, during those long, restless nights when sleep eluded him. The idea that all of this was just another move in a game he couldn't see the edges of. The endless tests, the cagey non-answers, and the perpetual looming threat of Midoriya's summons. 

"So what do I do?" The question burned like acid on his tongue, recoiling at the admission of uncertainty. But this was his father. If he couldn't be honest here, in this space built of bone-deep trust and shared history, then he was fucked.

Masaru considered him for a long moment, gaze heavy with the weight of all the things Katsuki knew he couldn't say openly. His father's eyes flickered briefly to the security camera again before settling back on Katsuki with deliberate intent. All those classified mission briefs, the redacted files, the scars carved into both body and soul by a career spent toeing the line between necessary evil and unforgivable sin hung between them.

"You know, when I first met your mother," Masaru began carefully, his tone deceptively casual, "everyone had expectations about what an omega should do. What path I should take." A slight smile touched his lips. "But I had a choice. We all do, even when it doesn't feel like it."

Katsuki's caught the subtle shift in his father's scent, determination threading through his natural calm.

"This evaluation..." Masaru continued, choosing each word with careful precision. "It's presented as your only path. But you can choose differently." His eyes held Katsuki's, conveying volumes that couldn't be spoken aloud. "If something feels wrong, if your instincts are screaming at you, then you have every right to walk away."

Katsuki's laugh came out harsh and bitter.

"Walk away to what? A dishonorable discharge? Being labeled unstable and dangerous?" His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "They've made it pretty clear what happens if I don't play along."

"Then that's their choice." Masaru's quiet certainty cut through Katsuki's rising anger. "But your response to it? That's yours." He leaned forward slightly, his next words barely a whisper. "The military doesn't own your soul, Katsuki. No matter what they think. No matter what agreements they think they have. Your humanity is not their property."

"You've always been stronger than they expected," Masaru continued, pride warming his voice. "Smarter. More capable of finding your own path, even within their constraints. That's what terrifies them—not your abilities, but your will. Your determination to be more than what they designed you to be." His father moved then, deliberately casual. "So when you meet this Midoriya, remember that you are still your own man. Your choices may be limited, but they are still yours to make."

Katsuki absorbed this, turning it over in his head. This entire time he had approached this evaluation as a foregone conclusion, something to be endured, but never questioned. His father was the first to suggest he had any agency in the matter.

"Mom..." Katsuki started, the word catching in his throat as a fresh wave of guilt hit. Three weeks of ignored calls. Of course the old hag would have been ready to tear down walls. "She didn't come because she's pissed at me, the international stink on this, right?"

Masaru's expression softened, though something flickered behind his eyes. "No. She wanted to be here, but..." He hesitated, gaze drifting to the window. "She got pulled into something off-grid. Couldn't get out of it." The careful phrasing made him eye his dad sharply. His mother never went off-grid unless it was serious.

"You go in there with your head held high and your eyes wide open," Masaru said, voice ringing with bedrock conviction. "Listen to your instincts and above all..." He caught and held Katsuki's gaze with searing intensity. "Remember who you are. Not just the soldier they've crafted you into, but the man beneath the uniform."

Katsuki just grunted his understanding. Looking at Masaru now, seeing the love and belief shining from those dark, kind eyes, he felt something jagged shift behind his ribs. A pressure easing, just a fraction, under the weight of that steady regard. 

"I should go," Masaru said, glancing at his watch. "Official business to attend to while I'm here." His tone carried that careful neutrality that Katsuki recognized from his childhood, the voice his father used when skirting around topics he wasn't at liberty to discuss openly.

"Pulled some strings to get this meeting?" Katsuki could sense the subtle tension in his father's frame, the way his scent shifted toward something more guarded. 

"Let's just say I had to remind certain new comers about my very decorated career." Masaru's smile held a sharp edge that reminded Katsuki where he'd inherited some of his own approach to similar situations. "Even then, it took calling in a few favors. They're keeping you under pretty tight observation."

Katsuki understood the implication. If his father, a decorated military researcher with decades of classified missions to his credit, had to resort to using his position just for a supervised visit, then the situation was far more serious than what could be explained by standard protocols.

"Do you know long?" Katsuki asked, the question carrying multiple layers. How long until they could speak freely? How long until this evaluation nightmare ended? How long until his life resembled something close to normal again?

Masaru's expression tightened. "Hard to say. Given current... circumstances, this might be our last face-to-face for a while." He adjusted his jacket, a gesture Katsuki recognized as self-regulation, his father controlling his omega instincts to comfort. "But that doesn't mean you're cut off. Phone still works. Texts too, though..."

"They're monitoring everything," Katsuki finished grimly. His enhanced hearing picked up footsteps approaching, their time was running out.

"They can monitor all they want." That sharp smile again, the one that reminded Katsuki his father had survived decades of military politics. At that something eased in his chest. They couldn't speak freely, couldn't risk certain topics over monitored channels, but they'd always been good at coded conversations.

"Oh, and Katsuki?" Masaru paused at the door. "Has the piano been helping? When I arranged the delivery, I wasn't sure if you'd even want it after all these years."

A warmth spread through Katsuki's chest, unexpected but welcome. The Bösendorfer had arrived three days ago, its midnight blue finish gleaming in the afternoon light as movers carefully positioned it in his apartment. He'd spent hours last night losing himself in Chopin's Ballade No. 1, fingers remembering patterns his conscious mind had long forgotten.

"It has," Katsuki admitted, something softer bleeding into his tone. "Didn't realize how much I missed it until I sat down to play." He didn't add that it had been the only thing keeping him sane through the clusterfuck of the past week, the only place where the noise in his head quieted enough for him to think clearly.

His father had always known what he needed, even when Katsuki himself didn't recognize it. Even now, as a grown man with kill counts classified so highly not even Congress knew the real numbers, his father could still see through his defenses to the core of him.

"Good." Masaru's eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure. "I had them tune it to the exact specifications you used to prefer. Remembered you always liked it a half-step sharper than standard."

The detail struck Katsuki like a physical blow. That his father had remembered something so specific, so personal, after all these years... it made the walls he'd built around himself feel suddenly too tight, too brittle.

"You didn't have to—" he started, but Masaru cut him off with a look.

"I'm still your father." The words carried weight beyond their simple meaning. "Even if they've got you locked down tighter than a black site facility, even if we have to jump through bureaucratic hoops just to have a conversation... that hasn't changed. Won't ever change."

The footsteps were right outside, their time was up. The door swung open before Katsuki could respond.

"Dr. Bakugo? They're ready for you in Conference Room C." A junior beta officer nervously cleared his throat.

"Of course." Masaru's public face slipped back into place. The professional researcher, the decorated scientist. But his scent carried one last wave of fierce protective love before he turned away. "Take care of yourself, son. And remember, you can always reach me, one way or another."

Katsuki watched him go, mind already replaying their conversation. His thoughts drifted to the piano waiting in his apartment, not just an instrument, but a lifeline to a part of himself he'd nearly forgotten existed. The part that found order in chaos, peace in precision, beauty in mathematical patterns played out across eighty-eight keys.

Maybe his father was right and there were still choices to be made. He might not be able to avoid Midoriya's evaluation entirely, but he could choose how to approach it. Could maintain some small measure of control over his own destiny.

The thought steadied him, gave him back a fraction of the certainty that had been stripped away with his implant. That piano stood as physical proof that someone knew him, truly knew him beyond the perfect soldier, the weapon, the asset. It was a reminder that beneath the blood and the duty and the endless missions, there was still a human being worth fighting for.

He just hoped that conviction would hold when he finally came face to face with the mysterious Captain Midoriya.

The pre-dawn fog clung to the National Mall like a living thing, transforming the familiar monuments into ghostly silhouettes. Katsuki's measured breath crystallized in the early morning air as he maintained his seven-minute mile pace, his same punishing routine he'd followed practically every day. Three days since Walter Reed. Three days since Icarus's bloody demonstration. Three days of silence from Stars.

His team working at his apartment had ended abruptly when Denki's sweep had detected an anomalous signal. Not quite a bug, but something close enough to put them all on alert. They'd separated, agreeing to reconvene at O'Malley's the next day—the Irish pub had become their unofficial meeting ground, its ancient stone walls thick enough to muffle conversations and the owner paranoid enough about government oversight to maintain a strictly no-surveillance policy.

His jaw tightened as he pushed harder, feet pounding the damp pavement beneath the Lincoln Memorial. That was the part that gnawed at him. Stars wasn't the type to go dark without reason, especially after handing him classified intel and promising to contact him once she'd "secured the asset." Whatever the fuck that meant.

He'd tried everything from secure channels, to dead drops, even risking a carefully worded message through official networks that would appear innocuous to monitoring systems. Nothing. Like she'd vanished into thin air, taking any updates and explanations with her.

His enhanced hearing picked up a subtle change in the ambient soundscape, a communication device activating somewhere to his left, the faint electrical hum standing out against the natural morning chorus. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but most people hadn't had their military-grade implant removed. Not that it would help them. His implant failure had pushed his capabilities beyond standard levels. Every sound, scent, and visual cue registered with crystalline clarity, from the faint click of the woman's communication device to the subtle shift in the man's gait as he signaled to someone out of Katsuki's visual range.

His nostrils flared, catching the chemical scent of the woman's tactical-grade antiperspirant, designed to minimize scent trails for operatives tracking designation subjects. Whoever had them following him knew enough about prime alphas to deploy countermeasures against enhanced senses. The woman had shadowed him from his apartment, the man joining at the coffee shop where Katsuki had stopped to refill his water bottle. Classic surveillance rotation.

Katsuki maintained his pace, resisting the urge to turn his head. Instead, he used reflective surfaces—the dark windows of the memorial visitor center, the polished granite of the Vietnam Wall—to track the movement behind him. Not just one follower. Three. No, four.

He altered his usual route, veering toward the Tidal Basin where cherry trees stood skeletal in the November chill. The foggy conditions provided natural concealment, but his enhanced vision cut through it better than most, giving him the advantage.

The phone in his running armband vibrated, a message from Denki that he couldn't check yet. Probably another dead end on the encrypted drive. Three days of his best tech specialist working around the clock, and that quantum-locked bastard remained impenetrable.

Just like trying to reach Stars.

The thought triggered another surge of frustration, as he rounded the Jefferson Memorial before noting a figure cutting diagonally across his path—athletic build, compression gear like any early morning runner, but moving with the deliberate efficiency of someone with tactical training. The stranger's eyes flicked toward him briefly, then away too quickly. Amateur mistake.

Now they were herding him. Two more figures appeared on his right flank, seemingly engaged in conversation but positioned to intercept if he veered that direction. Another waited ahead, poorly concealed behind a maintenance vehicle. Four operatives closing in on a pre-dawn morning when the Mall was nearly deserted. This wasn't random. This wasn't standard surveillance. This was an interception.

What puzzled him was the approach. Government black ops would have been more subtle, more technically equipped. Military intelligence would have used a different extraction protocol. These people were good, but not official-good. Something was off.

Katsuki calculated his options, enhanced senses cataloging the environment for advantages. The fog was thickening rather than burning off, providing better cover. The ongoing construction on the Mall offered multiple obstacles and escape routes. And most importantly, his pursuers didn't know the full extent of his enhanced capabilities.

Time to flip the script.

He accelerated suddenly, pushing to a near-sprint that caught his tail off guard. The comms chatter intensified, he could hear fragments now, voices urgent but controlled.

"—moving northeast—" 

"—cut him off at—" 

"—non-lethal only, remember—"

Non-lethal. So they wanted him alive. Not assassins, then. But who the fuck were these people? They didn't move like government operatives, didn't smell like federal agents, and they sure as shit didn't have the proper protocols for a military extraction. Katsuki veered sharply into the construction site for the National Museum of African American History, still months from completion. The skeleton of the structure rose from a massive excavation, temporary walkways and scaffolding creating a three-dimensional maze.

Perfect terrain for what came next.

He ducked under a barrier, ignoring the "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" sign. He could pick up his pursuers scrambling to adjust, their coordination faltering. That confirmed his suspicion, not government professionals. The construction site was empty at this hour, the first crews not due until 7 AM. Katsuki navigated through stacked building materials and heavy equipment, mentally mapping ambush points. If they wanted to play predator, he'd show them what it meant to hunt an alpha who'd spent his career in combat zones.

Inside the maze of concrete and steel, he slipped behind a massive concrete piling and controlled his breathing to near silence. His enhanced senses mapped the site—four heartbeats, three weapons (two tranquilizer guns, one concealed carry), and something electronic that hummed with a frequency he'd never encountered before.

The first pursuer entered his trap zone, the athletic "runner" who'd failed to cut him off earlier. The man moved cautiously, one hand hovering near his waistband where Katsuki could smell the chemical residue of a tranquilizer dart.

Amateur.

Katsuki struck with precision, one hand clamping over the man's mouth while the other locked his arm in a joint hold that immobilized without permanent damage. He dragged his captive deeper into the shadowed recess, feeling the man's pulse spike under his grip and the chemical scent of fear-sweat fill his nostrils.

"Who the fuck are you?" Katsuki hissed, voice pitched low enough that only his captive would hear.

The man's response was to elbow backward desperately. Katsuki took the hit, absorbing it with his core, then increased pressure on the choke hold. The man's struggles grew weaker.

"You have ten seconds before I crush your fucking windpipe. Who. Sent. You?" The man's struggles froze when Katsuki applied slightly more pressure to the joint lock. Through the compression mask covering the lower half of his face, the man's eyes revealed defiance rather than fear.

"We're not your enemy," the man whispered when Katsuki loosened his grip on his mouth. "We're here to help you."

"Bullshit." Katsuki tightened his hold, enhanced senses detecting the faint metallic scent of a tranquilizer gun now visible beneath the man's jacket. "Last chance before I start breaking things that don't heal right."

The man's eyes darted to the side, attempting to signal his team. Katsuki caught the movement, spinning them both just as a dart whispered through the space where they'd been standing. It struck a wooden form with a soft thunk.

"Bad move," Katsuki snarled.

Before the man could answer, Katsuki's enhanced hearing picked up movement, another operative closing in. He made a split-second decision, grabbing the man's extended arm as he reached for his weapon. The joint lock was textbook, pressure applied precisely where it would do the most damage.

The crack of the radius bone snapping echoed off concrete pilings like a gunshot. The man's scream were quickly muffled by Katsuki's hand, but it would alert the others. Time to move. 

Katsuki released his now-incapacitated captive, who crumpled to the ground clutching his broken arm. He grabbed the man's comm device, crushing it between his fingers to ensure they couldn't track him electronically.

"South side!" someone shouted. "Whiskey down!"

Katsuki was already scaling scaffolding, moving like smoke through structural steel. He reached the third level just as two more operatives converged on their shrieking teammate below. He heard fragments of urgent conversation:

"—arm's fucked—" 

"—faster than intel suggested—" 

"—need to update the approach—"

Intel. These people had files on him. Detailed enough to know his capabilities, wrong enough to underestimate him. From his elevated position, Katsuki observed their reaction. Professional enough to maintain formation, amateur enough to bunch together around their injured teammate. Not military. Not government. Some kind of private group with resources but incomplete training. 

His phone vibrated again, but there was no time to check it now.

Below, the team had regrouped, switching to a different approach when he spotted the device one of them was holding—a handheld scanner with jury-rigged modifications, clearly designed to detect designation signatures. Black market tech, the kind whispered about in intelligence circles but supposedly restricted to classified development.

"Spread out," the apparent leader ordered. "The scanner says he's still here. Remember, we need him conscious."

Katsuki's eyes narrowed. A scanner that could detect his designation without his implant. That technology was supposed to be strictly military, existing only for classified ops teams. Yet here it was, in the hands of a non-fucking-government team. The puzzle pieces shifted in his mind, if these weren't government agents, then who the hell were they? These people weren't random. They'd come prepared, equipped, and informed. And beyond that,  he could see the nondescript van with tinted windows that was waiting, like an extraction vehicle. This wasn't surveillance, it had to be an attempted snatch. 

The fog began to dissipate as early morning commuters started appearing on the Mall's periphery. Katsuki needed to extract before civilians got involved or authorities responded to the disturbance.

He ghost-walked along a beam connecting to an adjacent building, the American History Museum's loading dock. The distance was twenty feet over a thirty-foot drop. For a normal human, suicide. For him, merely challenging.

The scanner operator turned slowly, sweeping the device in an arc. "Getting stronger. He's within fifty meters, northwest quadrant, elevated position."

Katsuki's landing on the opposite roof was silent as fog itself. Below, he could hear the team realizing they'd lost visual contact. Confusion in their ranks. Good. Katsuki traversed the scaffolding as he silently moved, using techniques honed in urban warfare scenarios. The metal framework should have creaked under his weight, but he distributed it perfectly, leaving no trace of his passage. He paused at a junction, catching sight of something that made his blood run cold. The team leader had removed his glove to check a wound on his hand, revealing a tattoo on his inner wrist, a DNA helix breaking free from chains. He'd not seen that symbol before, but it looked familiar to intelligence briefings he’d seen previously about radical designation groups.

He could only think this was linked to what the experiments he saw with Stars, or maybe something more insidious. Either way, whatever they wanted was not happening.

Katsuki plotted his exit route, using the scaffolding to move toward the edge of the site farthest from their vehicle. The team was still searching the northwest quadrant while he was now positioned northeast, using their own assumptions against them.

His enhanced hearing picked up approaching sirens, which meant that someone had reported the disturbance. The team below heard it too, their movements becoming more urgent.

"We're blown," the leader snapped. "Fall back to secondary position. We'll try again."

As they retreated, Katsuki made his move and descended via emergency access ladders, eventually reaching ground level through a maintenance entrance. The museum's service corridors provided perfect cover, a maze of passages used by custodial and security staff to move unseen throughout the facility.

Emerging into the main halls, Katsuki blended with early morning museum staff. A security guard nodded absently at his running gear, just another fitness enthusiast cutting through the building to avoid construction. It wasn't until he reached the main exit that he noticed something unusual in his jacket pocket. When had—?

He withdrew a small card, matte black with no visible markings, but he also detected something else. When viewed at a specific angle in the museum's lighting, subtle impressions appeared on the surface, numbers and letters arranged in what looked like coordinates, but wrong somehow. Reversed? Encoded?

On the flip side, again invisible to normal sight, was a symbol: three interlocking circles forming a triangular pattern. Katsuki had never seen it before, not in any military, intelligence, or paramilitary database he'd studied. It must've been the argent who he was choking, he was the only who had gotten close enough to leave it. Which was... concerning.

He pocketed the card, mind already sorting possibilities. The coordinates weren't standard latitude/longitude, the numbers didn't correlate to any geographic region he knew. A cipher? A dead drop location? Meeting coordinates?

His phone buzzed again, Denki:

Stars went silent 3 days ago. No digital footprint since Walter Reed. Trying to reach her contacts but getting stonewalled. Security protocols engaged on her end.

Katsuki typed back quickly:

Meeting at O'Malley's moved up. 1900 hours. Attempted extraction. Unknown actors. Got civvies on me with restricted tech. Need analyst eyes on some data.

He attached a photo of the card, knowing Denki would forward it to Mina for analysis. If this was some secret designation group or foreign intelligence operation targeting enhanced alphas, she'd have the connections to figure it out.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Katsuki executed a series of counter-surveillance moves—crossing streets against lights, ducking into stores with multiple exits, using reflective surfaces to confirm he'd lost his tail. The construction site disturbance would soon draw police attention, but he'd vanished before anyone could connect him to the scene.

As he walked toward downtown DC, his mind raced through possibilities. The attempted snatch felt too coordinated for random designation radicals, too sloppy for government black ops. Private military? Corporate espionage targeting enhanced assets? Some group he'd never encountered before?

The broken-armed operative's scream still echoed in his memory. He'd acted on instinct, training kicking in to neutralize a threat. But had it been necessary? These people wanted him alive, unharmed if possible. They weren't trying to kill him. Then what did they want? And more importantly, how many others out there had similar intel on enhanced alphas like himself?

Katsuki's jaw tightened as he considered the implications. If unauthorized groups were tracking designations with military-grade technology, acquiring detailed files on enhanced individuals, and attempting coordinated kidnappins... The game had changed.

His hand unconsciously drifted to his neck, to the scar where his implant had been removed. Whatever these people knew about him, whatever files they possessed, it connected to Walter Reed, to his enhancement, to secrets buried so deep even he didn't know their extent at this point. 

The cryptic card felt heavy in his pocket, a key to new mysteries he couldn't yet comprehend. But his team would crack it. They always did.

And once they understood what that card meant, who was behind this morning's attempt, and how it connected to everything else...

Well. Then the real hunt would begin.

The afternoon rush at O'Malley's hummed with a particular energy that only a dive bar near government district could cultivate—a perfect blend of off-duty soldiers, intelligence analysts pretending to be consultants, and locals who'd learned not to ask too many questions. Katsuki navigated through the crowd, his enhanced senses automatically cataloging threats while maintaining the appearance of casual indifference.

Still jumpy after this morning. Can't blame me after those fuckers tried to snatch me.

Sean O'Malley stood behind the bar like a fortress made flesh, six foot three of scarred Irish muscle, his bald head gleaming under the amber lighting. Military tats peeked from beneath rolled sleeves as he polished a glass with mechanical precision. His eyes tracked Katsuki with the awareness of someone who'd spent his own time in war zones.

"Back room's ready for you, lad," the barkeep murmured as Katsuki passed. "Swept it myself this morning. Your usual troubles brewing?"

"Always," Katsuki replied, accepting the knowing nod.

The heavy wooden door to the private room muffled the bar noise to a dull murmur. His team had already claimed the space like they owned it, which, in a way, they did. This room had witnessed the planning of operations that would remain classified until the next ice age.

"You look like you had fun this morning," Mina observed, not looking away from her screens. Her pink-tinged hair caught the low light, currently tied back in a complicated braid that probably took twenty minutes but she'd never admit to the vanity. Three separate devices displayed streaming data—intelligence feeds, military communications intercepts, and what looked like social media analytics.

"Just spent my morning playing fucking tag with amateurs who want to make me their newest victim.” Katsuki dropped into the last chair, pulling out the mysterious card. "Found this little bastard in my pocket. Don't know when they planted it." The bar's ambient noise—thump-thump-thump—matched the elevated rhythm he could feel in his veins.

Denki was on it immediately, photographing the card with equipment that scattered crimson laser grids across its surface. "Shit. This isn't printer paper. The microscopic structure, look at how it refracts light in phase shifts..."

"English, please," Eijirou requested, the mirror behind him catching distorted fragments of their conversation as he poured Katsuki's usual.

"Someone spent serious money on a fucking invitation," Katsuki translated. His comm device buzzed with a coded message that broke apart mid-transmission, static crackling with what might have been intentional interference. Mina caught his expression. 

"That's the third disruption today. Someone's testing our frequencies." Her fingers flew across her keyboard. "Cross-referencing that material composition against known procurement channels. If this tech exists, someone bought components through official military contracts."

Denki continued his analysis, excitement creeping into his professional assessment. "The security measures alone cost more than our annual operational budget. Layered encryption, degradation protocols if handled incorrectly... whoever made this doesn't want curious eyes figuring out their secrets."

While his tech specialist worked, Katsuki accepted the whiskey Eijirou slid over. The first swallow burned just right.

"Since you were getting chased through the fog," Eijirou said, pulling up a chair, "we've been connecting some dots. Remember the Walter Reed files mentioning Project Echo?”

Katsuki nodded, accepting the glass of whiskey Eijirou slid toward him. He needed it after this morning.

"Turns out it isn't isolated to the U.S.," Mina said, tapping her tablet to display a global map dotted with red markers. "I've tracked designation research facilities in eleven countries, all working on 'quantum enhancement' technology similar to what they scanned you with."

She zoomed in on the map, revealing details Katsuki hadn't expected. "Moscow. Beijing. Paris. Seoul. Every major power has some version running. But here's the kicker—" She highlighted a web of data connections between the sites. "Eleven countries. They're all running similar programs, testing parameters for what they call 'designation optimization.'"

"Optimization," Katsuki repeated, tasting the euphemism like ash. "Sounds better than 'experimentation.'"

"Here's what's interesting," Eijirou continued. "These facilities are sharing data. Not just results, but raw biological data, test subjects' reactions, failure rates—everything gets centralized through Walter Reed."

"Coordinated research across national boundaries," Mina added. "With the US at the center collecting and analyzing everything. We're talking years of development, possibly decades."

Denki looked up from his work. "And it's not just medical research. I found references to tactical applications, battlefield effectiveness studies, and—wait for it—what they're calling 'strategic designation deployment.'"

Strategic deployment. Military terminology for turning designations into weapons.

Katsuki rolled the whiskey glass between his palms. "How big are we talking? Handful of black op sites or full-scale program?"

"That's the million-dollar question," Mina replied. "The data suggests significant infrastructure, but everything's compartmentalized. Could be they're running a limited pilot program across multiple locations. Or—"

"Or we're looking at the tip of a very large iceberg," Eijirou finished grimly.

He projected building schematics that immediately triggered Katsuki's tactical analysis. "Someone did their homework. They know the security systems, maintenance schedules, blind spots. This is professional-grade reconnaissance."

"The office handles regional designation registration and monitoring," Mina explained, pulling up additional data. "But check this, their database has connections to the Walter Reed network. Every designation registered in DC feeds into the same system you encountered."

"Perfect place really," Katsuki observed darkly. "Close enough to official systems that they can pull real-time data, isolated enough that things won't get public attention."

"About that symbol on the card," Mina said, displaying intercepted communications and protest footage. "Three interlocking circles. I've traced it to at least five different designation advocacy groups worldwide. They call it 'breaking the chains of genetic tyranny.'"

"Terrorist," Eijirou commented.

"Organized resistance," Mina corrected. "Military training in their videos, encrypted communications that took my best software six hours to crack, equipment that costs serious money. Someone's backing them beyond typical activist funding."

Katsuki studied the information flowing across screens. "The amateurs who chased me this morning knew exactly where to find me. Had equipment that shouldn't exist outside government labs."

"And they wanted you alive and functional," Eijirou added. "Tranquilizer dosages calibrated for enhanced designation biology. Not a capture, a recruitment."

"For what?" Katsuki asked the room.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Denki admitted. "But the timing's suspicious. Increased military activity around designation research, these groups becoming more active, facilities sharing data at unprecedented rates..."

"There's more," Eijirou said quietly. "I'v been hearing about a spike in new equipment requisitions for the past month. Designation monitoring systems, containment protocols, something called 'resonance stabilization units.'"

"They have to be building something," Mina concluded. "Question is whether it's for research, containment, or something else entirely."

The puzzle pieces weren't forming a complete picture, more like a partial outline of something massive they couldn't quite see yet. International cooperation that defied usual intelligence boundaries. Underground groups with resources that suggested state-level backing. Technology that shouldn't be accessible, being used by both government programs and civilian cells.

"Here's what concerns me," Denki said carefully. "The card's encryption methods match patterns used in military communications, but altered just enough to avoid detection protocols. Someone took official tech and modified it for civilian use."

"Inside job," Katsuki stated rather than asked.

"Has to be. The knowledge required, the access to procurement channels, understanding our security systems..." Mina shook her head. "This isn't random hackers or designation extremists. Someone in the system is feeding information."

"Or playing both sides," Eijirou suggested darkly.

The room fell quiet as implications settled over them. Their own military might be compromised. Designation research programs could be serving dual purposes. The morning's attempted recruitment might connect to official channels in ways they hadn't considered.

"What's your play?" Eijirou finally asked, though his expression suggested he already knew.

"I'm taking the meeting," Katsuki replied, ignoring the predictable objections forming on his team's faces. "They want to recruit me for something specific. Could be their fantasy revolution, could be something worse. Either way, I'm not finding answers hiding in bars."

"It's a trap," Mina said flatly.

"Obviously. Question is whether it's amateur hour or professional setup." Katsuki pulled out his phone, checking the time. "I've got five hours to find out exactly how deep this rabbit hole goes."

Denki was already prototyping countermeasures. "I'll rig tracking protocols, multiple emergency beacon options. If they jam standard frequencies, these'll bust through."

"Mina, I need everything you can find on designation advocacy groups in the DC area. Membership, training facilities, financial backing." His mind was already mapping the engagement.

"Boss," Eijirou interrupted, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by Delta Force seriousness. "You're meeting Program Director Midoriya tomorrow. Walking into a potential hostile situation tonight seems like asking for trouble."

"Midoriya's the reason I'm going," Katsuki replied sharply. "Young captain with classification levels above our clearance, personally requesting my evaluation. If these groups know about official programs, I need to know what they know before tomorrow's meeting."

The unspoken concern hung in the air, that their own chain of command might be part of whatever was happening. That Captain Midoriya's interest wasn't standard procedure but something else entirely.

"That's what they're calling it in Prague," she said, pointing to freshly painted graffiti in a video feed: "NO ECHOES OF OPPRESSION." "The DLA 2.0 movement is growing. Started as student protests, now it's spreading to military installations."

Denki looked up from his analysis. "Found something interesting about our morning's entertainment. The chems they used weren't standard tranquilizers, the molecular structure creates a dampening field that specifically targets enhanced designations."

"They've been testing," Katsuki concluded darkly. "Watching. Documenting."

The red pulse of equipment LEDs seemed to synchronize as data filtered through encrypted channels. Katsuki counted: thump-thump... thump-thump-thump.

"Here's what concerns me," Denki said carefully. "The card's encryption methods match patterns used in military communications, but altered just enough to create what we call 'phase noise.' Someone took official tech and shifted its frequency."

"They're not just building," Denki cut in, pulling up another screen. "They're also utilizing. I've been monitoring chatter about 'designation incidents' worldwide, prime designations experiencing extreme physiological responses, abilities beyond normal parameters."

The chart he displayed showed an alarming upward trend. "It's not random anymore. It's systematic, increasing at a logarithmic rate. And most concerning—" He highlighted specific data points. "These incidents correlate with areas where military-grade designation suppressants have been distributed in the past three months."

Katsuki took a long pull of whiskey, savoring the burn. "You're saying someone's tampering with suppressants? Making them fail on purpose?"

"Not fail," Mina interjected. "Trigger dormant mutations." She brought up a new interface, showing social media posts, news reports, and classified briefs. "But here's where it gets interesting. Three major pharmaceutical companies have quietly recalled designation regulation products, citing 'quality control issues.' But sources say the real reason is contamination, specifically designed to trigger enhanced responses."

"And someone's documenting these incidents," Denki added, "collecting data, analyzing patterns. Building profiles."

Eijirou leaned forward. "Profiles for what?"

Before anyone could answer, Denki's software chimed. "Got it. The card's temporal coordinates: 22:30, coordinates... shit." He looked up, eyes wide. "It's an address. Here in DC. Specifically—"

"The designation registry office on K Street," Mina finished, already pulling up building schematics. "After hours. Perfect for super secret meetings."

Katsuki studied the building's layout, mind already planning approaches. "Thoughts?"

"It's a trap," Eijirou repeated immediately.

"Obviously," Katsuki replied. "Question is, whose trap?"

Mina was furiously typing, cross-referencing data. "About that symbol on the card, the three interlocking circles? I've seen it before. Not officially, but..."

"But what?" Katsuki pressed.

"Underground designation networks. Groups advocating for what they call 'designation liberation.'" She pulled up images from various protests, encrypted forums, and intelligence reports. The symbol appeared repeatedly. "They believe designations are being systematically oppressed, controlled through suppressants and registration protocols."

"Radical bullshit," Katsuki muttered.

"Maybe not entirely," Mina countered. "These incidents you've been experiencing? They're happening to others. People with existing suppressant implants suddenly manifesting mutations they never had. The pattern suggests—"

"Someone's weaponizing designations," Denki finished.

The weight of it settled over the table. Katsuki drained his whiskey, gesturing for a refill. "We dig deeper. I want everything you can find on these liberation groups. Membership, leadership, connections to government actors."

"Already on it," Mina said, fingers flying across her keyboard. "But there's more. These 'incidents'? They're escalating. Just this week an alpha unit in Colorado went dark during a training exercise. Three operators from different special forces backgrounds, all enhanced beyond baseline. No bodies recovered."

"Germany reported two omega intelligence assets missing," Denki added. "Last known location: meeting about enhanced ability training protocols."

"Moscow lost a prime alpha KGB operative," Eijirou contributed. "Officially listed as defected. Unofficially..." He drew a finger across his throat.

Katsuki's mind raced, connecting threads. His own enhancement after the implant removal. The attempted abduction this morning. Stars' disappearance. This underground movement tracking and documenting enhanced designations.

"The people this morning," he said slowly. "They had medical-grade designation scanners. Knew exactly where to find me. Had detailed intel." He paused. "They didn't want to kill me. Wanted to recruit me."

"For what?" Eijirou asked.

"That's what I'm going to find out." Katsuki tapped the address Denki had decoded. 

"Alone?" The question came from all three simultaneously.

"I agree, not tonight, but they made it personal when they tried to grab me. If not tonight, fine. But I'm going on my terms."

Mina shook her head. "It's too risky. We don't know their numbers, resources, or true intentions."

"Which is why I'll go alone," Katsuki countered. "One target, easier to extract if things go sideways." He met each of their gazes. "I need you three here, digging deeper. These global incidents, the liberation groups, the connection to Walter Reed—there's something we're missing."

"And you're going to waltz into a potential ambush to find it," Eijirou said flatly.

"I didn't survive this long by avoiding danger," Katsuki replied. "Besides, tomorrow I've got the final evaluation phase. Meeting the program director personally." His lip curled. "Apparently I'm important enough for special attention."

The way he said it made his team exchange glances. They'd all read between the lines when official orders came through, Katsuki's mandatory evaluation had been expedited, given priority classification. Someone high up wanted him processed through the system fast.

"Captain Midoriya," Denki read from his screen, pulling up the file that had been attached to Katsuki's summons. "Program director for... Jesus. Classification level above our clearance."

"Figure of speech, Sparky," Katsuki said dryly. "I'll handle the official channels. You handle the unofficial ones." He stood, rolling his shoulders.

"One more thing," Katsuki said as they wrapped up, his voice dropping even lower. "If something happens to me tomorrow, if I don't make it out of the evaluation, you take whatever we find and run with it. No heroics, no rescue attempts. The truth matters more than any one of us."

Eijirou's expression hardened with rare solemnity. "That's not how we operate, boss. No one gets left behind."

"I mean it," Katsuki insisted, his gaze sweeping across his team. "Whatever they're doing—to me, to Whitmore, to others we don't even know about yet—it's bigger than us. And someone has to make sure the truth comes out, no matter what."

A moment of silent communication passed between them, years of shared missions and mutual trust forming an unspoken bond. Finally, Eijirou nodded, though the reluctance was clear in his eyes.

"Okay. But it won't come to that."

"A man can only hope," Katsuki agreed, raising his glass in a grim toast. "To finding the truth."

"To finding the truth," his team echoed, glasses clinking softly in the private room of a bar that had witnessed the planning of a hundred operations, none perhaps as personal or dangerous as this one.

Katsuki's gut screamed it as the nondescript SUV veered off Langley's main drag, ditching the secure route that should've taken them to HQ for his long-awaited "evaluation." For the past week, he'd been confined to the concrete buildings of the main campus, enduring endless psychological evaluations and physical assessments. 

Something was wrong.

Instead of heading toward the original HQ building where most classified briefings took place, the unmarked government sedan took a sharp right, following a maintenance road that snaked around the perimeter of the 258-acre compound. They passed the high-security parking structures and employee fitness center, moving away from the heart of America's intelligence organization toward the less trafficked western edge of the property, where they stashed the shit they didn't want civilians catching wind of.

The driver—definitely not civilian given his tactical driving and perfect tail—followed the curved access road heading toward the base's aging industrial sector, past the facility's outer security checkpoints, where armed guards monitored vehicle traffic from reinforced positions.

Beyond the main security perimeter lay a cluster of nondescript buildings, temporary-looking structures that somehow managed to appear both hastily assembled and permanently embedded in the landscape. Unlike the imposing architecture of the main complex, these facilities were designed to be overlooked, their purpose obscured by careful architectural camouflage and strategic positioning away from main streets and access ways.

Katsuki's fingers drummed against his thigh, a staccato beat of his frustration. A week of increasingly invasive tests, conducted in sterile rooms with fusion-locked doors and enough surveillance tech to make a paranoid conspiracy theorist cream their tinfoil hat. A week of being watched and measured by unseen observers. And now this?

Real fucking cute.

They passed the third security checkpoint without so much as a cursory check. After the congressional hearings, the psych evals that felt more like interrogations, the endless, circling questions about his "stability" and "suitability for active duty"—they were suddenly relaxed enough to take him on a joyride through the ass-end of nowhere?

"This can't be right," he muttered, using his senses to track their convoluted route through the sprawling complex. His fingers twitching, aching for the comforting weight of a weapon. But they'd stripped him of even that small reassurance, leaving him with nothing but his wits and the constant, crawling itch beneath his skin.

Left at the motor pool, tires crunching over gravel. Past the armory that smelled of gun oil. Toward the old storage district that hadn't been updated since the Cold War, from the looks of the crumbling concrete and rusted chain-link. Everything in him rebelled against the casual disregard, the break in protocol that felt deliberate in its wrongness.

The driver ignored him, blank-faced behind tactical shades. Just reached back and tossed Katsuki a tablet like it was a fucking juice box to shut him up on a long road trip.

Coordinates blinked on the screen that indicated Warehouse 37-C. Katsuki's stomach twisted, a cold weight settling in his gut. This area was a fucking fossil by Langley standards. The kind of place they warehoused defunct equipment and outdated intel, where they stashed old shit to rust in peace. Not exactly the venue he'd expected for a meet-and-greet with the great Captain Izuku Midoriya.

The SUV lurched to a stop, gravel spraying beneath its tires. They were deep in the bowels of Langley now, surrounded by decaying warehouses and rusted chain-link. The closest thing to a no-man's-land you could find inside the most secure intelligence compound on the planet.

Perfect place for an "accident", Katsuki thought grimly. For a "training exercise" gone tragically wrong. No cameras, no witnesses. Just an industrial fire here, a gas leak there. Sweep the ashes under the rug and call it a day.

The driver was still watching him, face impassive. There was no explanation, no hint of what awaited him. Just that same blank professionalism as he waited for Katsuki to exit, an unspoken order in the set of his shoulders.

Katsuki met the goon's eyes in the rearview, holding his gaze for a long, challenging beat. Daring him to blink first, to give away some flicker of emotion, of intent. But the man's stare remained steady, empty as a shark's.

Fine. Fuck him anyway.

Katsuki didn't need his approval, his permission. Didn't need anything from these suit-wearing, shadow-lurking assholes. He had his own mission now. His own target. And it was sitting somewhere behind the rusted walls of Warehouse 37-C, waiting for him like a spider at the center of its web.

Midoriya wanted to play? Wanted to see how far he could push, how much he could take before Katsuki snapped?

Well, game fucking on. Because Katsuki had a few moves of his own. And by the time he was done, the good captain would be sorry he ever set his sights on Katsuki Bakugo. With a final, insolent glare at the driver, Katsuki wrenched the door open and unfolded himself from the SUV. His boots hit the gravel with a satisfying crunch, the sound like a warning shot, a declaration of intent.

"What the fuck is this," Katsuki growled, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rock the chassis. The burst of temper felt good, a flash of heat in the icy dread pooling in his veins as the sedan pulled away. After the formal summons from J-SAP command, he'd expected a sniper scope laser show, a black site so deep underground it had its own gravity. Not... whatever this was.

The driver was already pulling away, tires crunching as he left Katsuki in a cloud of dust and exhaust. Abandoned him like an unwanted pet dumped on the side of the road. Jesus.

Gravel crunched under his boots as he started walking, the rhythmic crunch the only sound save for the distant noises of the base going about its business. His enhanced hearing picked them out with ease—vehicles running maneuvers on the perimeter road, the chopchopchop of rotors as a helicopter practiced touch-and-go landings, even the faintest strains of a cadence being called, boots pounding in perfect synchronicity.

The juxtaposition felt surreal. But the normalcy somehow made it worse, a mocking counterpoint to the fucked up situation he found himself in.

The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking behemoth of corrugated steel and actual rust, like it had been airlifted straight from a Cold War stockpile. Loading bay doors stood open, yawning like the maw of some slumbering beast waiting to swallow him whole. No guards. No security checkpoints. No obvious cameras or sensor arrays. Just a rusted side-door with an honest-to-god physical keypad that looked older than he was.

What kind of Mickey Mouse operation is this? 

The question chased itself around his skull even as he methodically mapped the exterior. Prefab construction, standard for bases of this vintage. High windows caked with grime, blocking sightlines and casting strange shadows across the weed-choked pavement. Multiple entry points including the loading bay and an anachronistic fire escape clinging to the building's far side. The complete lack of perimeter security made his combat instincts surge.

The keycode worked, the lock disengaging with a soft snick that set his teeth on edge. The door whined as it swung inward, hinges protesting the movement with a screech that shot straight to the base of his spine. He ignored it, ignored the clammy sweat gathering in his palms, the rabbit-kick of his pulse in his throat.

Inside, the warehouse stretched like an airplane hangar, metal shelving climbing toward an unseen ceiling crisscrossed with steel support beams. Shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom, highlighting motes of dust hanging motionless in the stagnant air. If he strained, he could pick out temperature gradients where warm air mixed with cool in turbulent whorls.

And that smell. The familiar scents of canvas and grease, metal and dust that permeated every inch of the military machine. But beneath it, something else. Something that didn't belong. His nose detected Beta pheromones, but his enhanced hindbrain caught an artificial undercurrent. A too-clean metallic tang, like an android's approximation of human scent. It slithered down his spine, twisting his hackles to needle-points.

Rows of shelves marched into the distance, their looming shapes evoking gravestones. Standard-issue weapon cases and MRE crates sprouted like fungus, tarps draping over hulking shapes that could've been mothballed vehicles or arcane machinery.

Then he saw it. A cleared space up ahead, sunlight painting a macabre stage upon the oil-stained concrete. Metal crates in formation, blocking lines of sight. And dead center, a single metal chair illuminated like the world's shittiest spotlight.

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him toward that fateful geometry. Toward the confrontation, or reckoning, he knew waited. With each step, that uncanny scent grew stronger, laced now with ozone and petrichor. A gathering storm that made his lungs seize and his primordial lizard-brain gibber.

The chair taunted him, an absurd prop in this absurdist play. His instincts screamed trap, the crates looming like fortification. But what choice did he have? With the invisible gun pointed at his back with its finger tightening on the trigger?

He approached with a sniper's tread, his senses tuned to a razor's edge. Above the blood-rush in his ears, his enhanced hearing caught the scuff of a boot, a whisper of fabric. Movement on the upper levels, a presence watching. Waiting.

He counted his breaths, each inhale thick with the slight pheromonal stink of his growing dread. Five minutes standing, muscles vibrating like piano wire. Ten minutes stalking the perimeter, mapping exits, plotting escape routes. Fifteen minutes, and his lizardbrain started gibbering again, images of black bags and shallow graves flickering behind his eyes.

Thirty minutes. The sun shifted, shadows crawling across the floor like oil slicks. That scent thickened, an atmospheric pressure change before a hurricane makes landfall. Anticipation and foreboding, electric on his tongue. His control frayed at the edges as his alpha hindbrain prowled its cage, fangs bared. And still he waited, caught between fight and flight with no enemy to face. Just a sick sense of déjà vu. 

"If this is another fucking test," he growled into the empty air, words jagged enough to cut, "you should know I sat in the desert for three days without breaking."

"Did you?" The voice came from behind him, casual as a Sunday picnic. But for all its nonchalance, there was steel beneath the silk, an edge that cut to the bone. "The reports said five days, actually. Impressive." His voice sounded light and refreshing. It slid down Katsuki's spine, pooled in his groin like sweet syrup.

Katsuki whirled around, every nerve ending electrified, his body moving on pure instinct. And there, materializing from the tarry shadows as if born from them, was his tormentor. His judge, jury, and would-be executioner.

Captain fucking Midoriya.

Time seemed to fracture, every detail shattering into impossible clarity. Wild viridian hair, like fresh cut grass, stark against sun-bronzed skin. Corded arms painted with curling ink, serpentine lines forming patterns Katsuki couldn't quite make out in the dim light. Lean muscle shifting under a black tank top that hugged every dip and plane of his torso like it was fucking poured on. Combat pants hung low on narrow hips, emphasizing the lean, tapering lines of his body before being neatly tucked into black combat boots.

And those eyes. Knife-edged emerald, gleaming with intellect in a face too pretty for its own good. His cheekbones, jawline, and the shape of lips that set Katsuki's teeth on edge and kicked his pulse into overdrive.

Midoriya moved with a feline grace. Each step seemed deliberate, precise, a dance to a melody only he could hear. It reminded Katsuki of Chopin, of the deceptive simplicity of a nocturne that built to a devastating crescendo.

The way he slid the mirrored aviators off his face was a fucking symphony all its own, a glissando of motion that drew the eye and made Katsuki's mouth go dry. This close, he could make out individual lashes, thick and dark, framing those impossible eyes. Eyes that seemed to strip him down to his component parts, to peel back every layer of bravado to expose the raw, pulsing heart of his core.

Fuck. The word sliced through Katsuki's mind, unbidden and unwelcome, traitorous desire sparking in his veins. Because this was not what he'd expected. No suit. No formal uniform. No outward signs of authority. Just a compact, what he could only assume alpha wrapped in an enigma, with a face like an angel and a body made for sin.

He'd been prepared for a stuffed suit. A soft-handed bureaucrat who got his kicks pulling the strings of the grunts who did the real work. But this man… this man looked like Katsuki could pick him up and toss him around. But also like he knew his way around a weapon. Like he could take Katsuki apart with his bare hands and a smile.

Katsuki’s throat tightened, his tongue dry in his mouth. That scent was unmistakable. It had haunted his evaluation sessions, teasing at the edges of his awareness all week until he thought he was losing his mind.

He'd never seen the man before, but it wasn't just his looks, though those alone were fucking distracting. It was the combination of his scent, his presence, some impossible amalgam of authority and raw magnetism that hit him like a shock wave. Followed by rain-soaked earth. Petrichor, ozone, and the faint sweetness of raw cacao. And shot through it all, the bright bite of ozone, the electric thrill of lightning about to strike.

Dangerous, Katsuki's instincts whispered. Powerful. A predator, just like you.

He hated the way his body responded. Pulse kicking, muscles tensing, instincts surging to high alert. He'd faced down terrorists and insurgents, warlords and drug kingpins, all without breaking a sweat. But here, in the face of this man who could make or break his entire future, he felt his control slipping, his reactions betraying him with every hammering heartbeat.

Katsuki didn't know what he expected this mysterious Midoriya to look like, but he was smaller than Katsuki had anticipated, compact and lean where Katsuki was bulk and breadth. But there was nothing small about the way he moved, every shift of muscle suggesting concealed strength. Wild green hair caught the sunlight like fresh leaves after rain, longer than regulation but somehow fitting his dangerous grace.

Katsuki's instincts blared warning even as his hindbrain perked up with reluctant interest. Everything about Midoriya was a study in contradictions. The relaxed posture that somehow gave him perfect lines of sight to all entry points. How he stopped a careful distance away, close enough for his scent to paint the back of Katsuki's throat but far enough to react if Katsuki's control slipped. The subtle dominance in that choice, in the way he held himself made Katsuki's blood heat, his alpha rising to the unspoken challenge.

And that scent. Christ, that scent. Katsuki's nostrils flared as Midoriya's scent hit him harder, bypassing the military-grade suppressant patch visible on his neck. Katsuki had also worn one as a concession to his "compromised" status, but now he cursed it for not muting his body's reactions more. Midoriya had to be on suppressants too, so how the hell was he projecting that much pheromonal presence? He couldn't get over the rain, ozone, and something sweet beneath—something that sank hooks into the most primal parts of his psyche. It made Katsuki's instincts surge with recognition and flooded his brain with want and confusion. 

Omega, his body insisted, even as his mind balked.

There was no fucking way. Omegas didn't move like that, with that kind of restrained lethality. They didn't have shoulders that broad, muscle tone that defined. They didn't wear command like a second skin, an invisibly reinforced dermal layer of authority and control. But his body didn't seem to have gotten the memo.

And yet.

Every step Midoriya took ratcheted Katsuki's tension higher, his hindbrain snarling even as something lower and hotter unfurled in his gut. It was infuriating, this slip, this snap-crackle-pop of recognition and want and fight pinging through his system like a goddamn sonar. It didn't make sense. None of this did. Not the instant, bone-deep recognition, not the electric awareness zipping along his nerves like a live wire. He was Katsuki fucking Bakugo, the most notorious alpha in Delta Force. He did not go weak in the knees for anyone, omega or not.

Classified work and society in general meant that he'd never let himself respond to another operative like that. Sure, there'd been urges—you didn't spend that much time in close quarters without noticing things—but he'd always kept it strictly professional. Betas were easier anyway, when he had time between missions. And omegas... well, most of them took one look at his size and pheromone levels and only wanted to sleep with him or run in the opposite direction. 

Stop it. He was not doing this, not thinking about Midoriya like that. Not when he was clearly the one pulling the strings, controlling their little dance even as he ceded the appearance of power. Katsuki could tell those green eyes missed nothing, seemingly cataloging his every micro expression and mapping his reactions like a combat sequence. 

"Captain Bakugo." Midoriya's voice cut through the static in Katsuki's brain, cool and assessing. Dissecting. His voice carried that particular tone of someone who already knew every-fucking-thing about you. "I'm Captain Midoriya." 

No fucking shit. A week's worth of pent-up rage and frustration and something far more dangerous churning through his veins. His lips peeled back from suddenly too-sharp teeth, a growl building low in his chest.

Midoriya's eyes caught what little light there was, turning them to green ice. His left hand stayed casually close to his thigh, to what had to be a concealed weapon. Katsuki marked that even as he fought to keep his expression neutral, to rein in the urge to snap and snarl and posture like some untried fucking trainee.

"I know who you are." The words came out in a sharp whisper, barely toeing the line of insubordination. It was a shit way to start this assessment. He knew that. But god, the look in Midoriya's eyes made his blood boil. Calculating and unimpressed, like Katsuki was a feral dog one twitch away from being put down.

Hate and a tinge of humiliation twisted in his gut, souring the unwanted curl of desire still sparking through him. This omega, this ghost made flesh, held Katsuki's entire life in his hands. Could unmake everything Katsuki had bled and killed and almost died to achieve. And worse, some fucked-up, masochistic part of Katsuki's hindbrain shivered at the silent command in that steel-trap gaze.

Midoriya just continued to watch him, impassive and assessing. The weight of that stare felt like a physical thing, peeling Katsuki back layer by layer, despite the suppressant patch that should have muted his tells.

Get it together, Bakugo. He straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders as if he could physically muscle his way back to equilibrium. 

"Well?" His voice came out tight and with as much bored disdain as he could muster. "We gonna stand here all day, or you want to tell me what the hell this sideshow act is about?"

With deliberate slowness, Midoriya dropped a thick file on a nearby crate, pages fanning out to reveal Katsuki's life in black and white and redacted ink. Mission reports, psychological evaluations, incident briefings that all had various levels of classification seals.

The movement sent another wave of that scent, something complex beneath the suppressor patch, carrying notes that made Katsuki lock his knees against the sudden, ridiculous, urge to sway closer. 

Fucking focus! Katsuki wanted to scream at himself. But all that came out was a strangled growl, half frustration and half something far more precarious. It made the immediate curl of interest even more irritating.

"I'm not here to play games, sir." He loaded the honorific with as much venom as he could muster. 

Midoriya's eyebrow quirked, just a fractional shift, but it spoke volumes. He stepped closer, head cocking like a bird of prey sighting a juicy mouse. This near, his scent was a physical force, a containment foam and a lit match all at once. Katsuki's pulse kicked, fight or flight or fuck revving like an overtuned engine. 

Then the guy opened his mouth, and any attraction curdled into wariness.

"Sure you want to take that tone, Captain?" Midoriya's voice carried no threat, just quiet certainty. "When you don't even know what this little chat entails?"

Katsuki's lip curled, baring teeth that felt too sharp in his mouth. "I think I have a pretty good idea. You're the one I'm supposed to impress with my ability to heel like a good little dog?"

"Funny," Midoriya mused, unfazed. "From what I've heard, obedience hasn't been your strong suit as of late." The words dripped condescension, an unsubtle jab at Katsuki's 'compromised' status. At his career that hung in the balance.

White-hot rage surged up Katsuki's throat, frothed behind his teeth. His control frayed, just for a second, just long enough for a harsh pant of aggression-soaked breath to escape.

"Yeah, well, maybe if it didn't feel like they weren't trying to put me through a lobotomy, I'd be more inclined to play nice." 

"Is that what you think this is?" Midoriya's head tilted, the movement precise and calculated. "Just another test of your loyalty?"

Katsuki snorted, his enhanced senses catching the bitter edge of his own scent. "What else would it be? They've already made it clear they don't trust me, not after Sarajevo. Why else would they send me to you?" 

Midoriya hadn't flinched, hadn't so much as blinked. Just pinned him with that cool, assessing stare, seeing through to all the parts Katsuki tried to ignore. Katsuki's blood burned, anger and something hotter, sharper.

"I've seen your records," Midoriya continued, circling him slowly. Katsuki turned to keep him in sight, hackles rising. "Your scores. Your missions. Even your... incidents."

"Fuck you," Katsuki spat, but the words lacked heat. Midoriya's scent was getting to him, filtering past his fury to tug at instincts better left buried.

"More field experience than operatives twice your age. With a record to make any commanding officer weep with pride. Except for the parts they had to redact of course."

Midoriya paused, as Katsuki's pulse pounded in his ears and Midoriya's words sunk in. The omega further settled against a stack of crates, his tablet in hand. 

"Your early commanding officers had interesting observations about you. Lieutenant Colonel Hayes noted your 'exceptional attention to protocol despite confrontational demeanor.'" He glanced up, green eyes sharp. "You've always been good at following rules that matter, haven't you?"

"Double major at West Point," Midoriya continued, his tone carrying calculated indifference. "Nuclear Engineering and Physics. Perfect GPA while maintaining top combat scores. Your thesis on advanced thermal physics applications caught attention."

He moved with that predatory grace that kept setting off warning bells in Katsuki's brain.

"Interesting choice, combining theoretical physics with battlefield applications. Most combat officers don't bother with that level of academic rigor, but your professors noted how you approached theoretical problems the same way you handled tactical exercises," Midoriya continued, circling as he caught different angles of light. "Methodical. Precise. Finding innovative solutions while never violating established parameters." A slight pause. "Dr. Harrison actually wrote that your approach to quantum mechanics mirrored your combat style—'controlled aggression within strictly defined boundaries.'"

The casual dissection of his academy years only pissed him off futher. Everything about this man was deliberately calculated for effect, from his deceptively relaxed stance to the way he wielded information like precision weapons.

"Interesting choice," Midoriya continued, swiping through screens with deliberate slowness, "volunteering for Nuclear Engineering at West Point. Maybe following in your mother's footsteps instead?" His eyes flicked up, sharp green that caught the warehouse light. "Or was it more about proving you could exceed her achievements at Los Alamos?"

The warehouse felt increasingly like a cage at the mention of his mother's classified research that made Katsuki's stiffen. A deliberate tell, one he couldn't quite suppress as Izuku's presence filled the space with carefully constructed authority.

"You could have gone into research," Midoriya observed, his tone carrying that edge of someone who knew exactly where to cut. "Los Alamos wanted you. So did Lawrence Livermore. Instead, you chose direct combat operations while maintaining your technical expertise." His green eyes seemed to see straight through Katsuki's professional facade. "Always pushing boundaries while following every rule. The perfect soldier who somehow combined academic brilliance with battlefield excellence."

Katsuki's enhanced hearing caught the slight shift in Midoriya's heartbeat as he moved closer, not anxiety or tension, just... anticipation. Like he was building to something specific.

"Top of your class," Midoriya continued, as if he hadn't noticed Katsuki's reaction. "Perfect scores in Advanced Combat too. Record-breaking performance in tactical simulations." He swiped through screens with deliberate slowness. "Even in training scenarios where regulations allowed for creative interpretation, you chose to operate within strict guidelines," Midoriya pressed on. "The Martinez Simulation, for instance. Other cadets exploited the procedural loopholes, but you—" He paused, scrolling through his tablet. "You found a way to achieve the objective while maintaining perfect protocol adherence. Set a new record doing it, too."

Christ. He'd almost forgotten about that simulation. He noted how Midoriya kept revealing increasingly specific knowledge, each detail precisely chosen.

"Your research into thermal engineering applications during advanced tactical training," Midoriya continued, moving with that calculated precision that kept drawing Katsuki's eye despite his growing irritation. "Most combat officers would have considered it excessive. But you maintained that same obsessive attention to detail in everything—academic excellence, combat proficiency, protocol adherence."

Fucking perfect. Eight years of classified operations reduced to academic analysis by someone who'd probably never actually seen real combat. Katsuki's fingers tightened as Midoriya continued his methodical dissection. Another wave of that complex scent hit Katsuki's enhanced senses as the other man circled closer. 

"Your father's influence shows clearly in your operational style," Midoriya observed. "Colonel Masaru Bakugo was famous for saying 'protocol exists because someone paid for it in blood.' That philosophy shaped your entire approach to command, didn't it?"

Something in Katsuki's chest tightened at hearing his father's words quoted back to him. 

"Your Delta Force selection was particularly noteworthy," The warehouse air grew heavier as Midoriya circled closer. "Seven years of classified operations following that same pattern. Your mission success rate was perfect. Until it wasn't."

The casual revelation that someone had been reviewing his entire service record continued to make Katsuki's blood burn. He'd known they were watching him these past couple of weeks, but this suggested a much deeper investigation. The warehouse shadows lengthened as afternoon light caught Midoriya's movements. Everything about him was too perfect, too precisely calculated, from his deceptively casual stance to the way he wielded Katsuki's own history like a scalpel.

"With all due respect, sir," he bit out, "Most of my missions are still classified. And I wasn't aware that any of that fell under your jurisdiction." Katsuki let just enough edge enter his voice to test boundaries."

"Everything about you falls under my jurisdiction now, Captain." Midoriya finally looked up, and there was nothing casual in his gaze anymore. "Including the pattern of incidents that everyone somehow failed to connect. Seoul. Lagos. Tehran. Sarajevo was just the first time you lost control publicly enough that they couldn't hide it." His lips curved slightly.

The accusation hung in the air between them, heavy with implications.

"Is there a question in there, sir?" Katsuki kept his voice professionally neutral even as his prime instincts screamed to challenge this man who dared to dissect his career, his past.

"Several." Midoriya set the file aside, giving Katsuki his full attention for the first time. "Let's start with Tehran."

Midoriya's voice lost its practiced boredom, turning sharp as a blade. He pulled a single page from the file, letting the warehouse's harsh sunlight catch the classified stamps. Katsuki's heart rate kicked up, he knew that mission code. Shit. Of all the ops this pretentious asshole could've dug up...

"Three years ago. Joint operation with Iranian intelligence. Your mission report cites 'acceptable casualties during target acquisition.' Four casualties, although only three injured." The sudden intensity of Midoriya's focus hit like a physical force. The warehouse's filtered air seemed to thicken with tension as that rain-and-ozone scent sharpened with focused intent. Even the suppressor patch couldn't completely mask his shift from casual indifference to predatory interest.

"Like I said. That mission is still classified." Katsuki stared at the mission report in Midoriya's hands like it was a live grenade, memories flashing through his mind in bursts of adrenaline. Three fucking years. Three years of pushing that op into a cold, dark corner of his mind, locked down tight and buried under layers of duty and discipline. And now this green-haired fuck was casually flipping through the pages like it was a goddamn bedtime story.

"One operative dead, although they were not a designated target." He pulled a single page from that damn file, letting harsh light catch the classified stamps. "Lieutenant James Cooper. Decorated Delta Force operator. Found at the bottom of a stairwell deceased. Walk me through it."

Katsuki's shoulders tensed, as a familiar rage began to simmer beneath his skin. Fuck this shit. Fuck being poked and prodded like a lab rat, now his past picked apart piece by fucking piece.

"I don't see how one mission report justifies—"

"Indulge me." Midoriya cut him off, silken threat in that voice, eyes glinting harsh in the light. The unspoken or else ringing loud as a gunshot. Establishing who was in charge here, who held the reins.

Katsuki's nostrils flared, as he fought to keep his expression neutral. He wanted to tell Midoriya to go fuck himself, to take his questions and shove them up his ass. But he knew that would only make things worse. So he exhaled slowly, a controlled burst of air through his nose. Tried to ignore the way Midoriya's presence seemed to grow, pressing against his senses like a physical weight.

"Asset recovery," Katsuki bit out, each word clipped and precise. "Local contact went missing. Sensitive intel at risk. We were sent in to extract them before any enemy insurgents could get their hands on the information."

Midoriya hummed thoughtfully, eyes scanning the page in front of him. "And the incident with Sergeant Cooper?"

A cold sweat slithered down Katsuki's spine at that name, old fury tangling with something sicker, more insidious. Fucking Cooper. Glory-seeking shithead who never met a regulation he didn't enjoy wiping his ass with.

"Accidents happen in the field," Katsuki managed, the words ground glass in his throat. "Especially in unstable regions with multiple opposing factions."

"Of course they do. That's why your After Action Report was a masterclass in selective detail. Why the official record states Cooper's death was a 'tragic mishap' and 'unavoidable loss.'" Midoriya leaned a hip against one of the metal crates, arms crossed, every angle of his body a weapon. "It's impressive, really. Reads almost like the truth. If you don't know what to look for."

A muscle near Katsuki's temple jumped, a live wire of tension. "And what exactly should one look for, sir? In a report you aren't supposed to have access to?" A thrum of real danger in his tone, an alpha's growl low in his chest.

The air gained weight, gained teeth, an impossible electric pressure skating across Katsuki's skin.

"The things you don't say, Captain. The shape of the negative space." A tilt of his head, considering, and those green eyes seemed to glow. "For instance: the eleven minutes between Cooper's last check-in and his body being discovered. The injuries on his hands that looked defensive. The blood under his nails belonging to an unnamed, uninjured alpha."

Katsuki's breath stilled in his lungs, stone-heavy. A shivering clarity unspooled through him, the kind only ever found in the heartbeats before a firefight or the hushed silence of a memorial. This man, this captain, knew.

"You knew," Midoriya said simply, each word a bullet punching through Katsuki's armor. "You saw something in Cooper. Something no one else did, maybe something he hid well. But he slipped up, didn't he? Let his true face show for a split second. And you knew that leaving him alive was a risk you couldn't take."

Cooper's face flashed across Katsuki's mind, flushed and twisted, blood vessels burst in his eyes. The local asset pinned against the wall. The girl, she was just a fucking teenage girl, Jesus. The slurred sneer of Cooper's words, a taint Katsuki could smell like rot, like chemical decay.

Pretty little bitch like you should be grateful for the attention—

Katsuki blinked, and the memory vanished. But the sense-echo lingered, a cloying film in his nose and throat.

"Training accident," Katsuki gritted out the lie. "We were running a CQB drill. He took a bad fall down some stairs. Snapped his neck."

Midoriya nodded slowly, like a professor contemplating a particularly dense student's answer. "Strange, then, that the unredacted autopsy reported something completely different. It says he was missing half of his face."

The cold sweat turned to ice, freezing Katsuki in place as the memory hit like a sledgehammer. The sickening crunch of vertebrae giving way beneath his hands. The heavy thud of a body hitting concrete.

Fuck. Fucking shit. All the hours he'd spent scrubbing that blood from under his fingernails, all the lies he'd told to keep that night buried, and this asshole was digging it up.

"There were a lot of bodies," Katsuki said flatly, nearly biting through his cheek with the effort of keeping his voice even. "Easy to get confused in the heat of the moment."

"Is that so?" Midoriya raised one slow, deliberate eyebrow. "Because I have three witness statements here that put you and Sergeant Cooper alone in that stairwell, twelve minutes before he was found dead at the bottom."

"What exactly are you implying?" he snarled, fists clenching so hard he felt his short nails dig into his palms. Using the sting to center himself, to keep from flying apart at the seams.

Midoriya leaned forward, the motion smooth and controlled, his presence expanding to fill the room until it was hard to breathe around it. His scent swelled like a rising tide, threatening to drag Katsuki under.

"I want to know," Midoriya said, each word clear as cut glass, "what happened. In that stairwell." The words sliced through the last fraying threads of Katsuki's grip. His fury and shame and bitter, clawing guilt spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

When he spoke, his voice came out fused with gravel and ghosts.

"He was a threat. To the mission. To the girl. To every informant we had in a fifty klick radius. And all the brass wanted to give him was a pat on the ass and a warning." His hands twitched, as if they could still feel the shape of Cooper's skull, the crunch of mandible bone. "So I made a call. Just like I always have, for nearly a decade in service. Sir."

Katsuki swallowed hard. Straightened his spine, set his jaw. Met that cool, assessing stare with all the dignity he could muster. 

"Cooper was a fucking liability," he spat, the truth tearing itself free with venomous force. "He had Nalla, our contact, up against a wall. Hand around her throat. Said no one would believe a word she said. That she was probably working for both sides anyway. That he was gonna show her what happened to lying bitches who crossed him."

Midoriya's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those green eyes.

"And what did you do?" he asked, the question laced with a steely command that brooked no refusal.

"What I had to," Katsuki said roughly, rage and old pain turning his voice to gravel. "What he fucking deserved. I grabbed him off her. Said if he ever laid hands on an asset like that again, I'd rip his fucking spine out. And he laughed. Said I didn't have the balls."

Midoriya said nothing, letting the silence pull more truth from Katsuki's throat. Tactical bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Katsuki's throat worked as he swallowed hard, the memory rising up to choke him. The red haze of fury, the sick twist of disgust that settled in his gut as he'd dragged Cooper into that stairwell. 

"So I showed him exactly how serious I was," he continued. "Showed him what happens to animals who can't keep it in their fucking pants. Because what he did or what he was about to do—" Katsuki's face twisted into something ugly, a rictus of grief and old hate. "There's no coming back from that. No redemption. And if I had to put him down to protect our asset, to keep one more murderous fuck from prowling the streets with a shiny new set of stripes on his chest... I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Katsuki fell silent, shoulders shaking with how he held back his ragged breathing, adrenaline singing through his veins like battery acid. His pulse roared in his ears, nearly drowning out the cold, clinical part of his mind that whispered this was it, this was the end. He'd just confessed to the murder of one of his own men. Something that had been buried by his superiors.

They'd crucify him for this. Tear off his rank, his titles, grind him down to nothing and bury him so deep the devil himself wouldn't find his bones. And fuck, maybe that's what he deserved. Maybe that's what he'd always deserved, for the things he'd done. The choices he'd made. For the people he couldn't save. But if putting down one of his own, meant one less predator wearing a uniform meant to protect, then he'd march to his cross with his head held high. He'd just never thought it would be Midoriya holding the nails.

The silence after Katsuki's confession was deafening, broken only by the harsh rasp of his own breathing. That electric scent swelled again, ozone and petrichor and something darker, headier. 

He bit down viciously on the inside of his cheek, using the burst of copper to focus as he lifted his eyes to meet Midoriya's gaze head-on. Crimson clashed with green, and for a single, suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between their locked stares.

"Happy now?" Katsuki rasped. "That what you wanted to know? How I put down one of my own men like a dog in the street because he couldn't keep his fucking hands to himself?"

Midoriya studied him for a long, endless moment, green eyes unreadable. "Yes," he said at last, the word simple and weighted all at once. "It is."

Katsuki's breath caught in his throat, a low growl rumbling in his chest. What the fuck did that mean? Wasn't this the part where Midoriya condemned him, where he stripped Katsuki of his rank and threw him to the wolves? But the green-haired man just set the file down neatly, clasping his hands in front of him.

"Thank you for your honesty, Captain," he said, voice cool and professional once more. "I know reliving these events can be... difficult."

Difficult. The word was laughably inadequate, a pathetic understatement for the tumult of rage and pain and vicious satisfaction churning in Katsuki's gut. 

"What now?" he asked finally, voice rough as gravel. "You want me to sign a confession? Fall on my sword for the good of the service?" He barely fought back the urge to lash out, to demand what fucking game Midoriya was playing here. He somehow held himself still through sheer force of will, letting the silence stretch taut between them as he refused to be the first to look away from that piercing green gaze. 

Then, Midoriya spoke, his tone shifting abruptly from intense scrutiny to clinical detachment. "Now that we've established your psychological profile and combat capabilities," he said, standing in one smooth motion, "I need you to strip."

The fuck did he just say? Katsuki blinked, certain he must have misheard. "What?"

"You heard me." Midoriya's voice was cool, professional, but there was an undertone to it that made Katsuki's hindbrain prickle with awareness. "I need to check you for identifying marks. Scars, tattoos, anything that could make you stand out in the field."

Katsuki's jaw clenched, indignation and something hotter, more primal surging in his chest. This fucking guy. First the mind games, now this bullshit power play?

"I'm not—" he started, but Midoriya cut him off with a sharp look.

"Unless you'd like me to do it for you."

The words hung in the air, a challenge and a threat and a promise all at once. Katsuki's nostrils flared, catching the way Midoriya's scent spiked. 

Fine. If this asshole wanted a show, Katsuki would fucking give him one.

With a defiant tilt of his chin, Katsuki reached for the hem of his shirt and stripped it off in one fluid motion. He tossed it aside, the black fabric sliding across the concrete floor like a challenge.

Midoriya's eyes tracked the movement before flicking back to Katsuki, roaming over the planes of his beefy chest, the cut of his abs. His expression remained neutral, but Katsuki could hear the slight uptick in his heartbeat, could smell the way his scent shifted—something rich and heady that made his blood heat.

Good. At least he didn't seem like the only one affected by... whatever the fuck this was.

Holding Midoriya's gaze, Katsuki reached for his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate slowness. The rasp of leather was loud in the charged silence, and Katsuki fought back a shiver as he felt Midoriya's eyes tracking every movement.

He shoved his pants down his hips, stepping out of them with a controlled grace that was absolutely fucking wasted on this unappreciative prick. The cool air of the warehouse kissed his bare skin, raising goosebumps in its wake, but Katsuki refused to show any sign of discomfort.

He stood there in just his black boxer briefs, meeting Midoriya's assessing stare with a challenging one of his own. Katsuki knew exactly what he looked like—all golden skin and corded muscle, scars from a dozen missions mapping his body like a roadmap of violence. He was a weapon, honed to lethal perfection, and he fucking dared Midoriya to find him wanting.

But the omega just hummed thoughtfully, circling Katsuki in a slow, appraising orbit. Katsuki felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch, tracking over every inch of exposed skin. It took every ounce of his control not to react, not to let his body betray him as Midoriya paused behind him, so close Katsuki swore he could feel the heat of him against his back.

"No obvious identifiers," Midoriya murmured, even though it felt like his breath was ghosting over the nape of Katsuki's neck. "Good."

Then he stepped away, and Katsuki ruthlessly suppressed the shudder that wanted to chase down his spine. Fucking asshole.

He reached for his clothes, but Midoriya's voice stopped him. "Leave them."

Katsuki stiffened, a growl building low in his throat. "I'm not standing around in my fucking underwear—"

"You'll do what I tell you," Midoriya cut in, his tone hardening into something that brooked no argument. "You've passed all of the evaluations so far, Captain. But I have a couple more questions for you."

Katsuki froze, certain he must have heard wrong. "The fuck are you talking about?" he demanded, turning to face Midoriya fully. "There's more?"

Midoriya just looked at him for a long moment, inscrutable. Then he casually reached into his pocket and withdrew a small device, no larger than a key fob.

Before Katsuki could ask what the hell he was doing, Midoriya clicked it once, and the warehouse plunged into darkness.

Katsuki tensed instantly, his enhanced senses snapping to high alert as he scanned for threats. But there was nothing, no sound of movement, no foreign scents beyond the steady thrum of Midoriya's presence. Slowly, his vision adjusted to the darkness, the hulking shapes of abandoned equipment looming like something out of a fever dream. And there, in the center of it all, was Midoriya, his eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"What the fuck is this?" Katsuki snarled, his voice echoing strangely in the cavernous space.

"A precaution," Midoriya said simply. He began moving closer, his footsteps nearly silent even to Katsuki's enhanced hearing. "What I'm about to tell you, Bakugou... it doesn't leave this room. The only reason I'm even considering reading you in is because you're a prime."

Katsuki knew primes were different, a bit faster and stronger. Even before his implant had failed, his senses had always been sharper, his agility greater, his reflexes faster than his peers. His team had called him gifted. His classmates at the academy had called him a freak. He'd never put much stock in either—he was who he was, and that was all there was to it. Until everything had changed in Sarajevo, and now, with Midoriya advancing on him in the dimness, that word took on a new weight. A new significance that made something cold and leaden settle in his heart.

"Again. The fuck does that mean?" he bit out, refusing to give ground even as Midoriya drew close enough to touch. This close, his scent was overwhelming, flooding Katsuki's senses until it was all he could focus on.

"It means," Midoriya said softly, "that you're different, Bakugou. Special. Primes make up less than half a percent of the population, but nearly eighty percent of all black ops personnel." His head tilted, considering. "Ever wonder why that is?"

Katsuki just stared at him, mute. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what Midoriya was telling him. All his life, he'd known he was different. Stronger. Faster. More. But this... this sounded like something else entirely.

"The government has known about extent of prime capabilities for decades," Midoriya continued, his voice low and intent. "Watching. Waiting. Gathering them up and funneling them into programs like this." His eyes met Katsuki's. "The public thinks primes are just intense cycles, enhanced capabilities, a quirk of genetics. An aberration. But the reality is so much more than that."

Katsuki's heart pounded behind his ribs, his enhanced hearing picking up every beat. His mind rebelled against what Midoriya was saying, some deep, instinctive part of him rejecting the implications. Because if that was true, if the brass had known all along...

"Why?" It came out as a hoarse croak, scraped raw. "Why are you telling me this?" The fury rose like bile in his throat. Beneath it was something that tasted like betrayal, and helplessness, and the bitter ashes of every choice he'd ever thought was his own.

Midoriya's gaze sharpened again, his scent shifting to something more complex. "What happened in Tehran," he said slowly, each word measured, "wasn't a failure, Bakugou. It was a manifestation of your potential."

Katsuki blinked, thrown. "What in the actual fuck are you talking about?"

Midoriya began to pace, his movements precise, predatory. "Primes aren't just enhanced alphas or omegas," he explained, his voice settling into a cadence that spoke of hard-won knowledge. "Primes evolutionarily distinct with brains that process information differently, react to threats on a level that non-primes can barely comprehend."

He paused, turning to pin Katsuki with a look that seemed to strip him down to his bones. "Think about it. In every high-pressure situation, every mission where the stakes were life and death, you've demonstrated abilities far beyond what your rank and training should allow."

Katsuki's mind raced, flicking through memories like scattered puzzle pieces. The way time seemed to slow in combat, giving him precious extra seconds to react. The missions where he'd moved faster, hit harder, seen further than should've been possible. He'd always chalked it up to adrenaline, to his own relentless drive to be the best. But what if...

"You're saying I'm, what—some kind of fucking mutant?" His lip curled, a knee-jerk response to the unsettling shift in his worldview.

Midoriya didn't flinch at his tone. If anything, those emerald eyes sharpened with interest. "I'm saying you're exhibiting capabilities that go beyond conventional alpha enhancement. Beyond what even some prime designation should allow." He paused, studying Katsuki with unnerving intensity. "Tell me, how much do you know about Japan's Special Access Programs?"

"Classified black book shit," Katsuki bit out. "Above my clearance." But his tactical mind was already racing, fitting pieces together. The quantum readings from the hospital. Stars' cryptic warnings. That masked fucker Icarus with his talk of experiments.

"SAPs are compartmentalized by design," Midoriya continued, his voice taking on a clinical edge that made Katsuki's hackles rise. "Each division handles different aspects of national security. My team—Red Echo—operates within the Science and Technology pillar."

"Your team," Katsuki echoed flatly. 

Something flickered in Midoriya's expression, too quick to catch, but it set Katsuki's instincts humming. "Red Echo handles technological security threats that fall outside conventional military parameters. Advanced weapons development, experimental programs, advanced breaches, and anything that could destabilize the balance of power."

He took a step closer, and Katsuki had to fight the urge to back away. There was something about Midoriya's presence that felt like he might lash out, like static electricity against his enhanced senses. "But we're just one piece of a larger initiative. Project Echo encompasses multiple agencies, multiple governments. Each working different angles of the same fundamental question."

Stars' warnings echoed in his head. The drive burning a hole in his brain. "And where exactly do I fit into this shit?"

"We prevent sensitive technologies from falling into the wrong hands," Midoriya replied, his tone cooling slightly. "And we recover or neutralize advanced tech that poses a threat to global security.

Katsuki's hands clenched at his sides. "In Sarajevo," he ground out, "when my implant failed. That wasn't just equipment malfunction, was it?"

"No." Midoriya's gaze was unflinching. "When your implant failed. What do you remember?"

Katsuki's eyebrow twitched. Of course the bastard would go there next. "Nothing different from what I submitted in my debrief and official testimony." Along with every other invasive test they'd run since then.

"I'm not interested in the sanitized version. You tore through a squad of enemy combatants without taking a single hit," Midoriya countered. "Sustained injuries that should've put you down, but kept moving like they were nothing. Your team reported pheromone spikes that should've been impossible under chemical suppression."

Each word hit like a hammer blow, cracking the foundations of Katsuki's carefully maintained control. Because he did remember—the red haze of rage, the way his body had moved faster, struck harder than it had before. He'd felt invincible, untouchable, a force of nature trapped in human skin. And it had felt right. Like he'd finally unleashed something that had been screaming behind his ribcage since the day he'd first presented.

Katsuki's jaw clenched, keeping his true thoughts on what might have occurred to himself. He didn't want to give too much away. "I remember doing my fucking job. Protecting the objective and then my implant went haywire out of nowhere."

"That's an interesting theory," Midoriya said quietly. "Though I notice you're focusing on external factors." His green eyes seemed to see straight through Katsuki's carefully maintained control.

"Don't." Katsuki's voice dropped dangerously low. "Don't fucking patronize me. Not when we both know there's more going on here than some standard evaluation. Not when your own scent doesn't make any biological sense—"

"Be very fucking careful how you talk to me, Captain."

The change wasn't in volume or tone, Midoriya's voice remained precisely controlled. But something shifted in the air between them, a weight of pure authority that made Katsuki's prime instincts surge with recognition.

"I'm the highest-ranking officer anywhere I fucking go." Each word carried cold certainty, stripped of emotion or drama. Pure fact. "And you are one wrong word away from disappearing into a black site so classified even your Delta Force buddies wouldn't know where to look or who to ask."

The warehouse air crystallized with tension. Katsuki's enhanced senses strained against basic suppressants, trying to process what he was detecting.

"So." Midoriya's voice remained perfectly measured, which somehow made it more terrifying. "Would you like to continue questioning my authority? Or can you tell me why you think your control was so shit?"

Katsuki felt the weight of the question like a blade against his throat. Every combat instinct, every enhancement, every bit of training screamed that he was standing before something that outclassed him completely. 

"Sir," he said finally, the word tasting like submission on his tongue.

Midoriya didn't smile. Didn't show satisfaction or triumph. His expression remained that same unreadable mask, giving nothing away.

"The brass blamed it on equipment failure," Katsuki said carefully, testing his growing suspicion. "Said the implant malfunctioned. That my enhanced combat responses exceeded safety protocols." His eyes narrowed slightly as another wave of that complex scent hit him. "But that's not what really happened, is it? Something compromised my suppressants. Broke through them completely."

"Leaving you operating at full capacity for the first time," Midoriya confirmed, satisfaction evident in his tone. "No artificial dampeners. No careful limits. Just pure prime capability, unrestricted by protocols." He paused, letting that sink in. "Tell me what that felt like, Captain. When everything suddenly clicked into place."

The words struck too close to what Katsuki had been experiencing since the implant removal. The way everything felt amplified, like his body was finally operating at full capacity after years of artificial dampening. The way his tactical instincts seemed sharper, faster, more immediate.

"Like I was finally awake," he admitted, hating how true it felt. "Like I'd been operating through filters, and suddenly everything was in perfect focus. Combat responses, tactical processing, pheromone production all working together. But it was intense."

"I'm asking," Midoriya's voice dropped lower, "because I need to know if you understand what's really happening to you?" Midoriya's question carried layers of meaning.  

"I didn't just lose control," Katsuki found himself saying, frustration building as he tried to pierce that impenetrable facade. "Something else happened. The compound, the implant failure, none of it was random. This whole operation wasn't standard—"

"There's nothing standard about you, Captain." Midoriya cut him off, moving closer. That scent grew stronger, making Katsuki's head swim. "You're one of less than fifty documented prime alphas in military service. Globally, there are fewer than a thousand, so let's stop pretending your capabilities fit into their neat little boxes."

"It was a fucking setup." The words felt like glass in his throat. "The compound, the hostages, the way my implant conveniently failed—all of it orchestrated. And you..." Katsuki's breath caught, stomach twisting like he'd taken a knife the organ. Because if that was true, if his body could override the suppressants and implants, tear through enemy combatants like tissue paper, then—

"The hospital," he rasped, pieces slotting together with sickening clarity. "Icarus. The experiments he talked about..."

Midoriya went still, a hound catching a scent. "What did you say?"

Katsuki hesitated, warring instincts clashing behind his sternum. The part of him that had been conditioned to obey, to keep secrets close and trust the chain of command, roared at him to keep his mouth shut. But the alpha in him, the snarling, furious creature that had felt the bite of betrayal and the sting of loss, demanded answers.

"I got caught up in something at Walter Reed a couple days ago. In the lower labs," he said at last, watching Midoriya's face for any flicker of recognition or deceit. "There was a man. Called himself Icarus. Said he was part of some kind of experimental program. That what they did to him... it changed him."

Midoriya's expression didn't so much as twitch, but Katsuki caught the minute tightening around his eyes, the nearly imperceptible flare of his nostrils as he took in a slow, steadying breath.

"He took down a room full of armed guards," Katsuki pushed on, the words tasting of copper and bile. "Like it was nothing. Like they were fucking children. And then he started talking about unethical experiments. Genetic fuckery. Said the omega—" His throat closed, a snarl building behind his teeth. "Said she was a test subject. That her death was part of some sick trial."

Midoriya was silent for a long, hanging moment. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral, stripped of inflection. "And you think this Icarus was telling the truth?"

"I think," Katsuki said, each word torn from him like shrapnel, "that there's more going on here than you're telling me. I think that my implant failing, the omega dying, Icarus showing up like the world's most fucked up guardian angel. I think it's all connected." His eyes bored into Midoriya's, searching for the truth in those fathomless green depths. "And I think you know a hell of a lot more than you're letting on."

For a moment, Midoriya just stared at him, his expression unreadable. The air between them crackled with tension, secrets and revelations hanging thick as smoke in the dimness of the empty warehouse. Then suddenly, Midoriya's gaze sharpened, green eyes glittering in the fading light.

"What did Captain Bate give you?"

It felt more like an accusation than a question. Katsuki blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"

Midoriya's eyes narrowed further, gaze flicking over Katsuki's body like he could see through cloth and skin to whatever secrets might be tucked away. "You were at Walter Reed, you just said it yourself. She gave you something. What was it?"

Katsuki's throat went dry. The small drive was still with Denki and Mina, but Midoriya couldn't know about that, could he? He struggled to keep his expression neutral even as his mind raced.

The question hung in the air, loaded and deadly. Katsuki's heart stuttered, mind racing. He kept his expression carefully blank, a skill honed through years of black ops. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Midoriya's smile held no humor. "I thought we agreed you're not here to play games, Captain." He stepped back, but the intensity in his eyes never wavered. "Captain Bate has been arrested. I need to know what she gave you before that happened."

The world seemed to tilt sideways. Arrested? Stars? The words refused to compute. Katsuki shook his head slowly. "That's not... she couldn't have..."

"Couldn't she?" Midoriya pressed. He began prowling again, movements slower, more deliberate. Stalking. "I am just so intrigued by how she was suddenly arrested right after this alleged encounter."

Katsuki's mind spun, trying to reconcile this new intel with what little he knew. Stars had seemed on edge, paranoid even. But a traitor? It felt wrong in his bones.

"I don't have anything," Katsuki finally bit out. Technically true. Revealing he was working on the drive himself felt like a dangerous play.

A breath. Two. Then Midoriya struck first, a blur of fluid motion. His fist rocked Katsuki’s jaw, sharp and unerring. Katsuki shook off the blow, feet skidding on slick concrete. Katsuki reacted on instinct, years of training taking over as he countered with a series of brutal, explosive jabs, each one echoing in the cavernous room. They clashed in a tangle of limbs, a whirl of violence and aggressive frustration. Midoriya danced around him, landing on a crate’s edge before dropping behind Katsuki in one seamless roll.

"Don't lie to me, Bakugo," Midoriya snarled, his grip bruising on the bare skin of Katsuki's shoulder. "What did she give you?"

Katsuki twisted free, momentum carrying him into a wall of stacked crates. Wood splintered beneath his shoulder. He lunged back, punching into Midoriya’s ribs. The green-haired man's breath whooshed out, but he didn’t falter—only smiled, eyes glinting emerald fire as Katsuki slammed him against a nearby metal crate, forearm braced across his throat with unrelenting force. The metal shuddered with the impact. Air caught in Izuku’s lungs, stars flashing in his vision. But his eyes stayed locked on Katsuki’s—furious, bright, calculating.

"I told you," he growled, "I don't fucking know anything."

Midoriya's eyes flashed, something dangerous and calculating in their depths. Then, faster than Katsuki expected, Izuku twisted his torso hard left, collapsing one shoulder to create space between his neck and the pressure point of Katsuki's grip. Simultaneously, he brought his right arm up, elbow bent tight, and drove it into the alpha's ribs sharp and fast.

Katsuki grunted, grip faltering that created an opening for the omega. Izuku dropped his weight, ducking under Katsuki’s arm with a pivoting step, his back sliding along the metal crate. He turned in the same motion, right foot planting solid. His left fist chambered low and tight, then drove forward in a brutal, focused strike.

The punch landed square in Katsuki’s solar plexus.

All the breath left him in a violent gasp, body folding inward. The force dropped him half a step back, arms instinctively wrapping around his gut. With another quick pivot, Midoriya swept the alpha's leg, sending him crashing onto his back. The cold concrete bit into Katsuki's skin, forcing the air from his lungs. Then Midoriya's weight was on top him, pinning him as effectively as any restraint. Katsuki thrashed, snarling. But Midoriya was deceptively strong, holding him with moderate effort.

For a suspended moment, they were frozen. Panting into shared space, heartbeats galloping in furious sync. The air crackled between them, thick with tension and something far more treacherous as the omega's weight settled into Katsuki's lap.

"Stars has been arrested," Midoriya said, his voice a velvet rasp against Katsuki's ear. "For treason. Whatever she gave you, I need it. Now."

Katsuki bucked, trying to throw him off. But Midoriya was strong, his hold unbreakable. "Fuck you," Katsuki spat, fury and desire churning in his gut. "I don't have anything." Katsuki choked on a gasp, his body responding traitorously to the friction. He was suddenly, acutely, aware of his near-nakedness, of the heat of Midoriya's skin through his clothes.

His gaze locked with green, radioactive and magnetic. A pull, that felt gravitational and inescapable. They were breathing the same air now, a closed circuit of feedback. Midoriya smelled like a storm building, like a challenge and a promise. Katsuki could practically taste it—electric, metallic, the omega's breath laced with sweat and fury. Like punishment. Like confession.

Then the world snapped.

The green-eyed man struck, fast and untelegraphed, like instinct given form. But Katsuki caught his wrist mid-air, their skin colliding with a crack of contact. His grip was brutal. Bone-grounding. Their muscles locked in a trembling stalemate as Katsuki slowly began to gain the upper hand, breath rasping, arms shaking from the strain.

Midoriya leaned in, his chest heaving, breath hot against Katsuki's throat.

"One last time, Bakugo," Izuku growled, voice low enough to scrape. "What. Did. She. Give. You."

Katsuki bared his teeth at the omega. A vicious snarl torn straight from his gut. The kind that didn’t come from thought, just rage and refusal. He surged up, head twisting, ready to bite, to maim, to tear out the other man's throat. 

But Midoriya didn’t flinch, green eyes glittering. He moved like he knew him, like he owned the blueprint of Katsuki’s body. A shift of the hips. A flick of the wrist. A gleam of steel caught the light, and then—

White heat.

The blade drove into the meat of Katsuki’s thigh, past the muscle—clean, deep, unhesitating. His guttural scream cracked the air. Not high. Not weak. Animal. He shoved up to shake him off, but Midoriya rode the movement, pressing closer, grounding him in agony.

Katsuki looked down. The knife hilt was flush against his skin, blood spilling in pulsing bursts. The pain was a roar, but it was the confusion, the intimacy of it, that hit harder. Blood welling from the point of entry, shockingly red against his skin. The deliberate choice to hurt him just enough. 

“I don’t fucking know!” The words ripped from him, visceral, soaked in blood and spit and defiance. “She didn’t tell me anything!”

His voice echoed in the warehouse, feral and cracking. His body trembled beneath Izuku's. Hurt. Humiliated. Hungry.

And Izuku didn’t move. Just stared down at him with green eyes that shimmered like judgment day, missing nothing, analyzing Katsuki's every microexpression. Like forgiveness was never on the table. Then, slowly, he sat back on his heels.

"I guess I have to take your word for it now." It sounded like defeat. Midoriya scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. "Fuck. I thought... I hoped you might have answers."

Katsuki's thoughts spun, still trying to process the past ten seconds and the fucking blade in his leg. The fury that burned in his chest felt like a living thing, clawing for release as confusion warred with angry disbelief. Katsuki gaped at him.

"Seriously, what the fuck is your problem?"

He met Katsuki's gaze, and for once, there was no artifice. Just weary resignation. "Stars." The name fell like a sigh. "She was investigating something. And now she's gone, and you're the only lead I've got."

"You fucking stabbed me, psycho." The words scraped from Katsuki's throat, raw with a rage that barely masked the storm of questions battering his skull. Midoriya crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, but something calculated flickered beneath the casual gesture. "I tested a hypothesis. You'll heal." Something deep and knowing lurked in his gaze. "And I have a feeling that's going to come in handy real soon."

Fucking typical. Someone else with a god complex deciding what happens to my body. Katsuki's jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars. Eight years in black ops, and this pencil-pushing fucker thought he had the right to use him as a pincushion. 

Midoriya's words settled in the pit of his stomach like stones dropped into still water. He stared at the knife in his leg, mind cataloging exit strategies even as rage clouded his vision. Three steps to the door. Midoriya between him and the window. Slowly, carefully, he reached for the handle, his hand trembling around the knife hilt as he yanked it free—an act born of reflex, not thought.

"Motherfucking shit-eating—" He swallowed the rest as pain flared. This wasn't his first knife wound. Wouldn't be his last, but when he braced himself for more blood, there was nothing. Then he froze, transfixed. He stared at his thigh as if it belonged to someone else, watching the edges of the wound as it began to seal itself, flesh crawling and knitting like white lace over red embers. What the actual fuck? Katsuki clutched at his thigh, expecting the hot gush of blood. But there was nothing. A lingering pain, but no wound. Just the echo of searing agony and…smooth, unbroken skin.

"What the fuck..." He stared, uncomprehending. It wasn't possible. He'd felt the blade sink into his flesh, felt the familiar burn of torn muscle and severed nerves. But there was no evidence of it, not even a scar. He had never healed so fast. 

"Get dressed." Midoriya watched him closely, something unreadable in his eyes. "We're not done here," he said, voice terrifyingly calm. "But you have twenty-four hours to get your affairs in order before reporting to the location you'll be provided."

Twenty-four hours. Just enough time to create the illusion of freedom. Just enough time to make him think he had a choice. Katsuki's hands itched to wrap around Midoriya's throat, to feel his pulse flutter and fade. He lifted his eyes, ready to snarl, to refuse. Yet when their gazes locked, the static hum of shared air seemed to pulse through his veins, tense beneath his skin like a static charge building. And Katsuki couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't ease the clench of his fists, couldn't stop the searing electric awareness of the man across from him.

A shiver ran through Katsuki, part dread, part…something darker, a heat that pooled low in his belly. He remembered the instant the blade slipped home, his scream, the flash of Midoriya’s combat blade. The scent of rain and lightning filled his nose, his head, his bones. Smug green-eyed bastard. Standing there like he owns the fucking world. Probably gets off on seeing me bleed.

A patter of distant rain began on the warehouse roof, each drop a heartbeat echoing in Katsuki’s chest. He realized, with a shock of clarity, that he was standing on the edge of something vast and terrible and intoxicating. He felt it now: a crack in his control, phase noise in his senses, distortion so extreme that nothing felt real except the static charge between them. That's what Midoriya was, disruption personified, scrambling everything Katsuki thought he knew.

The warehouse walls seemed to close in, bleeding crimson in the LED glare—red for danger, red for the heat coursing between them, unspoken but undeniable. Katsuki's heart slammed against his ribs as his jaw clenched. He hated Midoriya. Hated how that lithe form, the electric green of his eyes, could ignite something feral in his gut. Every logical instinct screamed at him to turn and walk away in disgust.

But he didn't. The memory of steel against his thigh, the taste of adrenaline, the raw awareness of Midoriya’s proximity kept him rooted to the concrete floor.

Katsuki's gaze traced the sharp line of Midoriya's jaw, imagining how easily it would break under his fist—and then, almost against his will, how it might feel under the heat of his fingertips, his lips. The past weeks had burned away everything he'd believed about justice and power. Nothing held the same shape anymore. And in that static-charged space between them, Katsuki burned with twin flames. Hatred for the man who'd carved him open, and a dark, wild hunger that frightened him more than any blade.

"Sir," he said finally, the word carrying equal parts venom and surrender. Professional tone barely masking the storm beneath. Fucking lapdog routine, but sometimes you played the game until you could change the rules.

The green-eyed demon inclined his head, but his lips curved into that infuriating half-smile that said he saw right through the performance. He stepped closer—too close—until Katsuki could feel the heat radiating from his body, count each freckle scattered across his face like stars.

Christ, he smells like a thunderstorm about to break. The thought hit unbidden, sending more heat pooling low in his gut.

"No," he whispered, his breath ghosting against Katsuki's ear. "You really don't. Not yet." His green eyes, bright and merciless, locked with Katsuki's. "But you will."

In those three words was a single promise with secrets waiting to fracture him further, or perhaps, to save him. And beneath his rage, beneath the unwanted desire, grew something more dangerous than both—the certainty and delicious weight of being outmatched.

But fuck if Katsuki was going down without a fight.

Midoriya turned toward the warehouse exit with measured precision, each step calculated to give nothing away to whatever surveillance was watching. But Katsuki's enhanced senses caught what the cameras couldn't: the subtle acceleration of his heartbeat, the minute tension in his shoulders.

Chapter Text

The safe house door slammed shut behind Izuku with a resounding clang, the reinforced steel and titanium alloy reverberating from the force of his barely contained control finally fracturing. He staggered as his usual grace deserted him, fingers clumsy on the biometric scanner. 

Pulse 112.

"Oh, fantastic," he muttered, catching himself against the wall. The lock engaged automatically, a soft beep and wash of pale blue light that did little to soothe the tempest raging beneath his skin. Apparently even the security system could tell he was in a state. "Yes, thank you, I'm aware I'm having a moment."

The numbers in his head kept climbing, as he pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the door, letting out a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. His breath was coming too fast, too harsh in the filtered silence, a staccato rhythm that matched the erratic throb of his pulse.

"Fuck," he hissed.

Get it together, Izuku. You're a professional.

But even as the thought registered, he knew it for what it was, a desperate lie. Not after what had just happened. Not with Bakugo's scent still thick in his nose like smoke and amber, the phantom impression of the alpha's body heat like a brand against his throat. 

The memory hit, replaying the warehouse encounter in high definition. Bakugo pinned beneath him, all barely leashed power and crimson eyes that bore into him with something that went beyond challenge or defiance. Recognition. Hunger. Izuku pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to banish the image. 

Professional distance. Maintain objectivity. Right. Because nothing said "objectivity" like pinning a target to the ground and—

Stop.

But his body responded anyways, a shiver running down his spine as another wave of that complex scent seemed to materialize from memory alone. Burnt sugar and gunpowder, sun-warmed amber with an edge of barely leashed destruction. It painted the back of his throat, making his instincts prickle with recognition despite every logical thought screaming danger.

He'd thought himself above such base responses. Had prided himself on his control, on his ability to separate mission necessity from biological imperative. But Bakugo...

The alpha had shattered that illusion like spun glass, leaving Izuku raw and reeling in his wake. Every carefully maintained barrier reduced to rubble by crimson eyes and that insufferable smirk that promised violence and something infinitely more dangerous.

Izuku moved deeper into the space he'd claimed as temporary sanctuary. Sparse furnishings with sight lines to every entrance, everything designed for operational security rather than comfort. A far cry from the elegant minimalism of his Tokyo apartment, but it served its purpose. A secure bolt-hole, untraceable and unmonitored.

A place where he could fall apart without consequences.

The thought made his jaw clench. He needed that now, more than ever, because the alternative was acknowledging what had really happened in that warehouse. What Bakugo had done to him with nothing more than proximity and a scent that made Izuku's brain fracture into white noise.

Pulse 119. The clinical assessment did nothing to slow the thundering in his chest. 

His breath hitched as another memory surfaced: the blade sliding home through golden skin, the alpha's strangled sound, the way his blood had looked impossibly vivid. The way those blood-red eyes had never left his face, tracking every micro-expression with unsettling intensity. And then, God, the impossible sight of torn flesh knitting itself whole, leaving nothing but smooth golden skin where the wound had been.

What the hell are you, Bakugo?

Izuku stumbled toward the desk in the corner, as the scene in the warehouse played again in vivid technicolor behind his eyes, hands bracing against the cool surface as he tried to steady himself. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, skin prickling with heat that had nothing to do with the temperature. 

The second the alpha had pulled off his shirt with that defiant snarl, years of training and discipline meant nothing in the face of carved muscle and sun-kissed skin. He’d circled Bakugo slowly, maintaining the pretense of professional assessment. Cataloguing every detail in the way Bakugo's shoulders had bunched as he'd stripped down to black briefs that left nothing to imagination, every inch the apex predator even mostly naked. 

Izuku’s stomach twisted as a shiver ran down his spine. He straightened, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. “Stop it,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stop thinking about it.”

But he couldn’t. The memory hit harder of how he'd paused behind Bakugo, close enough to count each scar, to trace the powerful line of his spine with his eyes. How he'd caught Bakugo's sharp inhale, seen the minute tremor that ran through those broad shoulders. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, frustration, confusion, and something else, something darker, something he refused to name. His body was no better, his skin flushed, his nerves alight with a restless energy he couldn’t contain.

Two days ago, he'd spread Bakugo's files across his desk like battle plans, schematics of a target he thought he understood. He had traced every detail: mission reports bleeding black with redaction, psych evaluations filled with careful warnings, incident briefings that read like carefully crafted fiction.

Izuku's lips twisted with bitter amusement at the memory. He'd been so sure he knew what to expect. A volatile alpha with anger management issues. Another soldier who'd pushed too far, broken too many rules. The kind of operative who relied on brute force over finesse.

Instead, he'd gotten razor-sharp intelligence behind those crimson eyes. Combat experience that spoke of precision rather than mere power, and a brain that had read between every line Izuku had drawn. Not mindless aggression, but a soldier who'd survived hundreds battles through skill as much as strength.

"Shit," he breathed. The dossiers hadn't prepared him for the reality of Katsuki Bakugo. His own voice echoed in his memory: "More field experience than operatives twice your age. With a record to make any commanding officer weep with pride."

He'd meant those words to provoke, to probe for weakness. Instead, they'd felt like recognition. Like acknowledging something that ran deeper than rank or protocol. Izuku pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes again, trying to banish the image of Bakugo's defiant stance, the way he'd held himself with deadly authority. All his research, all his careful strategy, and he still hadn't been prepared for how Bakugo would affect him.

This is wrong, his rational mind insisted. He's getting under your skin exactly as intended. But beneath the detached  analysis, something darker and infinitely more honest whispered: You want him to.

The thought hit like a physical blow, sending more heat spiraling low in his abdomen—sinking deep into his lungs, his blood, his bones. And it was infuriating. Izuku's grip on the desk edge tightened, fighting the urge to acknowledge what his nose had detected beneath Bakugo's aggressive posturing. The way the alpha's pulse had kicked when their proximity closed to mere inches. The subtle shift in his scent that spoke of careful control, but not entirely suppressed.

He felt it too.

"No." His fist connected with the desk hard enough to split the skin as the word scraped from his throat, barely audible. “No, I’m fine. I didn’t feel anything. He’s just… he’s just an alpha. A prime alpha. Just a routine physiological response to prolonged proximity. That’s all it was.” But the words rang hollow, even to his own ears.

 He’d been around alphas before, dealt with their egos, their dominance, their posturing. He'd evaluated dozens over the years—some stronger than Bakugo, some arguably more dangerous. But none of them had made him feel like his skin was too tight, like his carefully maintained control was nothing more than tissue paper waiting to tear. And Izuku hated him for it.

“It's all mind games. Psychological warfare. Nothing more." He told himself. Blood continued to drip onto classified files as he replayed his own reaction to the raw magnetism and barely leashed power that had blindsided him. He’d faced warlords without breaking a sweat, negotiated ceasefires with a gun to his temple, but one shitty alpha with a smirk like a live wire had his body acting out like a teenager?

He had been fine. He’d been fine. Walked into that room with his usual professionalism, his usual control. He'd ordered hundreds of operatives to strip for evaluation before. It was protocol, checking for identifying marks, assessing physical capabilities. Clinical. Professional. It should have been no different.

But his body didn't seem interested in rationality. Heat continued to simmer beneath his skin, a slow burn that made his body sing with echoes of scorched pine and warm amber. His hands shook slightly as muscle memory provided unwanted details: the solid weight of Bakugo's frame, the way his muscles had coiled and bunched, the brief moment when their scents had mixed and created something that made his hindbrain purr with satisfaction.

What's wrong with me?

Izuku straightened, muscle memory of command presence reasserting itself even as his pulse continued its erratic rhythm. Stabilizers. The logical solution felt like a lifeline. His biology required careful chemical balance, which he knew was documented fact, not personal weakness. The patches were failing, had been failing for weeks now despite Mei's increasingly desperate modifications. The symptoms he was experiencing could be explained by an issue with his meds rather than—

Rather than wanting to be pinned down by an alpha who could probably break you in half.

Izuku spun away from the desk, pacing the room like a cornered animal. His hands clawed through his hair, tugging at strands as if the pain might anchor him. But it didn’t. Nothing did. His mind kept snapping back to that alpha, to the way the man had looked at him, the way he’d touched him, the way he’d made Izuku feel… 

The memory of it, the heat of it, sent another pulse through his core. His body reacted before he could stop it, a shiver slid down his spine, his cock stiffening in his pants. He clenched his jaw, fighting the memory, but it hovered in his thoughts like a brand: Bakugo’s face so close, the heat of his breath, the challenge in his growl, it was overwhelming.

With movements that felt disconnected from conscious thought, Izuku drifted toward the locked cabinet in his bathroom, where his emergency supplies waited. With a soft whir, the lock disengaged, revealing neat rows of injectors that gleamed under LED lighting—his salvation and, if he was being honest, his leash.

Mei's last batch. 

His fingers hovered over the selection, automatically calculating dosage and timing. But as he reached for the familiar comfort of chemical equilibrium, another image flashed through his consciousness: Bakugo's eyes, bright with intelligence and something darker, tracking his every movement with the intensity of a predator studying prey.

His thoughts were a jumble, fragments of the encounter in his mind. He imagined Bakugo’s voice, low and rough. “You think you’re in control? We'll see about that…”

The treacherous thought made Izuku's hand freeze halfway to the injector. Where had that come from? He was Captain Izuku Midoriya, commander of one of the most classified units in modern intelligence. He didn't submit. Didn't yield control to anyone, for any reason.

Except you want to, that darker voice whispered. You want someone to finally call your bluff. To test how far you could push, and whether they could push back.

"No." The denial came out strained and breathless, unconvincing even to his own ears. Because beneath the careful protocols and chemical suppressants, something raw and urgent was stirring to life. Something that had recognized Bakugo on a level deeper than duty or strategy.

Recognition. Like a tuning fork struck in his chest. 

Izuku caught his reflection in the cabinet’s polished metal door: his cheeks flushed, green eyes dilated, lips parted in ragged breaths. The careful composure he'd maintained for years finally cracking around the edges. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he looked... human. Vulnerable. Wanting. 

One injection, his rational mind insisted. Restore chemical balance. 

But his hand didn't move toward the stabilizers. Instead, almost without conscious decision, his fingers drifted to his collar, finding the edge of the suppression patch. The adhesive felt fragile under his touch, such a small thing to hold back the biological reality of his designation.

What would happen if you stopped fighting it?

The question slid over him like fire. His fingers peeled back the edge of the patch, enough to let air kiss the sensitive skin beneath. The sensation sent electricity skittering down his spine—not painful, but intense in a way that made his breath catch. The effect was almost instant as his scent began to shift, the carefully neutral facade giving way to something richer. Ozone and petrichor, with sweet cacao undertones and something unmistakably omega. 

"Oh." The word slipped from him in a whisper, more surprise than realization. When was the last time he'd smelled himself? Really smelled himself, without the filter of suppressants and stabilizers? His senses seemed to sharpen further, picking up details he'd been unconsciously filtering. 

This is dangerous, his brain warned. Temptation is weakness.

This is what you’ve denied yourself, his body insisted. This is what it feels like to be alive.

The patch came off entirely without his conscious permission, floating to the floor like a fallen leaf. And suddenly the world exploded into sensation. Every texture, every temperature, every lingering molecule of scent in the air hit him like a physical force.

God. The liberation felt like emerging from underwater, sudden and overwhelming. How long had it been since he'd allowed himself even this much honesty? Since he'd let his biology speak without the filter of chemical intervention?

His body's response was immediate and undeniable. Heat bloomed in his chest, spreading outward in waves. And underneath it all, faint traces of smoldering charcoal and warm sugar that set his mind racing and made his hindbrain purr.

Bakugo.

Izuku stalked to his temporary bedroom, fury and frustrated desire churning in his gut. Because what was building beneath his skin demanded privacy and the kind of raw acknowledgment he'd very rarely allowed himself. His legs hit the edge of the narrow bed, momentum carrying him down onto covers that felt like silk against heated skin. He was better than this. Stronger. Yet here he was, coming undone over the way Bakugo had met his gaze without flinching. So yeah, he was pissed. Pissed at Bakugo, at himself, at his own stupid biology. 

But that didn’t stop the need that rose unbidden, honest and undeniable. His hands were already working at his shirt buttons, clumsy with need. The fabric felt like sandpaper against hypersensitive skin, but he his fingers found the bottom of his shirt, working it free over his head as air hit exposed skin.

He groaned, his head falling back against the bed. No, he thought, this is wrong. I’m not… I can’t… But his body didn’t care about the crumbling resistance. His body wanted release, wanted to drown out the chaos of his brain with the simplicity of physical pleasure. 

His hands moved without conscious direction, palms tracing patterns across heated skin that seemed driven by arousal rather than logical thought. Each touch sent sparks racing under the surface, making his own caress even more electric and overwhelming. Izuku's hand drifted from his chest to his throat, fingertips finding the rapid flutter of his pulse. The contact sent electricity racing under his skin—when had he become so responsive? So desperate for even the most innocent touch?

God, if this is what my own touch feels like...

The implication hung unfinished as imagination provided unwanted completion. What would it feel like if it were Bakugo's touch instead? If that man was focused entirely on mapping every sensitive point, every place that Izuku hadn’t even explored on his own?

His hands continued their exploration, each touch revealing new depths of sensation that he had muted for far too long. The curve of his ribs, the hollow of his throat, the sensitive skin just below his ear that made him gasp when his fingertips brushed across it—everything felt heightened, electric, designed for pleasure rather than the functionality he'd imposed for years.

Drifting lower, his palm pressed against the growing evidence of his arousal through fabric that suddenly felt restrictive. The contact sent electricity racing up his spine, making him arch into the touch with a gasp at the unexpected intensity. Years of forcing his biology into unnatural constraints, had left him hypersensitive to any genuine stimulus. Like a starving man finally offered sustenance, his body was responding with desperate hunger to the first honest sensation he'd allowed himself in—

His hindbrain supplied the answer: Far too long.

Sharp heat continued to race beneath his skin, no longer the clinical warmth of elevated stress but something deeper, more potent. His fingers found the fastenings of his belt, working his pants and briefs free with hands that shook just enough to betray how completely his control had collapsed. The relief of freedom was immediate and overwhelming, cool air against his dick.

He didn’t do this. Didn’t fucking crumble into needy jerk-off sessions after meetings, no matter how brutal the negotiation. But he needed release, needed to burn off this dangerous energy before it consumed him. He couldn’t think clearly like this, he needed to get it out of his system, to move past it. But the thought of touching himself, of letting go, only made the heat in his center burn hotter. 

Tomorrow he could blame it on stress, adrenaline, on the weight of secrets that still didn’t make sense. Tonight, alone in his room with the memory of Bakugo's skin under his gaze, he could admit that Bakugo's presence had shaken him to his core. 

The surrender felt like stepping off a cliff, both terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. 

More.

His hand hovered over his erection, already leaking, embarrassingly eager. He groaned, his breath hitching at the contact when he wrapped a hand around himself, hesitant and shaky. Gasping, his hips jerked up like he’d been zapped, every brush of his own skin lighting him up. “Oof,” he whimpered, stroking slow and deliberate, trying to pretend it wasn’t Bakugo’s hands he was picturing—calloused, strong, pinning him down with that cocky grin.

He continued to stroke, his touch tentative, as if he were afraid to give in. Every touch felt magnified, like his body was making up for years of deprivation all at once. And underneath it all, his brain kept painting pictures: Bakugo's hands replacing his own, shirtless and glistening, crowding Izuku against the wall. 

Izuku’s thumb grazed his tip, slick with pre-come, and he keened, legs spreading wider as he lost the battle with his dignity. But the shame only made it hotter, a twisted thrill that had him panting. He dragged his other hand up his chest, nails scraping over a nipple, his moans echoing in the quiet room.

He closed his eyes, and Bakugo was there. 

The fantasy surfaced without permission, sending liquid heat pooling low in his abdomen. “You’re mine. Say it.” Izuku could almost feel those rough fingers sliding down his thighs, spreading him open, teasing where he was aching and slick. His strokes sped up, sloppy and desperate, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Imagination painted vivid pictures: the alpha’s teeth on his nape, hands on his waist, mouth on his neck, voice in his ear and barely controlled aggression focused entirely on—

On you. On mapping every place that makes you fall apart.

His free hand gripped the edge of the bed, fisting the sheets as he resisted his approaching climax. He could feel it coalescing, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his gut. The image of the alpha’s face, his hands, and his voice consumed him. He tried to enjoy the pleasure longer, to edge himself, but the thought of the other man, of the power he’d felt, it was too addicting.

Izuku’s strokes grew erratic, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel it, the edge he was teetering on, the release just out of reach. His body thrummed with heated pleasure, every nerve ending like a live wire. He was so close.

His body was a furnace, his knuckles white as he stroked himself faster, harder. He could feel the pressure mounting, the tension rising higher and higher. He bit his lip, trying to stifle another moan that threatened to escape, but it was no use. And then it hit him—the memory of Bakugo submitting to him, the way the alpha had looked at him, the way he’d given him control in that moment. 

This is what it feels like to want something for yourself. 

“Shit—fuck—!” Izuku came with a low, guttural moan, the sound ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. The thought sent him over the edge with startling suddenness, pleasure crashing through his body in waves that left him gasping against the narrow bed. He shuddered with the force of his orgasm as it tore through him.

Cum streaked his abdomen, hot and messy across his stomach, some splattering the USAID reports stacked on the opposite side of his nightstand. He slumped back on the bed, his vision whited out and chest heaving, thighs trembling as he rode it out, stroking himself through the aftershocks until he was a boneless heap. He pulled his hand off his dick, staring at the sticky mess on his fingers. 

For a long moment, he simply existed in the aftermath, blissed-out and buzzing, breath gradually slowing as rational thought reasserted itself piece by careful piece. But then the guilt and the anger came crashing back, he winced, staring at the ceiling like it could judge him. “Well, that happened,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. He grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning up with quick, guilty swipes. “Great job. Super professional.”

He lay there for another moment, his body still humming with the aftershocks of his release, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. None of it explained why Izuku’s thighs were still trembling. Why his cock hadn’t fully softened. Why the image of the alpha’s blown pupils during their scuffle—dominance challenge, it was a fucking dominance challenge—made his gut twist with something hotter than shame.

He didn’t want to think about Bakugo. He didn’t want to think about the way the man had made him feel. But it was no use. The memory was there, burned into his skin, etched into his mind. And he loathed it. He hated how much it had affected him. 

Izuku finally stood, his legs still unsteady, and made his way to the bathroom. He needed to clean up, to wash away the evidence of his weakness. But even as he stood under the cold spray of the shower, he knew it would do little to nothing. He could scrub his skin raw, but it wouldn’t erase the way his body had betrayed him.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly and wrapping a towel around his waist. He avoided his reflection in the mirror, afraid of what he might see. He didn’t want to see the flush on his skin or the dark circles under his eyes, and Izuku quickly realized that he was having more than just a reaction to the alpha. 

His hands were shaking as he reached for the medical cabinet, forcing it open to reveal the neat rows of vials and injectors. The stabilizer. He needed... he needed to put himself back together, but his body rebelled, even as his mind screamed for order. 

The first syringe shattered in his grip, shards of glass and precious liquid spattering over the sink. The second slipped through his fingers, his coordination shot to hell. The third, he managed to load into the injector, but his tremors were so bad that the needle skittered uselessly across his skin.

“Shit.” The curse is low and vicious, from some place deep in his chest. "Fuck!"

His heart is pounding, a relentless drumbeat against his ribs. His skin feels too tight, stretched thin over the barely contained riot of his emotions. Anger, despair, disgust... and beneath it all, that twisting, treacherous thread of desire. After all he'd been through, all he'd undergone in the crucible of J-SAP training, he'd believed his omega nature to be subsumed, secondary to his intellect, his will.

He knows better now.

His body had betrayed him, responding to Bakugo on a level that went beyond conscious thought. Every carefully honed instinct, every hard-won shred of control, shattered beneath the onslaught of the alpha's presence. And the worst part, the part that makes bile rise in the back of his throat even as a shameful heat coils low in his gut? 

He'd liked it.

The loss of control, the surrender to something pure and undeniable. The savage satisfaction of feeling the alpha beneath him, even if only for a moment. It had felt like a homecoming, a piece of himself slotting into place that he hadn't even known was missing.

Izuku's knuckles went white around the edge of the safe, his grip hard enough to hurt. The pain grounding, centering, a counterpoint to the chaos raging beneath his skin as he forced himself to take a breath. Another. Slowly, with aching precision, he reached for a fresh vial of stabilizer. This time, his hands were steadier as he loaded the injector, the needle sliding home with a soft snick.

The rush of the drug was immediate, a cold flood that washed away the fever-heat of his thoughts. Gradually, his heart rate slowed, his breath evening out as the artificial calm took hold. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to quell the storm still raging within him, but it was a start.

He set the injector aside with care, his movements once more his own. The scientist in him, the coldly rational observer, knew that his reaction was not unexpected. Bakugo was a prime alpha, after all, his biology honed to unsettle and overwhelm. And Izuku, for all his experience, for all his iron-clad self-control, was still omega at his core.

But the operative, the tactician, the man who had built his entire identity around his ability to master himself and his environment? That part of him was screaming, clawing at the inside of his skull with talons of ice and flame. Because this changed everything. The way he'd responded to Bakugo, the visceral, undeniable pull... it was something deeper. 

And that... that was unacceptable.

He has a mission, a purpose. A duty that supersedes all else, even the clamoring demands of his own treacherous flesh. He couldn’t afford distractions, couldn’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. Not now, not with so much at stake. But even as the thought solidified, crystallizing into a shard of determination that lodged behind his breastbone, he couldn’t escape the truth that hummed through his veins like a second pulse.

Katsuki Bakugo is dangerous. Not just to Izuku's carefully maintained internal compass, but to the very foundation of everything he's built. Everything he is.

And yet... Izuku wouldn’t let this go. Couldn’t turn away from the glaring, neon-bright reality that he knows something. Because as much as it terrified him, as much as it shook him... the alpha’s also the first real lead he's had since the news of Stars’s arrest broke.

Stars' warnings echoed in his mind, fragments of intel shaping into something that made his stomach turn. The evidence she'd uncovered before her arrest, the breadcrumbs leading back to Walter Reed. The pattern of genetic anomalies and off-the-charts pheromonal responses.

All of it pointing to something larger, something darker than even he had imagined. A conspiracy that could destabilize the very bedrock of the world as they knew it.

The words settled like lead in his belly, heavy and toxic. Another piece slotting into place in the jigsaw of covert operations and hidden agendas he's been trying to understand. The implications—of Bakugo's presence, his physiology, the sheer fact of him being assigned to Izuku's program paint a picture he doesn't want to look at too closely. Not yet. Not until he had more data, more context for his suspicions.

But he can't escape the small, insistent voice whispering that Bakugo is important. Is dangerous in ways that go beyond the physical, beyond the rush of lust and desire that even now simmers sullenly under Izuku's skin. There's something about him that feels like the first thread in an unraveling that could bring Izuku's whole world down around him.

He needs to be careful. Needs to be smart. Bakugo isn't just a means to an end, he's a lit match in a room full of dynamite. One wrong move, one uncontrolled spark, and they could all go up in flames. Izuku knew he needed to keep his distance moving forward. Needs to maintain the icy, impenetrable facade that's served him so well all these years. He’d break Bakugo down, build him back up, turn him into the weapon they need him to be. 

It's a good plan. A solid plan. Izuku just has to trust in his training, in the years of discipline and control that have forged him into one of the most formidable assets in the field. He just has to remember that he's steel all the way through, cold and unbending, impervious to the white-hot temptation of Bakugo's flame.

Mind over matter. 

Duty over desire.

Izuku's alarm never had the chance to go off.

His eyes snapped open at precisely 0517, thirteen minutes before the digital readout would have flashed to life. The same time he'd woken for the past week since arriving in DC, despite the shifting hours of his work. His body seemed determined to maintain this one small consistency in a world increasingly defined by shit he couldn't control.

The lingering remnants of last night's dreams clung to him like a toxic residue, hazy impressions of blood-red eyes and dangerous hands that had touched him with infuriating confidence. Of scents and sounds and a voice that seemed to resonate in his bones. Of a fight that had turned into something else entirely before he'd managed to rein himself in.

“Ugh,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face. This was precisely why he avoided alphas whose scents triggered his system. Bad enough that he had to waste valuable operational time evaluating the problematic alpha in the first place; now the arrogant asshole was invading his dreams.

He shoved the images away with practiced efficiency, focusing instead on the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the faint blue glow of technology on standby, the whisper of early morning traffic filtering through bulletproof windows. Reorienting himself in the reality of this overpriced, government-adjacent apartment that wasn't his but needed to look like it was.

His morning routine consisted of fifteen minutes of stretching, focusing on the shoulders and lower back to counteract the tension of command. A quick shower, water hot enough to burn away the lingering ghosts of yesterday's decisions. Basic grooming, dress shirt and slacks casual enough for his consultant cover but tailored enough to accommodate the concealed weapons underneath.

The new stabilizer dose waited on the bathroom counter, the advanced delivery system gleaming in the harsh light. This one was 15% stronger than his usual formula, a precaution after yesterday's... incident. He pressed it against his thigh, not even wincing as the micro needles deployed, silently delivering their chemical payload. The familiar chill of the stabilizer spread through his system, sharpening his focus, locking down the instinctual responses that threatened to undermine his careful control.

One problem solved. Temporarily, at least.

Izuku checked his reflection in the mirror, noting the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight tension at the corners of his mouth. Less obvious than he'd feared, but…

"You look like shit, Midoriya," he told his reflection with the practiced clinical detachment that had served him through worse. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened, and the tension in his jaw was becoming a semi-permanent fixture. He looked exactly like what he was: a man whose carefully constructed world was developing stress fractures.

And now I have to integrate Bakugo into my team.

The thought twisted something in his gut, a complicated knot of irritation, professional concern, and something else he refused to examine too closely. He hadn't been prepared for the reality of Katsuki Bakugo: the way his presence had cut through Izuku's carefully maintained defenses like they were nothing.

The way he'd healed from a knife wound in minutes.

That, more than anything, was what kept Izuku's mind spinning even as he tried to focus on more immediate concerns. Enhanced healing was one thing, given many alphas showed accelerated recovery times, especially primes. But what he'd witnessed in that warehouse was something else entirely. Timing that aligned all too neatly with Stars’ arrest.

His jaw tightened at the thought. Stars had been missing for five days now, officially charged with treason, though the details remained conveniently classified even at his level. The timing was no coincidence, it was so blatant it was insulting.

He left the apartment building at precisely 0605, nodding to the overnight security guard who monitored the comings and goings of the building's carefully selected tenants. Most were like him—government adjacent, security clearances higher than their nominal job titles would suggest, the kind of people who understood the value of discretion and the cost of carelessness.

Dawn was just breaking over Arlington, painting the sky in washed-out watercolors above the clean lines of government architecture. The early morning air carried the crisp edge of autumn, a welcome respite from the stifling humidity of summer. Izuku breathed it in, cataloging the scents. Car exhaust, wet asphalt from overnight rain, the faint traces of aftershave from the jogger who passed him on the corner.

His usual coffee shop was three blocks from his temporary apartment, a strategic choice rather than a matter of convenience. Close enough to establish a routine, far enough to force awareness of his surroundings. The location was ideal for his purposes, popular with mid-level bureaucrats and contractors, the kind of place where faces became familiar without names necessarily following suit.

Liberty Coffee had the carefully cultivated aesthetic of a local business despite being part of a regional chain. Exposed brick walls, chalkboard menus updated with seasonal specials, baristas who mastered the delicate balance between friendly and efficient. The morning crowd was already forming when Izuku arrived.

"Morning, Mr. Midoriya!" Megan called as he entered, her beta scent pleasant and uncomplicated. "The usual?"

"Please." He returned her smile with practiced ease, another government consultant starting his unremarkable day. "How's Professor Halloway treating you this semester?"

"Brutal." She rolled her eyes as she moved to prepare his order. "Professor Halloway assigns these impossible essays, like we don't have lives outside his class."

Izuku nodded sympathetically, the perfect image of casual interest. "Political theory, right? I remember those days."

"Yeah, focusing on East Asian governance models. Super fascinating but the reading list is insane." She shrugged, the motion dislodging her brown ponytail. "Anyway, how's your week going? Still working on that energy sector report?"

"Always." The cover was simple but effective. He was masquerading as an environmental policy consultant for a Japanese firm looking to expand into American markets. Specialized in renewable energy integration, with particular focus on regulatory frameworks. Boring enough to discourage further questions, plausible enough to withstand casual scrutiny. "Deadlines never seem to end."

"Tell me about it." She slid his order across the counter, medium Americano with one raw sugar packet on the side, never mixed in. Just as he'd ordered it every morning for the past week. The kind of detail that built a cover, piece by unremarkable piece. "That'll be $8.25."

Izuku swiped his card and dropped two-dollars in the tip jar. The right amount to be remembered as a decent customer without drawing undue attention.

"Highway robbery, that price," he commented with a deliberately light tone, the practiced complaint of a foreigner still adjusting to American customs. "Back home, this would cost half as much and taste twice as good," he said with deliberate lightness.

"Yeah, but Tokyo rent would bankrupt me in a week," Megan laughed, the familiar exchange cementing his unremarkable routine.

He claimed his corner table with clear sightlines to both exits, attention already shifting to the mounted television broadcasting local news. The volume was low, but his enhanced hearing caught every word of the anchor's practiced delivery.

"...authorities continue investigating the security breach at Walter Reed Medical Center. Seven security personnel and three researchers remain dead, with officials refusing to classify the incident. Sources suggest possible connections to designation extremism, though no group has claimed responsibility..."

Designation extremism. Izuku's jaw tightened imperceptibly. A year ago, it would have been called a "feral episode" or "designation violence." But with the growing public pushback against designation discrimination, the media had escalated their language.

What a convenient label to slap on the situation, neatly obscuring what had actually happened: A rouge agent had massacred a research team and their security detail, then disappeared without a trace. And now the cover-up was in full swing, redirecting attention from what the Walter Reed staff had been doing to why they'd been targeted.

He remembers exactly where he was when the news of her arrest came through, bent over case files in his makeshift office, coffee gone cold beside him. Hitoshi had burst in without knocking, face grim.

"Sir. It's Stars."

The words had hit like a physical blow. Stars, brilliant and unstoppable, accused of treason. The evidence seemingly irrefutable: classified files found on her devices, unauthorized access to restricted databases, suspicious financial transfers. But it hadn't added up then, and it adds up even less now. Stars was too careful, too dedicated to their mission to turn traitor. Given the timing...

Stars arrested less than 48 hours after her encounter with Bakugo at Walter Reed. The same facility where this mysterious "Icarus" had appeared. The same facility where an omega test subject had died under circumstances that were still classified above even his clearance.

And Bakugo... Izuku frowns, remembering the raw honesty in those crimson eyes when he'd pressed him about Stars. The genuine shock at learning of her arrest. Either the alpha was a phenomenal actor, or he truly hadn't known.

The on-screen footage now showed the medical center surrounded by police barriers and military vehicles, flashing lights reflecting off the modern glass structure. The camera panned over to a spokeswoman from the Department of Defense, her expression grave as she fielded questions.

"At this time, we have no comment on speculation that this incident is connected to anti-designation legislation currently before Congress," she was saying, her words crisp and carefully chosen. "This appears to be an isolated event, and the public is not at risk. We ask for patience as our investigation continues.”

Izuku resisted the urge to snort into his coffee. Isolated event, his ass. The timing was too perfect, coming just as the Enhanced Security Protocols Act reached a critical vote in the Senate. Nothing happened by coincidence for politicians. The question was whether the attack had been allowed to happen, or actively encouraged. And if so, by whom?

The broadcast shifted to footage of protests outside Georgetown University, students gathered with signs and bullhorns. "Meanwhile, protests continue for the third day against the Enhanced Security Protocols Act, which went to Senate review yesterday despite widespread concerns about civil liberties and designation rights."

The camera panned over the protesters, zooming in on some of the signs. "NO FORCED TESTING" read one. "DESIGNATIONS ARE NOT CRIMES" declared another. The footage cut to a young woman speaking passionately into a microphone.

"This isn't about public safety," she said, her voice steady despite the obvious emotion behind it. "This is about the government’s need for control. About treating people as threats or commodities based on biology they didn't choose! We won't stand for it!”

The girl wasn’t wrong, it was American hypocrisy at its finest, Izuku thought. The same government that had spent decades studying designation biology for weaponization was now criminalizing it under the guise of protection. Not that Japan was much better, with its carefully regulated designation classifications and optional registration. The methods were different, but the goal was the same: control.

Around him, the coffee shop hummed with early morning energy. A pair of army officers in pressed uniforms discussing weekend plans at the table nearest the window. Three women in mid-level bureaucrat attire comparing notes on some upcoming presentation. A solitary man in a rumpled suit hunched over his laptop, the dark circles under his eyes suggesting a night spent chasing deadlines.

And at the table in the opposite corner, two men with the unmistakable bearing of intelligence analysts, their voices deliberately lowered, their postures angled to prevent lip-reading. Izuku's enhanced hearing picked up fragments of their conversation despite their caution.

"...calling it a 'security incident' now, as if seven dead officers is just protocol breach..."

"Phillips saw the footage before they scrubbed it. Said the perp moved too fast for cameras to track properly. Just a blur..."

"...brought in MARSOC with QCPT capability. Never deployed that domestically before..."

MARSOC—Marine Special Operations Command. QCPT—Quantum Containment and Processing Team. A specialized unit trained to handle enhanced designation incidents. The fact that they were being deployed domestically was notable. Concerning, even.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text message from a number that wouldn't appear in his contacts list but that he recognized immediately. Aizawa:

0830. Usual place. Priority Zeta.

Izuku deleted the message as soon as he'd read it, the motion automatic. Priority Zeta meant the meeting couldn't be postponed or delegated. Something had happened, something that required his immediate attention. Considering the timing, he had his suspicions about what that something might be.

The stabilizer chose that moment to skip a beat.

Not a complete failure, it was more like a record needle jumping tracks. For one terrifying second, the chemical buffer wavered, allowing Izuku’s instinctual responses to surge through his system. Heat flashed along his nerves, enhanced senses spiking to process threat assessments that had no basis in current reality. 

The two analysts in the corner, both alphas, mid-level clearance based on posture. Army officers by the window, betas, minimal concern. The barista—

Control. Focus. Breathe.

The moment passed as the stabilizer reasserted control, but Izuku's grip had tightened enough on his coffee cup to threaten the ceramic. His heartbeat steadied, his senses retreating to their usual sensitive-but-manageable state. He forced his fingers to relax, noting the slight tremor that shouldn't exist with his current dosage levels.

That shouldn't have happened.

Not with the extra dose. Not when he wasn't experiencing any of his usual triggers.  The system had never failed before, only recently developing stress fractures at the worst possible time. Unless his supply had been tampered with, or if something had fundamentally changed since his encounter with he-who-shall-not-be-named.

The thought sent a chill down his spine. He'd spent years perfecting the delicate balance of chemicals that allowed him to function at peak efficiency without succumbing to his designation's natural responses. Years of calibration and adjustment and careful monitoring. There was no way.

He would recalibrate and adjust his dosage again. Possibly to consider alternative formulations if the current one was proving ineffective. And in the meantime, he would need to maintain strict control over his interactions with the problematic alpha. Although he might be joining Izuku’s team on paper, that didn't mean Izuku had to let him close. Physically or otherwise.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd built his career on his ability to manage alphas in the field, to use his designation's natural influence to his advantage without letting it compromise his judgment. He was the person other operatives called when an alpha asset went off the rails, when conventional control methods failed. He was the omega who had never once lost control, not even in situations that would have broken lesser agents.

And now this man was threatening to unravel all of that with nothing more than his presence.

Izuku checked his watch, calculating timelines. He had an hour until his meeting with Aizawa. Enough time to finish his coffee, maintain the routine, avoid drawing attention with a sudden departure. In his line of work, consistency was often the best camouflage.

He took another sip of his coffee, its bitterness a welcome counterpoint to the lingering sweetness in his mouth. On the television, the news had moved on to traffic reports, the designation incident relegated to yesterday's concerns. But Izuku knew better. 

The bell over the door chimed as new customers entered, a rush of cool morning air sweeping in with them. Izuku's nose twitched, catching a familiar scent beneath the coffee and pastries and morning cologne. The distinctive smell of military-grade weapons, recently cleaned.

He looked up, his movement casual, unhurried. A group of four men in civilian clothes, their bearing unmistakably military despite their attempted casualness. Special ops, if he had to guess, given the way they moved a little too smooth, too aware, too ready for sudden violence. Their eyes scanned the room with practiced indifference, but Izuku caught the momentary pause when they spotted the intelligence analysts in the corner.

He couldn’t tell if it was maybe just interagency tension, or something more?

One of the newcomers glanced Izuku’s way, their gazes meeting for a split second. The man's eyes widened fractionally as recognition flickered before being smothered under professional neutrality. Izuku inclined his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment. Respect for a fellow operator. Nothing more. But the encounter left him uneasy. 

He shouldn't know me.  

The observation settled like ice in his chest. His cover was solid, his presence unremarkable. Unless he was being tracked, or someone had been providing detailed intelligence about his activities. Time to leave.

He finished his coffee in measured sips, folded his newspaper with precise creases, and stood with the unhurried movements of a man with no concerns beyond his next meeting. He nodded to Megan as he passed the counter, received her cheerful "See you tomorrow!" with a smile that revealed nothing of his growing paranoia.

Outside, the morning had fully established itself, the streets now busy with government workers and contractors heading to their offices. Izuku moved with the flow, another cog in the machinery of the capital. But his senses remained on high alert, cataloging the subtle changes in his environment.

More police presence than usual, he noted. A patrol car at the intersection that hadn't been there yesterday. Two officers on foot, walking with the deliberate casualness of men looking for something specific. And there, three blocks down, military vehicles. Not the standard Army transport trucks, but the specialized units used by QCPT. Sleek, matte black, designed to blend into urban environments while carrying enough firepower to handle enhanced designation threats. Something you’d usually only see deployed in active combat zones.

Moving toward central DC. Toward the protests at Georgetown. His phone buzzed again. Another message from Aizawa:

Be aware. Potential tails. Approach with caution.

Izuku deleted it immediately, his expression unchanging even as his mind accelerated through implications. He already felt like he was under surveillance. But by whom? The same people who had arrested Stars? The ones behind the Walter Reed massacre? Or perhaps the same ones who had sent Katsuki Bakugo into his life?

"Well, good morning there, mister." The voice came from his left, rough with age and hard living. Jet. The same weathered face, the same knowing eyes that saw too much. The homeless veteran who had claimed this particular corner sat on his usual milk crate, cardboard sign propped against his legs: COMBAT VETERAN - ANY HELP APPRECIATED

Izuku maintained his routine, pausing as he did each morning. "Morning, Jet. How's the day treating you so far?" He reached for his wallet, extracting a five-dollar bill, the same amount he always gave.

Jet's weathered hand closed around the money, but his eyes—sharp despite the alcohol perfuming his breath—studied Izuku with uncomfortable perception. “I saw another one of you types the other day,” he commented, voice pitched low. "Blonde fella. Built like a tank. Runs past here like the devil himself was on his heels."

Izuku's pulse quickened, though his expression revealed nothing. Blonde. Built like a tank. He raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite himself.

“Another type of what, Jet?"

The veteran's smile revealed teeth stained by years of cigarettes and neglect. "People like you. The ones who move different. See different." He tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. "Old soldier knows his own kind.”

The observation was uncomfortably astute. Seemingly with an awareness that never quite shut off.

"Just doing my job," Izuku said mildly. "Same as always."

Jet gave a curt nod, though his eyes remained wary. “Sure thing, sir. You take care out there, the streets feel different lately.” He glanced toward the military vehicles, the haunted look of a combat vet sharpening his gaze. “Reminds me of Fallujah, just before it all went to hell.”

A chill crept down Izuku’s spine, not because Arlington was in any way like Iraq, but because of what lay beneath Jet’s words. Something was building. Pressure mounting. A sense that everything was inching toward a breaking point.

“I’ll remember that,” Izuku replied, already calculating the quickest route to his meeting with Aizawa. “Stay safe, Jet.”

“You too, sir.” The veteran settled against the wall, his eyes never leaving the convoy. “Though I’d bet safety’s not in your job description.”

Izuku didn’t answer. Jet’s words echoed long after he stepped away, and these days he wasn’t sure he believed in anything.

Roosevelt Island emerged from the Potomac like a deliberate afterthought—two and a half miles of preserved wilderness wedged between Virginia and the District, accessible only by footbridge or a single Metro line that most tourists forgot existed. The morning fog still clung to the marshlands as Izuku descended the blue line platform, his enhanced hearing cataloging the sparse foot traffic. Three joggers heading toward the memorial trail. A pair of bird watchers with telephoto lenses. An elderly man feeding ducks at the water's edge.

No surveillance teams. No federal badges pretending to be civilians.

Perfect.

The protests were visible even from here, a distant haze of bodies and chanting voices drifting across the water from Georgetown University. Izuku paused at the bridge overlook, watching helicopters circle the campus like mechanical vultures. The Enhanced Security Protocols Act had passed preliminary Senate review at 0200 this morning, three hours ahead of schedule. It was pushed through via Executive Order provisions citing "credible designation-based terror threats."

His jaw tightened. Given the earlier reports and the rushed legislation, it was clear the bureaucrats weren't wasting time capitalizing on Walter Reed.

Below him, the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge carried a steady stream of morning commuters, but even at this distance he could see the new checkpoints. Military vehicles positioned at both ends, portable designation scanners creating bottlenecks in the traffic flow. Soldiers in tactical gear stopping cars at random, their movements crisp and practiced.

Fifty-seven hours, he calculated. Less than three days between a massacre at a classified medical facility and domestic deployment of designation screening protocols that had taken months to authorize overseas. The kind of rapid response that only happened when contingency plans were already in place.

The coffee shop intel from this morning replayed in his mind: MARSOC units with QCPT capability. Quantum Containment and Processing Teams designed for enhanced designation incidents. These advanced assets weren't supposed to operate on American soil under normal circumstances.

Which meant circumstances were already anything but normal.

"You're early." Aizawa's voice carried no surprise, though Izuku hadn't heard his approach. His boss materialized from the treeline like smoke, moving with the practiced invisibility of someone who'd spent decades avoiding detection. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, deeper than usual, and his standard-issue jacket bore the subtle wrinkles of someone who'd slept in an office chair.

"Traffic was lighter than expected," Izuku replied, falling into step beside him as they moved toward the memorial trail. "The protests are creating detours, but most people are avoiding downtown entirely."

They walked in comfortable silence for several minutes, two government contractors taking their morning exercise. Nothing suspicious about it. Aizawa's beta scent remained carefully neutral, his movements deliberately casual as they passed a family photographing the wildlife boardwalk.

"How bad is it?" Izuku asked once they were alone, keeping his voice pitched below normal conversation levels.

"Worse than we anticipated." Aizawa's response was equally quiet. "The Walter Reed incident has everyone from the Joint Chiefs to the President's chief of staff demanding answers. And since we don't have any that won't compromise ongoing operations..."

"They're making them up," Izuku finished. The designation extremism narrative was convenient fiction, easier to sell than admitting a classified research facility had been infiltrated by someone with capabilities they couldn't explain.

"Emergency session at 1600," Aizawa confirmed. "Homeland Security, DOD, and a couple of foreign agencies all demanding expanded authorities. The checkpoints you saw? That's just the beginning. By end of week, they'll have mobile screening units operating in twelve major metropolitan areas."

Izuku absorbed this, his brain automatically cataloging implications. Expanded surveillance meant expanded data collection. Registration databases would grow exponentially, feeding whatever algorithms were being used to identify and track specific designations. The kind of infrastructure that could be used for protection, or for more nefarious reasons.

"And our friends at J-SAP?" he prompted.

Aizawa's expression darkened. "General Todoroki is threatening to suspend autonomous operations pending a full security review. Apparently, having one of our operatives arrested for treason reflects poorly on our vetting procedures."

The words carried bitter irony. They both knew Stars' arrest was fabricated, but the bureaucratic response was real enough. Congressional oversight, budget reviews, operational restrictions that would cripple their effectiveness just when they needed flexibility most.

"How long do we have?"

"Seventy-two hours, maybe less." Aizawa guided them toward a wooden observation platform overlooking the marsh. "Which brings me to your evaluation of Captain Bakugo.” The way Aizawa emphasized the word made it clear what he thought of the situation. "I've got several there-letter agencies breathing down my neck. Apparently, your... methods... raised some eyebrows."

A flash of heat rushed through Izuku, not embarrassment, but a surge of irritated defensiveness. The warehouse confrontation with Bakugo had been necessary, calculated to push the alpha's buttons and test his responses. The fact that it had ended with them practically at each other's throats was irrelevant.

Or would be, if I hadn't spent all night thinking about his goddamn hands.

"They're welcome to conduct their own assessment if they don't like my techniques," Izuku said coolly, descending the stairs. "But they won't get the same results."

"Yeah, well, they're not interested in results so much as integration timeline. They want him operational. Yesterday, if possible."

Izuku's stride didn't falter, but he felt a subtle tension creep into his shoulders. His thoughts refused to settle, still churning with the memory of crimson eyes and dangerous hands. The lingering scent of smoldering charcoal and hot metal that seemed to have carved a permanent space in his memory. Izuku silently cursed himself for the tenth time that morning. Professional assessment only.

"That would be inadvisable," he said carefully. "Bakugo's psychological profile indicates significant authority resistance. Rushing integration could compromise team stability."

"Could it?" Aizawa's tone remained neutral, but Izuku caught the undertone of skepticism. "Or is there another reason you're hesitating?"

The question hit too close to home, making Izuku's already-sensitive skin prickle with discomfort. Was he that transparent? Izuku had spent half the night trying to forget the electric awareness that had sparked between them, the way his body had responded to proximity and confrontation in ways his stabilizers should have prevented. The last thing he needed was Aizawa recognizing any kind of personal complications.

"Captain Bakugo is everything his file suggested," he said carefully, pushing away the unwelcome arousal that stirred at just saying the name. "Tactically brilliant, enhanced capabilities operating well beyond standard parameters even for a prime. But he's volatile, Aizawa. One wrong variable and he could destabilize not just my team, but potentially compromise operational security."

"And yet you stabbed him in the leg." Aizawa's dry tone made it clear what he thought of Izuku's restraint. “The surveillance footage was... illuminating."

Damn surveillance agency. I knew I should have kept the files on local servers.

"I was testing a theory," Izuku replied, unable to keep the edge from his voice. 

They reached the platform, where early morning light filtered through autumn foliage in shifting patterns. Aizawa leaned against the railing, his posture relaxed while his eyes continued their methodical scan of the surroundings.

"Enhanced capabilities," he repeated thoughtfully. "Care to elaborate?"

Izuku hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. The knife wound healing within minutes was beyond anything in the current research and literature on prime designations. Combined with Bakugo's apparent connection to whatever had happened at Walter Reed...

"His regenerative capacity exceeds documented parameters," he said finally. "Significant tissue damage resolved completely within minutes, no scarring. I've never seen anything like it outside of theoretical research reports."

Aizawa absorbed this without visible reaction, though Izuku caught the subtle shift in his scent. Interest layered beneath professional calm.

"Interesting timing," his mentor observed.

The understatement carried weight. Walter Reed housed some of the government's most classified medical research, much of it focused on designation biology and enhancement. The same facility where Bakugo had undergone evaluation after Sarajevo. The same place this mysterious Icarus had turned into a slaughterhouse.

"It's all interesting timing," Izuku countered, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "Stars gets arrested on fabricated treason charges, Walter Reed gets hit by this 'Icarus' character, and suddenly I'm assigned an alpha with impossible healing abilities for my team? None of that feels particularly coincidental."

"It isn't." Aizawa's admission was flat, matter-of-fact. "Which is why we need to be extremely careful about how we proceed."

A great blue heron stalked through the shallows below them, its movements sure and methodical as it hunted. Izuku watched it, finding an odd parallel to his own situation—patience and calculation in an environment full of hidden dangers.

"What do you know about Stars' arrest that isn't in the official reports?" he asked, shifting the conversation toward more immediate concerns.

Aizawa was quiet for a long moment, his gaze tracking the distant helicopters still circling Georgetown. When he spoke, his voice carried the careful modulation of someone navigating classified information.

"The evidence against her was... comprehensive," he said finally. "Classified files on her personal devices, unauthorized access logs spanning months, financial transfers to accounts linked to foreign intelligence services."

"But?"

"But the forensics don't add up. Multiple DNA profiles where there shouldn't be, metadata timestamps that don't match her known whereabouts, digital fingerprints that look more like planted evidence than genuine security breaches." Aizawa's jaw tightened. "The kind of mistakes professionals don't make, but that read as ironclad proof to congressional oversight committees."

Izuku felt the familiar weight of conspiracy settling in his chest. Not just sloppy tradecraft, it was deliberate misdirection designed to be discovered by the right people. A message wrapped in the appearance of incompetence.

"Someone wanted us to know it was fabricated," he concluded.

"A demonstration of power," Aizawa agreed grimly. "Stars was investigating something, and rather than simply eliminating her, they chose to discredit her publicly. Maximum psychological impact with plausible deniability."

"Where are they keeping her?"

"That's where things get complicated." Aizawa grimaced. "Officially, she's being held at Fort Leavenworth awaiting military tribunal. Complete communications blackout, no legal counsel, no visitation rights."

“Unofficially?" Izuku prompted.

"Transport never reached Leavenworth. Diverted to an undisclosed location approximately three hours into the flight." Aizawa pulled out a protein bar and took a bite, his expression giving nothing away. "My sources suggest a black site somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic region, but that's speculation."

A family of tourists approached the platform, their voices carrying excited observations about the wildlife. Izuku and Aizawa shifted their conversation to mundane topics—weather, coffee recommendations, complaints about Metro delays—until the civilians moved on.

“I know she was looking into some things for the team, but I assume she might have had additional directives. What all was she investigating?" Izuku asked once they were alone again.

"Pattern analysis across multiple classified databases," Aizawa replied, his voice dropping even lower. "Designation enhancement research, anomalous medical incidents, unexplained capabilities manifesting in military personnel. She was pulling threads that connected facilities across several countries and five different classification levels."

The scope was staggering. Stars had been digging into something vast, a network that crossed traditional intelligence boundaries. And now she was gone, disappeared into the same system she'd been investigating.

"The Walter Reed connection?"

"Part of a larger network. Research facilities conducting parallel studies, all feeding data to a central analysis hub." Aizawa's tone remained carefully neutral, but Izuku caught the tension beneath. "What happened there wasn't random violence. It was surgical elimination of specific research personnel."

"By someone with enhanced capabilities," Izuku added, thinking of the carnage described in classified briefings. Seven security officers and three researchers, taken down with precision that suggested intimate knowledge of the facility and its personnel.

"Someone like your Captain Bakugo," Aizawa observed quietly.

The implication hung between them like a loaded weapon. Bakugo's accelerated healing, his connection to Walter Reed, his convenient assignment to Izuku's team—it painted a picture that made Izuku's tactical instincts scream warnings.

"You think he's connected to Icarus," Izuku said, the words tasting like ash.

"I think he's connected to whatever Stars found," Aizawa corrected. "Whether that makes him complicit or another potential victim remains to be determined."

They resumed walking, moving deeper into the wooded section where the canopy provided natural sound dampening. The protests were more audible here, carried across the water as a constant background hum of voices and vehicle engines.

"The timing is deliberate," Izuku said, pieces clicking together with uncomfortable clarity. "Walter Reed gets hit, Stars disappears, and suddenly command wants Bakugo integrated into my team with unprecedented speed. They're not just assigning me an operator, they're handing me a test subject."

"That would be my assessment." Aizawa nodded toward another pair of walkers approaching from the opposite direction, automatically cataloging threats. "Which raises the question of what they expect you to discover."

The elderly couple passed with friendly nods, their beta scents pleasant and unthreatening. Retirees enjoying the morning air, nothing more. Izuku waited until they were well out of earshot before responding.

"Or what they expect me to help them with," he said grimly. The thought settled like lead in his stomach. His reputation for handling difficult integrations, his success rate with problematic alphas, it made him the perfect choice for managing whatever Bakugo represented.

"The enhanced protocols act passed preliminary review this morning," Aizawa said, seemingly changing the subject. "Emergency implementation begins Monday. Designation screening at federal facilities, mandatory registration updates, expanded surveillance authorities."

"Fifty-seven hours from Walter Reed to domestic deployment," Izuku calculated aloud. "They had this ready. The media's calling it 'designation extremism,' but we both know that's bullshit. Seven security officers and three researchers don't get taken out by some fringe political group without leaving traces."

“Official channels are sticking to the terrorism angle. Easier to sell to the public than admitting someone infiltrated one of our most secure medical facilities and executed specific targets.” Aizawa's expression was grim as he watched the distant helicopters. 

“Almost like they were waiting for the right crisis to justify it." Izuku’s tone was bitter. "Nothing like a designation-based terror attack to sell expanded security measures to Congress."

"Americans like their threats simple and external. The idea that someone might be targeting military research from within? Not the kind of story that plays well in an election year."

"So they'd rather use it to justify these new checkpoints?" Izuku's gaze drifted toward the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, where there was a newly established designation screening point. Officers in tactical gear stopping vehicles, portable scanning equipment being set up. "Turn it into propaganda for the Enhanced Security Protocols Act?"

"Never let a good crisis go to waste," Aizawa quoted grimly. "Those weren't authorized under the original legislation, by the way. Emergency implementation order came through at 0400. Signed by the Secretary of Homeland Security himself, citing 'credible threats of designation-based terrorism' following the Walter Reed incident."

Izuku felt a familiar anger rising, the kind he usually kept carefully contained beneath layers of professionalism and duty. "They're lying to the public."

"They're 'managing panic,'" Aizawa corrected, though his tone made it clear he found the distinction meaningless. "In fairness, how do you tell civilians that someone with capabilities beyond normal human limitations just assassinated multiple high-security targets and disappeared without a trace? The panic would be immediate and widespread."

"So we lie instead," Izuku said flatly. "Create a phantom terrorist threat to justify increased surveillance and detention powers."

"It's a necessary evil," Aizawa replied, echoing the same justification they'd both used countless times in their careers. The same one Izuku had used to rationalize his own participation in operations that existed in moral gray areas. "I don't like it either, but right now we have bigger concerns."

The protests grew louder as they approached the southern end of the island, voices carrying across the water. Izuku picked out individual chants, the crack of police barriers, the mechanical whine of crowd control vehicles.

"How many?" he asked.

"Georgetown alone? Approximately eight thousand as of this morning. American University another four thousand, GWU maybe two thousand more." Aizawa's intelligence was characteristically precise. "Coordinated demonstrations across seventeen major cities, all protesting the emergency protocols."

"And the response?"

"Measured force, for now. But the imagery is deliberate, enhanced designation protests being contained by QCPT units. Makes the case for expanded authorities without requiring actual violence. For now.”

Izuku absorbed this, understanding the psychological operation at work. Public fear of designation-based threats justified measures that would have been politically impossible weeks ago. The Walter Reed massacre had provided the catalyst, but the infrastructure and legal framework had been prepared well in advance.

"Who's coordinating it?" he asked.

Aizawa was quiet for several steps, his expression carefully neutral. When he spoke, his words were chosen with caution.

"That's above both our clearance levels," he said finally. "But the operational signatures suggest coordination between DOD, Homeland Security, and at least two intelligence agencies. Possibly with input from allied services."

International coordination. The scope kept expanding, painting a picture of conspiracy that stretched far beyond a single research facility or rogue operative. Whatever Stars had uncovered, it threatened interests powerful enough to mobilize resources across multiple governments.

"I need access to her research," Izuku said, the words carrying desperate certainty. "Without understanding what she found, integrating Bakugo is like walking blindfolded through a minefield. Let alone trying to save her.”

Aizawa stopped walking, turning to face him directly. His expression was carefully composed, but Izuku caught the micro-expressions beneath—concern, calculation, and something that might have been paternal worry.

"Her personal laboratory has been sealed since the arrest," he said carefully. "Federal investigators have been trying to access it for five days. Biometric locks, quantum encryption, security measures that make Fort Knox look like a convenience store."

"And?"

"They've requested specialized equipment from Langley. Quantum decryption arrays, bio-metric spoofing technology, advanced electronic packages." Aizawa's tone remained studiously neutral, but his eyes held unmistakable meaning. "Equipment that won't arrive for at least forty-eight hours."

The implication was perfectly clear to Izuku. Forty-eight hours when Stars' laboratory would be guarded but not actively breached. A window of opportunity disguised as bureaucratic delay.

"That's an interesting," Izuku observed carefully.

"Very." Aizawa reached into his jacket, producing what appeared to be a small weather radio. "Especially considering the security footage from her building has been corrupted. Multiple system failures over the past week, creating gaps in the surveillance record."

He placed the device in Izuku's hand casually. The weight was wrong for a radio—too heavy, too precisely balanced. Something else concealed within the standard housing.

"Stars' personal device,” Aizawa said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "And the uncorrupted security footage from her laboratory for the week before her arrest. Both items are officially in evidence lockup at Quantico, processed and catalogued according to standard procedures."

Izuku pocketed the device without hesitation, his mind already racing through implications and possibilities. Access to Stars' research, her personal files, the security footage that might reveal what she'd discovered—and who had taken her.

"I was never here," Aizawa continued, his tone carrying the weight of decades in the intelligence community. "You never saw me. This conversation never happened."

"Understood." The word carried layers of meaning, acknowledgment of the risk Aizawa was taking by circumventing official channels.

They continued walking, their conversation shifting to safer topics as they approached the more populated areas of the trail. Work schedules, weekend plans, complaints about the Metro construction delays—the kind of mundane chat between colleagues that surveillance systems would dismiss as irrelevant.

But Izuku's mind was operating on multiple levels, cataloging the intelligence he'd received while simultaneously planning his next moves. Forty-eight hours to access Stars' laboratory and extract whatever information she'd uncovered. Forty-eight hours to understand what connected Bakugo to the larger conspiracy.

Forty-eight hours before the window closed and the specialized equipment arrived to crack her security measures.

"I've been considering pulling Shoto out of his current assignment to assist with the transition," Aizawa added, the apparent change of subject perfectly timed as they approached a more open section of the trail. "His skill set would be valuable for your team's upcoming operations."

Izuku maintained his casual expression, though his pulse quickened slightly. 

"No, he's a pilot. Not a soldier," he said, the words sharper than intended. The thought of Shoto and Bakugo in the same space, with his own unstable reactions to both, was a complication he didn't need. "Shoto's current assignment takes priority, and his history with the team would create unnecessary variables once integration is complete.”

Aizawa studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "If you're sure."

"I am." Izuku modulated his tone, bringing it back to professional neutrality. "We already have adequate alpha presence for balanced team dynamics. Adding another would create instability, especially given the team’s current makeup.”

"Understood. Though I trust you'll make the appropriate personnel decisions based on operational requirements," Aizawa didn't press further, though something in his expression suggested he was filing away Izuku's unusually strong reaction for future consideration. “In that case, regarding your integration timeline for Bakugo," Aizawa said as they reached the footbridge connecting the island to Virginia shore. "Command wants operational status within seventy-two hours."

"That's impossible," Izuku replied automatically. "Standard integration protocols require—"

"Nothing about this situation is standard." Aizawa's interruption was gentle but firm. "Whatever's happening, Bakugo is a key piece. Keeping him close may be our best chance of understanding the larger picture."

"You still want me to fast-track him." Izuku couldn't quite keep the disbelief from his voice. "After what happened at Walter Reed? When we still don't know why Stars was arrested or what she found?"

"I want you to do your job while I handle the diplomatic fallout of the current situation." Aizawa's tone shifted, taking on the edge that reminded Izuku exactly why this beta commanded respect from alphas who outranked him. "The Secretary of State and Director of National Intelligence are demanding daily briefings on the Walter Reed incident. The Joint Chiefs are threatening to pull J-SAP's operational autonomy if we can't demonstrate better internal security. And someone is systematically dismantling Stars' research network, piece by piece."

Izuku absorbed this, understanding the pressure Aizawa was under. The delicate balance of international intelligence cooperation, military accountability, and the shadow operations that fulfilled both. "You need me to keep Bakugo contained while you manage the political side."

"I need you to figure out why they want him on your team so badly," Aizawa corrected. "What makes him special enough that they fabricated evidence against one of our best operatives?"

Izuku absorbed this, strategic calculation overriding personal reservations. Aizawa was right—Bakugo's connection to Walter Reed, his enhanced capabilities, his convenient assignment all pointed to him being central to whatever Stars had uncovered.

"I'll need operational flexibility," he said finally. "No standard reporting protocols, no predetermined timelines. If he's as volatile as his file suggests—"

"You'll have whatever authority you need," Aizawa assured him. "Just get results—quickly.” He turned, boots already crunching gravel. “Whatever you uncover… whatever you choose to do with it, make it count. We might not get another chance."

They were approaching the footbridge that connected the island to the Virginia shore now, their walk coming to its natural conclusion. Aizawa paused, his gaze sweeping the area in a practiced motion that appeared casual but missed nothing.

"One last thing," he said, voice barely above a whisper now. "Your stabilizer supply. When did you last verify its composition?"

The question targeted the exact concern that had been growing in Izuku's mind since his stabilizer had faltered. "Standard verification was performed upon delivery. Why?"

"There have been reports of supply chain irregularities." Aizawa's expression gave nothing away, but his scent carried the subtle edge of concern beneath the beta neutrality. "Nothing conclusive, but enough to warrant caution, particularly for operatives with specialized formulations."

Supply chain irregularities. Possible tampering with his stabilizers. The information sent a cold wave through Izuku's system, even as he maintained his outward composure.

"I'll implement appropriate verification protocols," he said, the words steady despite the unease coiling in his gut. "Thank you for the heads-up."

"Of course." Aizawa adjusted his jacket, a casual motion that concealed the precise scan of their surroundings. "I need to get back for a video conference at Langley. The fallout from Walter Reed isn't going away anytime soon, and someone needs to keep the bureaucrats from making things worse."

The unspoken message was clear: Aizawa would handle the high-level political maneuvering while Izuku focused on the operational side. 

"Good luck with that," Izuku replied, the dry humor genuine despite the circumstances. "I've got integration preparations to start if we're accelerating the timeline."

Aizawa's expression softened slightly, a brief glimpse of the mentor behind the handler. "Watch yourself, Midoriya. Whatever's happening here goes beyond standard operational parameters. Stars was looking into something specific before she disappeared, something that scared the wrong people. And now they've put Bakugo in your path for reasons we don't yet fully understand."

"I'll be careful," Izuku promised, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested.

"See that you are." Aizawa held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once, a gesture that carried years of shared operations and mutual respect. "Report any unusual developments directly to me, not through standard channels. And Midoriya?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let your personal reactions to Bakugo cloud your judgment. We need clarity right now, not complications."

The pointed comment hit too close to home, but Izuku kept his expression neutral. "Understood."

The bridge carried them back toward the Virginia shore, the morning commuter traffic creating convenient cover for their parting. No extended farewells, no obvious signs of coordination—just two colleagues ending their morning walk and heading to separate destinations.

But as Aizawa disappeared into the Metro station, Izuku felt the weight of the devices in his pockets like lead. Stars' personal device and the security footage that Aizawa had risked his career to provide. Pieces of a puzzle that might finally explain the conspiracy that had cost Stars her freedom and threatened to consume them all.

The protests were visible even from the bridge approach, their chants rising from Georgetown as crowds confronted police barriers. Military vehicles positioned at strategic intersections, their presence a reminder of how quickly civil unrest could escalate to martial law.

Forty-eight hours to unlock Stars' research.

Seventy-two hours to integrate Bakugo into his team.

Izuku checked his watch, calculating timelines and contingencies. His apartment was twenty minutes by Metro, long enough to begin preliminary analysis of the intelligence materials. Stars' personal files might contain references to her research methodology, clues about what she'd discovered that had triggered such a massive response.

And then there was Bakugo himself. Dangerous and connected to events he might not fully understand. Integrating him would require careful management, balancing the need for information against the risk of exposure.

The suppressant patch at his neck throbbed again as he descended toward the Metro platform, a brief flutter in his system that made his senses surge with unwanted awareness. He forced his breathing to remain steady, his expression neutral despite the internal disruption.

Whatever was affecting his chemical balance, it was getting worse. The proximity to Bakugo had clearly triggered something, some biochemical reaction that his usual formulations couldn't contain. Another variable to manage, another potential vulnerability in an operation that couldn't afford weaknesses.

The train arrived, its doors opening to disgorge the usual mix of government workers and contractors beginning their day. Izuku found a seat near the back, positioning himself with clear sight-lines to both exits while his mind continued processing the morning's intelligence.

Stars' investigation had uncovered something vast enough to justify international coordination, sophisticated enough to require her elimination through legal channels rather than direct action. The Walter Reed massacre had provided cover for expanded surveillance authorities while eliminating research personnel who might have corroborated her findings.

And Bakugo was being placed directly under his supervision. Not random assignment but deliberate positioning, designed to serve purposes he didn't yet understand.

The train pulled into his station as Izuku shifted into mission planning mode. Forty-eight hours to crack Stars' research, seventy-two hours to manage Bakugo's integration. Time enough, if he moved quickly and avoided complications. 

Izuku exited the station, navigating the new reality of designation checkpoints and expanded security measures. All of the civilians unaware of the conspiracy unfolding around them, the scientific and political maneuvering that threatened to reshape the fundamental nature of their society. 

Stars had seen it, had tried to expose it, and had paid the price for her curiosity. Now it was Izuku's turn to follow the thread she'd pulled, to understand what she'd tried to uncover. And somewhere in that investigation, he would have to decide what to do about Katsuki Bakugo. 

The safe house door sealed behind Izuku with a soft pneumatic hiss, biometric locks engaging automatically as he pressed his palm to the scanner. The LED array flashed blue-white confirmation before settling into the steady amber glow that indicated full security protocols were active. The third cup of coffee had gone cold, forgotten amid the sprawl of classified documents littering Izuku's kitchen table. The wall clock ticked past 23:47, its steady rhythm mocking his fruitless efforts.

He cataloged the building's familiar sounds of surveillance equipment, the muffled conversation from the apartment two floors down where his elderly neighbor was arguing with someone about prescription costs. Normal baseline acoustic signatures. No electronic surveillance beyond his own systems.

Still safe.

The devices from Aizawa were on his kitchen table, forming a neat line beside his secure terminal as he passed back to his working station. Stars' personal hard drive, black with military-grade encryption. The security footage drive, smaller than a thumb but potentially containing weeks of surveillance data from her laboratory. Two pieces of a puzzle that might finally explain why she'd vanished into thin air.

He'd been working on them for three hours before he needed to step out to grab some dinner.

Izuku scrubbed a hand across his face, stubble rasping against his palm. He’d spent the rest of his day at the safe house trying to gleam any additional information, but after hours it felt like the walls were pressing in around him—the bland government-issue furniture and sterile white paint job doing nothing to dispel the growing sense of dread coiling in his gut. 

Stars wouldn't go silent like this. Not without any kind of warning. Not in the middle of an investigation this significant.

The red thread connecting documents on his makeshift investigation board trembled slightly under the air conditioning's artificial breath. Each connection represented hours of painstaking analysis, cross-referencing data points that the agency would prefer remained isolated. The pattern was there, faint but unmistakable, until Stars had discovered something that made her a target.

Outside, rain pattered against the windows in a gentle staccato, washing the streets of Arlington clean. Inside, Izuku's mind raced with violent urgency.

"Come on," he muttered, fingers flying across his keyboard as another decryption algorithm crashed against Stars' security protocols. The tablet's encryption was beyond anything he'd encountered, with layered quantum locks that seemed to evolve and adapt to each attempt at penetration. Military-grade security wrapped around civilian hardware, creating a digital fortress that laughed at his best tools.

The security footage wasn't much better. Multiple encryption layers, biometric verification requirements, and what appeared to be a dead-man's switch that would corrupt the data if too many unauthorized access attempts were detected. Stars had been paranoid about operational security, but this was beyond even her usual standards.

“Damnit,” he muttered, pushing back from his set up hard enough that his chair skidded across the hardwood floor. His coffee mug teetered at the sudden movement, dark liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim before settling.

He crossed to the window, peering through blinds at the rain-slicked street below. The nondescript sedan that had been parked there earlier was gone, but that didn't mean he wasn't being watched. The prickling sensation between his shoulder blades had persisted since his meeting with Aizawa in the park. Someone or some agency was keeping tabs on him, probably his team too, waiting to see what they’d do next.

The memory of that conversation churned in his gut. Aizawa had been helpful in his way, dropping breadcrumbs without explicitly acknowledging their existence. "What did she find that warranted this level of response from the US government?” The question had lingered between them, unanswered but all-encompassing.

Aizawa was helping, yes, but he was constrained by the system. Plausible deniability. Arms-length assistance. The devices he was given was a calculated risk on boss’ part, not active intervention.

If Aizawa wouldn't—or couldn't—take direct action, then the responsibility fell to Izuku. It always did.

His gaze drifted to the framed photograph on his otherwise barren bookshelf, one of the few personal items he permitted himself in this temporary space. His father stared back at him with the same green eyes Izuku saw in the mirror each morning, arm slung casually around the shoulders of a much younger Inko Midoriya. Their faces frozen in a moment of genuine happiness, captured six months before Dr. Hisashi Midoriya disappeared from that classified research facility in Hokkaido.

The official report had called it an accident, with MIA personnel. The rumors had said it was a lab explosion. Bodies too damaged for open-casket funerals. Fifteen dead in total, his father among them. But the government had never changed their story.

A car backfired somewhere in the distance, the sound triggering a cascade of memories. His mother's face, pale and drawn as she accepted the folded flag. The men in dark suits who lingered afterward, asking questions about Hisashi's research. The nightmares that plagued him for years, fire and screaming and the smell of burning flesh that had always seemed too real. The way his designation had presented early, triggered by traumatic stress according to the specialists. Too young to process the reality of death, too old to be shielded from its implications.

His secure terminal chimed with an incoming message. Hitoshi's response to the files he'd transmitted two hours ago:

No luck on the encryption for the hospital surveillance. Whatever she used, it's military-grade with adaptive protocols. Sending to Mei - she might have better luck with the hardware approach. This is beyond of my expertise. -H

Another dead end. Of course.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, frustration building like pressure behind his eyes. Every lead, every potential source of information, hitting dead ends and classified barriers. Stars had been missing for five days, and he was no closer to understanding why she'd been taken or what she'd discovered.

He stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked Arlington's suburban sprawl. The afternoon light was fading toward evening, shadows lengthening across the carefully manicured government housing. Somewhere out there, Stars was being held in whatever black site they'd disappeared her to. Somewhere out there, answers waited behind layers of classification and bureaucratic obstruction. And here he was, staring at encrypted files he couldn't crack. 

His last in-person conversation with Stars replayed in his mind, fragments piecing together like shattered glass.

"What I've pieced together suggests Project Genesis was focused on designation-based research far beyond anything publicly acknowledged," she had said, green eyes intense over the rim of her drink. "Not just studying designation biology, but actively working to enhance and potentially weaponize designation traits. The kind of research that crosses every ethical and legal boundary in the book."

“Who?” He’d countered, he wanted to know who might have been involved. 

Stars gaze had been direct, unflinching in her delivery of what she knew would be a personal blow as she slid a folder across the table. "Dr. Hisashi Midoriya. Your father.”

The folder had contained redacted research notes on genetics—designation expression, hormone regulation, neural pathway modification. Hisashi Midoriya's name appeared in footnotes, citations, acknowledgments. A ghost haunting the margins of classification reports.

"My father was an energy researcher," he'd said, even as doubt crept into his voice. "His work was focused on quantum energy sources, not designation modification."

"Officially, yes," Stars had tapped the folder. "But what I found suggests his classified work ventured into areas that were deliberately kept separate from his public research. The theoretical underpinnings of Project Genesis bear his unmistakable signature."

The memory clawed at him now, demanding attention. His father, the energy researcher. His father, the geneticist? His father, the ghost behind redacted lines.

Izuku turned from the window, decision forming. If the system wouldn't provide answers, he'd find them himself. First Stars' apartment. Then the lab she'd mentioned. Then Captain Bakugo himself. One way or another.

The investigation board he'd assembled on his living room wall mocked him with its red thread connections. Photos, documents, printed emails, news clippings—all connected by string in patterns that suggested conspiracy without the necessary proof. Stars' arrest photo in the center, surrounded by satellite images of Walter Reed, personnel files for the murdered researchers, incident reports from the designation attacks that had been used to justify the Enhanced Security Protocols Act.

And in one corner, almost as an afterthought, a grainy photo of his father from fifteen years ago. Dr. Hisashi Midoriya, energy researcher, body supposedly never recovered after an accident at a classified facility in Hokkaido. The same facility that had been conducting research into designation enhancement. The same research that Stars had been investigating when she disappeared.

Too many coincidences. Too many connections that shouldn't exist. And at the center of it all, a conspiracy that touched his family in ways he still didn’t understand.

His hands shook slightly as he reached for another stabilizer dose, the tremor barely visible but impossible to ignore. He'd increased the frequency to every four hours after the warehouse incident with Bakugo, the memory of his system's chaotic response still fresh in his mind. But it had only been two and a half hours since the last injection, and already he could feel the edges of his control beginning to fray. 

The responses that had been artificially suppressed since his teens, threatening to surface whenever the stabilizer levels dropped. He didn’t want to think about the way his body seemed to crave the chemical stability more and more frequently.

Just this week. To maintain operational readiness.

The injector hissed against his thigh, delivering its payload with clinical efficiency. The relief was immediate—heartbeat steadying, breathing evening out, the subtle anxiety that had been building in his chest dissolving like morning fog.

Better. Much better.

His phone buzzed against the table surface. A message from an encrypted number he didn't recognize: 

Your friend had interesting taste in security protocols. Give me 24 hours. - M

Mei. Hitoshi had passed the files to their tech specialist, the woman whose reputation for breaking impossible encryption had made her a legend in certain circles. If anyone could crack Stars' security measures, it would be her. Twenty-four hours. Time enough to pursue other leads, to prepare for whatever information the files might contain. Time enough to ask questions he'd been avoiding for fifteen years.

The thought took hold with uncomfortable clarity as he stared at his father's photo on the investigation board. Stars had mentioned his father's name in connection with designation research, had implied connections to something called Project Genesis that went far beyond his supposed work in energy systems. 

What had Stars found that was worth disappearing her for? What connection existed between all of this covert research and his father's work? Why was Bakugo suddenly the focus of high-level attention?

Izuku’s couldn’t quiet his mind as he began his mission prep ritual with an equipment check—methodical inventory of assets, capabilities, and operational requirements. His bedroom became a staging area as he laid out gear, each piece serving specific purposes in the infiltration he was planning.

He crossed to the closet, retrieving the false back panel that concealed his field equipment. The weight of his tactical harness felt comforting in its familiarity as he laid it on the bed, followed by his specialized body armor. Lightweight but capable of stopping most conventional rounds. A necessary precaution given what had happened to Stars.

His Glock-19 came next, disassembled with practiced efficiency. Each component gleamed under his hands as he cleaned the barrel, checked the firing pin, verified the action. The repetitive task allowed his mind to slip into tactical planning mode, calculating angles of approach, extraction routes, contingency plans.

Izuku’s backup weapon of choice was a Micro 9 gun, slim enough to conceal in an ankle holster. Two extra magazines for each. His favorite combat knife, carbon steel with a serrated back edge. Specialized zip ties that would hold any enhanced individuals. Tactical flashlight. Comm unit that would connect him to Hitoshi if things went sideways.

His movements were automatic, muscle memory built over thousands of similar preparations. Each item placed precisely, ritual becoming comfort in its predictability. The physical routine anchored him as his thoughts continued their frenetic race. He tried to assemble the puzzle pieces as methodically as he reassembled his sidearm, searching for the pattern that would make sense of it all. 

Stars had been investigating designation research and anomalies. Advanced technology. Genetic modification research. Research programs that pushed beyond standard legal parameters. And then she had stumbled onto something. Something that she claimed might be connected to his father.

Izuku paused, the barrel of his Glock hovering above the frame. The pieces weren't fitting. There were still crucial pieces missing.

His eyes drifted to his comm unit. It was nearly midnight in DC. That made it noon tomorrow in Tokyo. His mother would be having lunch, probably grading papers at her kitchen table. The habit had remained unchanged since she'd returned to university teaching after... everything.

The thought formed before he could dismiss it. His mother. The widow who had never quite accepted the official explanation of her husband's death. The woman who had raised a son to question everything, even as she encouraged his entry into government service.

Did she know more than she had ever said?

The question lodged itself in his chest like a splinter, impossible to ignore once acknowledged. In fifteen years of service, he had only once used his clearance to investigate his father's death to no avail. Had since maintained the careful separation between personal history and professional duty. Had respected his mother's desire to leave the past where it lay.

But if Stars' research was correct, if his father's name was appearing in designation research databases...

The gun he cleaned snapped back together with a satisfying click. Decision made.

He activated his encryption protocols, rerouting his signal through seventeen different nodes to mask the origin. The comm unit's screen glowed softly in the dimly lit room as he entered the familiar number—not his mother's civilian line, but the secure channel she had maintained since Hisashi's days at the research facility that made conversations untraceable even to the most sophisticated surveillance systems.

The call connected after three rings.

"Izuku?" His mother's voice carried clearly despite the distance and encryption, warm with surprise. "This is unexpected. It's quite late there, isn't it?"

“Yes, but it’s no problem for me,” he said, standing beside his communication station. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

"Just grading papers. These students seem to think citations excuse poor analysis." The fond exasperation in her tone was familiar, comforting in its normalcy. "How are you, sweetheart? You sound tired."

He was tired. Bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue, the kind that came from chasing shadows and hitting dead ends. The kind that made him reach for stabilizer doses more frequently than the schedule recommended.

"I'm fine. Just working late." He laid out his remaining tactical gear as he spoke, the automatic movements providing counterpoint to the conversation. "How's Tokyo?"

"Rainy. The cherry blossoms are early this year," she said, and he could picture her at her kitchen table, surrounded by papers, looking out at the garden she tended too. "Your aunt was asking about you. I told her about our last dinner and how you were still with the diplomatic corps."

The cover story they had maintained for years. His mother knew better, of course, but the fiction allowed them both comfortable distance from reality.

"Please give her my best," he said, slipping a magazine into his Glock and setting it aside. "Mom, I..." He hesitated, searching for the right approach. "I've been reviewing some things lately, and something interesting came up…About Dad's work."

The silence that followed was perhaps a half-second too long. When Inko spoke again, her voice had lost some of its casual warmth.

"What about your father's work, dear?"

"I was reviewing some historical documents. Old research papers, declassified project summaries." The lie came smoothly, honed by years of necessary deception. "Dad's name appeared in some contexts I wasn't expecting."

"Such as?" The question was carefully neutral, but he caught the subtle shift in her tone.

"Biological applications of energy research. Neural stimulation studies. Some papers mentioned consultation work on designation-specific projects." He kept his voice conversational. "I thought his work was focused on energy and quantum storage.”

"It was." Her response came quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Your father's primary research was always energy production and storage. Clean power systems, sustainable technology development."

"But he did consulting work on biological applications?” Izuku pressed gently. "Medical uses of electromagnetic field manipulation? Neural pathway stimulation? What about those sorts of things…”

Another pause, longer this time. He could picture her in her town-home, moving to the window that overlooked her terrace, the place she went when conversations became difficult.

"Your father was brilliant, Izuku. His expertise in energy systems led to consultation requests from many different fields." The words were carefully chosen, each one measured. "Medical applications, agricultural research, even some military projects. That's how consulting work functions, you apply your knowledge to problems outside your primary field."

The explanation was reasonable, logical. Exactly what he'd expect from someone with nothing to hide. But something in her tone, the careful way she phrased each sentence, suggested layers beneath the surface.

Now or never.

"Did he ever mention something called Project Genesis to you?"

The pause that followed was definitive. Too long, too weighted with unspoken implications.

"I don't recall that name specifically," Inko said finally. "Your father worked on many classified projects over the years. The names often overlapped or changed during development."

She's lying. The thought came unbidden, striking him with uncomfortable certainty. Not outright deception, but careful omission. The kind of non-answer that revealed information through what it didn't say.

“I haven’t been able to review it first-hand, but the notes I have been reviewing suggests some pretty advanced work on designation biology," he continued, testing her reactions. "Neural pathway modification, pheromone response enhancement, genetic expression alteration. Dad's theoretical frameworks appear in several papers on those topics."

"Theoretical frameworks can be applied to many different purposes," his mother replied, her voice taking on the patient tone she used when explaining complex concepts to her students. "Your father's work on energy field interactions with biological systems had legitimate medical applications. Pain management, neural stimulation therapy, treatment for hormonal imbalances."

All true. All perfectly reasonable. All carefully avoiding the darker implications of such research when applied in a more sinister light. 

"Mom," he said carefully, "was Dad ever concerned about how his research was being used? Did he ever express doubts about the programs he was consulting on?"

This time the pause was unmistakable. Several heartbeats of silence that spoke volumes about carefully maintained secrets.

"Your father was a careful man," Inko said finally. "He took his ethical responsibilities seriously. If he had concerns about any project, he would have addressed them through proper channels."

Proper channels. The phrase that meant nothing in the world of classified research, where oversight existed only on paper and ethical considerations were secondary to national security imperatives.

"But he never mentioned specific concerns to you," Izuku pressed. "Nothing about Genesis or designation research or potential misuse of his theoretical work."

"Izuku." His mother's voice carried a warning now, the subtle steel that had raised a son alone while maintaining secrets that could destabilize governments. "Why are you asking these questions? After all these years, why does any of this matter?"

The directness of the question caught him off-guard. He'd been so focused on extracting information that he'd forgotten his mother's own intelligence, her ability to read between the lines of their conversation.

"I'm working a case that involves historical designation research," he said, falling back on professional explanations. "Someone I work with has been investigating connections between current enhancement programs and earlier theoretical work. Dad's name came up on a couple of things that surprised me."

"And this someone you work with, they are trustworthy?" The maternal instinct bleeding through her careful composure. Even after his fifteen years in intelligence work, Inko Midoriya was still primarily a mother concerned for her son's safety.

"She was." The past tense slipped out before he could catch it.

"Was?" Inko's voice sharpened immediately. "Izuku, what's happened?"

The weight of the past week settled on his shoulders like a physical burden. Stars' disappearance, the Walter Reed massacre, the growing sense that he was being maneuvered by forces he couldn't identify or understand.

"She's missing, Mom. Arrested on charges that don't make sense, transported to a facility that officially doesn't exist." The words tasted bitter. "Someone wanted her disappeared, not just detained."

The silence that followed was different, not hesitation, but careful consideration. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, the yawning darkness below threatening to swallow him whole.

"And you think this connects to your father's work," she said finally. Not a question but a statement of understanding.

"I think someone has been covering up the true nature of designation research for an unknown amount of time, if not decades,” Izuku replied, the theory taking shape as he spoke. "I think Dad's work was used for purposes he never intended, and when people start asking questions about it, they disappear."

"That's a very serious accusation, Izuku." His mother's voice carried warning and worry in equal measure. "The kind that puts you at risk if the wrong people hear it."

"I'm already at risk." He breathed through the momentary spike of frustration, forcing his voice to remain steady. "I need to know, Mom. Was Dad working on genetics? On designation enhancement? Was that what got him killed?" The last part was speculation, but saying it aloud made the connection feel more real. 

Another pause. Longer this time. 

"Your father was a good man, Izuku," Inko said finally. "Whatever you think you've discovered, whatever connections you're making—remember that. He was trying to help people."

It wasn't an answer. It was deflection wrapped in maternal reassurance, the kind of non-response that revealed everything while saying nothing. She knew more. Much more than she was admitting. But for reasons he couldn't fathom, she was choosing to maintain the same silence that had protected his father's secrets for years.

"I should let you get back to your grading," he said, recognizing the futility of pressing further. "Thanks for listening, Mom."

"Izuku." Her voice carried sudden urgency. "Be careful. Whatever case you're working, whatever connections you're investigating—some knowledge comes with prices that can't be calculated in advance."

"Thanks, Mom," he said finally, the warning was clear enough. "I'll be careful."

"No, you won't." There was a resigned affection in her voice now. "You're your father's son in that regard. Just... try not to be reckless. Call me when you can."

"I will." He hesitated, then added, "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, sweetheart." Her voice softened as the connection terminated. His mother's final words hanging in the air like smoke. His mother knew more about his father's work than she'd ever admitted. But he couldn’t tell if she was trying to protect him through ignorance, maintaining plausible deniability that might keep him safe if the worst happened.

The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it left him feeling more isolated than ever.

Izuku sat motionless for several long moments, absorbing the implications of their conversation. His mother hadn't explicitly confirmed his father's involvement, but her warnings spoke volumes. Whatever Project Genesis was, it had been worth killing for years ago. Worth disappearing Stars for now.

And he had a hunch that somehow, Bakugo was connected to it all.

Energy surged through him, the fog of fatigue burned away by renewed purpose. He returned to his equipment, movements sharper now, driven by something beyond professional duty. Stars wasn't just a colleague. She was one of the closest things he had to a friend in this isolated life he'd carved out. And if her disappearance connected to his father's death, if the same shadowy forces were at work...

He moved to stand before his investigation board, studying the connections that seemed more complex with each passing hour. Stars' disappearance at the center—radiating outward to Walter Reed, Project Genesis, his father's research, Bakugo's enhanced capabilities. He needed to understand what she'd discovered before any federal agents cracked her security measures and seized whatever evidence remained.

The rain continued its gentle patter against the windows, a soothing counterpoint to the storm brewing inside him. The intersection of his personal history and professional duty he had so carefully avoided for years now loomed unavoidable before him.

His hand strayed to his sidearm, finding comfort in its solid weight. His omega designation had marked him for intelligence work from the beginning, but Izuku had pushed beyond those parameters, refused to be confined by designation stereotypes. Had forged himself into something that defied easy classification. Something that made even hardened alphas step carefully around him.

Izuku’s combat knife gleamed under the apartment's harsh lighting as he tested its edge against his thumb. Sharp enough to split skin with minimal pressure. He slid it into its sheath with a satisfying click. His tactical watch displayed 0023. A little after midnight, and over two hours until the guard rotation at Stars' townhouse would create the window he needed. 

Just enough time to finalize recon.

Izuku unrolled a physical map of Georgetown on the kitchen table, tracing potential approach routes with his finger. The electronic surveillance he'd detected around Stars' residence would be easy enough to bypass, but the human elements required more careful planning. 

He reviewed the map of Stars' laboratory, located in a converted warehouse in Georgetown, surrounded by the kind of mixed commercial and residential development that provided both cover and complications. Building plans downloaded from city archives showed the basic structure, but he'd need to map the current security modifications in real-time. 

Satellite imagery revealed recent construction—additional HVAC units that might conceal surveillance equipment, modified windows that suggested armored glass, discrete antenna arrays that could be communication hubs or electronic warfare installations. The kind of fortress designed to protect valuable secrets.

He pulled up the security footage he'd managed to obtain from traffic cameras in the area, studying patrol patterns and timing rotations. Two-person teams at each intersection, roving patrols every eighteen minutes, aerial surveillance on irregular intervals that averaged once per hour. Excessive security for a simple research laboratory, but consistent with protecting a facility that contained evidence of they didn’t want any one to find.

Assuming that Stars discovered something.

The assumption felt solid, supported by everything he'd learned about black box programs so far. Programs that were worth killing to protect.

Izuku's finger traced the route he would take across the map. Tunnels underground through the park and main streets. Across the rooftops to the townhome. Then down through the skylight that Stars had insisted on installing despite security recommendations against it. The path of least resistance, avoiding detection grids and human surveillance.

He would find what they were looking for before they did. Would piece together the puzzle that had claimed Stars and, years earlier, maybe his father. 

The tactical harness fit like a second skin, each piece of equipment positioned for optimal access and weight distribution. The armor plates added bulk but not significant restriction—he'd trained in similar gear for years, knew how to move silently despite the additional mass.

Mirror inspection revealed what he needed to see: a professional operative prepared for hostile insertion. No visible weapons, no obvious armor, just the appearance of someone who belonged in Georgetown's trendy commercial district. The kind of camouflage that made surveillance teams look past him toward more obvious threats.

His tactical watch beeped softly. Time to move.

The rain continued pattering against reinforced windows with irregular rhythm. Perfect weather for covert operations—natural sound dampening, reduced visibility, civilian population staying indoors. The kind of conditions that gave him a slight advantage for this infiltration.

Stars was counting on him. His father's memory demanded answers. And somewhere in the tangled web of classified research hidden behind encrypted files and armed guards, answers awaited that would make sense of it all. Izuku activated his secure terminal one final time, sending a carefully worded message to his team: 

Pursuing additional leads. Maintain normal schedules. Contact only for emergencies.

Not quite a lie, but not the complete truth either. They would understand though, he was operating in gray areas that required plausible deniability for everyone involved. Izuku stood, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had built during his preparation. One by one, he checked his weapons, his equipment, his comms one final time. Each item verified and secured in its proper place.

The investigation board watched him from across the room, his father's photo seemed to meet his eyes, smile frozen in time. The scientist who had been disappeared by people or secret programs that were now threatening his son.

I'll find the truth, he promised silently. 

Then he moved toward the door, the rain welcoming him as he stepped into the night, cool drops striking his face like a baptism. The hunt was beginning.

The maintenance tunnel beneath Georgetown's historic district smelled of stagnant water and decades of urban decay. Izuku moved through the darkness with practiced silence, his night vision contacts transforming the pitch black into electric green clarity. Each movement on the slick concrete was precise, to avoid the telltale splash that would echo through the subterranean passages.

His tactical watch displayed 0214 in soft amber numerals. The Georgetown security patrol would be switching shifts in exactly three minutes, creating the window he needed. Everything choreographed to the second, the way successful infiltrations demanded.

The all-black tactical suit absorbed what little ambient light filtered through occasional storm grates overhead. The reinforced material hugged his form, lightweight ballistic fabric that could stop most conventional rounds while maintaining the flexibility essential for covert operations. The ballistic mask concealing his features recirculated his measured breathing, keeping his exhaled vapor from betraying his position in the cold tunnel air.

Three blocks to go.

He moved like a feline, making no sound on the damp concrete. The weight of his suppressed gun against his thigh was reassuring, a constant companion in uncertain territory. The combat knife strapped to him offered a silent alternative if things went sideways.

Izuku reached a junction where modern maintenance tunnels intersected with older brick passages, remnants of Prohibition-era smuggling routes that honeycombed Georgetown's underground. Stars had mentioned these passages in passing, a network that allowed movement beneath the constantly surveilled surface world.

"The city above is always watched, Izuku. The city below remembers secrets."

Her voice echoed in his memory as he consulted the mental map constructed from historical records and her offhand comments over the years. Left would take him toward the river. Right would lead to the access point he needed. He turned right, ducking slightly to avoid the lower ceiling of the older passage before seeing the access point straight ahead, where a maintenance ladder would deliver him into the blind spot between surveillance cameras.

The brick tunnel narrowed, forcing him into a crouch as water dripped somewhere in the darkness ahead, the steady plink-plink-plink unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. He could feel his heartbeat thump with adrenaline as he approached his exit point, cataloging potential threats. No unexpected heat signatures. No electronic frequencies that might indicate surveillance equipment. Just the distant rumble of late-night traffic and the whisper of his own controlled breathing.

0217. The patrol handover would have begun. Time to move.

The access ladder appeared exactly where historical maps indicated, rusted rungs leading up to a heavy maintenance cover. Izuku ascended with fluid, quick moments, pausing just below street level to activate his thermal scanner. The heads-up display flickered to life in his mask, revealing heat signatures above.

Two figures at the intersection to his east, the new patrol taking position. No one directly overhead. Perfect.

He lifted the cover just enough to verify the physical environment matched his intel. The narrow alley remained empty, shadowed by the bulk of adjacent buildings. Surveillance cameras on the main street angled away, creating the gap he'd identified during his recon prep work.

Izuku emerged from below like a ghost, sliding the cover back into place without a sound. The night air felt crisp after the stale dampness of the tunnels, carrying traces of autumn leaves and distant rain. He flattened against the nearest wall, allowing his senses to adjust to the new environment.

Stars' townhouse stood three buildings away, elegant red brick distinctive even in shadow. Through the front windows, he could see the subtle glow of the federal investigation team inside, methodically combing through her research materials.

Wasting their time on the obvious hiding places.

His gaze tracked upward, assessing the route he’d planned. The adjacent building offered a fire escape that would provide roof access. From there, a narrow gap to the next structure, then controlled descent to Stars' own rooftop. The skylight would grant entry, exactly as she'd intended when insisting on its installation despite some obvious concerns. 

Izuku scaled the fire escape in seconds, specialized gloves finding purchase on damp metal. The structure creaked once beneath his weight, a soft protest that sent his pulse spiking momentarily. He froze, listening intently, but the patrol at the corner showed no reaction. After three measured breaths, he continued upward.

Georgetown spread below him from the rooftop vantage point, a tapestry of historic architecture masked by modern security infrastructure. From this elevation, the surveillance network's pattern became clear—cameras positioned at strategic intersections, patrol routes maintaining constant coverage, the quiet pulse of a security state operating beneath the nose of civilian life.  

The gap to the next roof measured exactly 2.7 meters, an easy jump for someone with his conditioning. Izuku backed up three steps, centered his weight, then propelled himself forward. His landing was soundless, impact absorbed through proper weight distribution and an immediate roll that dissipated any remaining momentum.

One more building to traverse. 

This jump required landing on a sloped surface, but Izuku navigated it with practiced ease, specialized boots finding purchase on the angled roofing material. Finally, Stars' townhouse lay directly ahead. The skylight appeared as a geometric outline against darker roofing, exactly matching the building plans. He approached with extreme caution, scanning for security measures that might have been added since his intelligence gathering.

The rooftop appeared clear, but experience had taught him to trust nothing. He withdrew a specialized scanner from his tactical vest, sweeping it across the skylight's perimeter. The device vibrated once, indicating an electronic security system. Standard for government housing, but with modifications that bore Stars' distinctive touch.

The bypass sequence required ninety seconds of careful work, during which Izuku remained acutely aware of his exposure. Any aerial surveillance would spot him immediately against the dark roofing. His thermal dampening gear would reduce his signature, but not eliminate it entirely.

After another moment, the security system yielded with a soft electronic chirp. The skylight's locking mechanism disengaged, allowing him to lift the glass panel enough to slip a flexible endoscopic camera beneath it. The interior appeared empty with no movement, no heat signatures, just the ghostly green outlines of furniture in night vision.

Izuku extracted a glass-cutting tool from his vest, creating a perfect circle large enough to reach through and fully disengage the interior latch. Then he carefully removed the cut section, setting it aside on the roof. The opening now allowed him to reach the internal handle, releasing the skylight's hinges. He quickly set up and descended on a tactical line, boots touching down on hardwood without a sound. 

Stars' study materialized around him in night vision—bookshelves lined with technical volumes, a desk positioned for optimal natural light, walls adorned with framed commendations and advanced degrees. The air felt stale, undisturbed. The federal team must have already processed this room, evident from subtle disarray and the faint chemical smell of fingerprint powder. They'd found nothing significant here, which meant Stars had hidden her true research elsewhere.

Izuku checked his watch: 0226. Approximately fifteen minutes before the patrol would circle back to this position.

He moved silently through the space, cataloging each detail. In the kitchen, takeout containers from five days ago fossilized in their abandonment, the coffee mug on the countertop. The bathroom showed signs of interrupted routine, a single earring caught in the shower drain, toothbrush left on the counter rather than in its usual holder. To untrained eyes, it might appear Stars was simply a messy researcher who'd stepped out temporarily.

But Izuku recognized the signs of interruption, of a life suddenly halted mid-motion.

Then he found the first concrete clue. A spice rack mounted on the wall, each container labeled in Stars' handwriting. But three labels were subtly different, with lettering that was marginally bolder, and alignment off by degrees that would be invisible to casual observation.

Oregano. Basil. Thyme.

Recognition dawned. Not herbs. Locations. O.B.T.—the Operations Base Trinity protocol for emergency data storage.

The pantry door whispered open under his touch, revealing shelves of meticulously organized supplies. His attention focused immediately on the floorboards beneath, where subtle wood grain variation indicated modification. He knelt, fingers finding the pressure point that triggered the release mechanism.

The hidden panel slid aside with hydraulic release, revealing narrow stairs descending into darkness. Stars' private research space, the laboratory that wasn’t recorded in any building records. Cool air rose from below, carrying antiseptic scents of a controlled lab environment. Izuku's night vision adjusted automatically as he descended, revealing a space that contradicted the historic architecture above.

The underground laboratory was thoroughly modern with stainless steel countertops, advanced research equipment, climate-controlled storage units. A facility designed for privacy and precision, the kind that definitely wasn’t authorized beneath residential Georgetown. Emergency lighting cast everything in amber hues, suggesting the power had been deliberately isolated from the main home’s systems.

The space hummed with quiet efficiency, some research processes apparently continuing despite Stars' absence. Centrifuge units rotated with mechanical whirring. Environmental controls maintained perfect atmospheric conditions. Whatever Stars had been working on, it remained active, waiting.

A whiteboard dominated the far wall, covered in Stars' distinctive handwriting. Formulas, diagrams, genetic sequences his scientific training recognized as designation-specific markers. Izuku approached the workstation, noting the data terminal's blinking LED warnings. Someone had attempted to wipe it, not professionally, but thoroughly enough to erase surface data. The kind of hasty deletion that left recoverable fragments for those with proper tools.

Fortunately, Izuku hadn't come unprepared. From his tactical pack, he extracted a portable data recovery scanner that was classified JSDF technology roughly the size of a paperback book. It unfolded into connected panels that he arranged around the terminal's processing unit with practiced ease.

As the scanner powered up with soft blue illumination, Izuku examined the laboratory more closely. The layout followed standard bio-containment protocols, but with cutting-edge modifications. Advanced protein synthesizers, quantum storage arrays, neural pathway mapping equipment that exceeded anything in readily available for official military specifications.

And in the center of it all, a vault-like structure that definitely hadn't appeared on any building schematics.

The vault stood roughly chest-high, its surface a seamless blend of titanium alloy and quantum-encrypted glass. No visible locks or handles, just a touch-display panel showing three concentric rings of glyphs that pulsed with soft blue light. The kind of security that required specific knowledge to bypass.

The data recovery scanner beeped softly, signaling completion. Izuku's eyes narrowed as he reviewed the recovered metadata:

FILE PATH FRAGMENT: .../projects/genesis_echo/trilock_vanguard.secure

GPS COORDINATES: 42.3601°N, 71.0942°W

ENCRYPTION PROTOCOL: TRINITY_GUARDIAN_V2

GUARDIAN_SEQUENCE: [VANGUARD] [PHANTOM] [ELYSIUM]

Trinity Lock encryption, a methodology so complex it required three physically separate keys to reconstruct. Cross-referencing with the metadata he'd already recovered, the pieces began to align. One here in DC, one at the coordinates location, but "Elysium" remained cryptic, suggesting some different storage type or location.

What the hell did you find, Stars?

Izuku turned his attention to the vault, studying the glyph patterns with tactical curiosity. The rings appeared to be positional locks, requiring specific sequences to align properly. The outer ring contained symbols resembling DNA helix pairs. The middle ring showed neural pathway diagrams. The inner ring displayed what appeared to be quantum encryption keys. All three needed to align correctly to access whatever lay inside.

Working from the recovered file fragments, Izuku began inputting the sequence. Each symbol clicked into place with satisfying precision, the rings rotating with mechanical perfection. As the final glyph aligned, the vault's central lock hissed open with a sound like escaping pressure.

Inside, illuminated by a single blue spotlight, rested a hexagonal device roughly the size of a ping pong ball. Its faceted surface hummed with barely contained energy, quantum encryption protocols dancing beneath the transparent casing. Microscopic runes traced the edges, etched with precision that suggested extremely advanced manufacturing, beyond any current technological capabilities.

The device bore a single label stamped into its base: "VANGUARD."

Sophisticated biometric scanners were integrated into the device's surface. As Izuku lifted it carefully, the scanners activated automatically, bathing his hands in soft blue radiance. He pressed his thumb against the primary scanner, watching as a light danced beneath his skin for the authentication sequence, with holographic displays materializing above the device's surface.

AUTHENTICATION PHASE 1: MIDORIYA, I. – GENETIC VERIFIED

NEURAL PATTERN: CONFIRMED

DESIGNATION STATUS: PRIME OMEGA – STABILIZED

INITIATING NEURAL HANDSHAKE PROTOCOL...

AWAITING SECONDARY DESIGNATE AUTHORIZATION...

AUTHENTICATION PHASE 2: STANDBY

The display pulsed gently, waiting for a second biometric signature. A neural handshake that required both his bio-authentication and that of someone else, someone he assumed was Stars herself or a proxy she had designated. A soft chime echoed in the laboratory as the device settled into standby mode. The authentication remained incomplete, Vanguard's secrets locked away until the mysterious second signature could be provided. 

Izuku secured Vanguard in his tactical vest, its weight somehow heavier than its physical mass suggested. The device hummed against his chest, quantum encryption maintaining its locked state until the neural handshake could be completed. Although, Izuku didn’t have a clue for how Stars intended that to happen with her arrest.

A soft sound from above froze him in place. It wasn’t the heavy footfalls of the security team, but something lighter, more controlled. The sound came again, deliberate movement across the old hardwood floors. Someone else was in the townhouse. Someone trying to be silent but not quite succeeding against the historic building's telling acoustics. 

Izuku's body shifted to combat readiness instantly, moving toward the stairs with predatory silence. The suppressed Glock slid into his hand without conscious thought as he positioned himself at the staircase base, using angles to minimize visibility from above. His fingers found the lab's environmental control panel, executing a fifteen-minute override on the motion sensors. 

Enough time to take care of this guy if things went south. 

The thermal scanner activated, showing a heat signature moving through the kitchen toward the pantry. Human. Alone. The profile suggested tactical gear similar to his own, heat-dampening but not completely effective at close range. The signature paused at the pantry door. Discovery was imminent. Izuku retreated deeper into the laboratory, seeking defensive position behind the central workstation. Partial cover while maintaining sightlines to the staircase entrance.

 The space was dominated by dormant storage arrays casting everything in muted blue illumination, their indicator lights creating a maze of shifting shadows perfect for concealed movement. He tracked the heat signature as it entered the pantry from his position. Found the hidden entrance. Began descending with tactical caution that spoke of professional training.

Izuku's finger rested lightly against the trigger, breathing controlled to minimize movement. First visual contact would determine his response, since clearly hostile gear and weapons meant immediate engagement. Uncertainty meant waiting for confirming behavior. Then a shadow appeared at the staircase base, male profile based on broader shoulders. Combat stance indicating military training. And in his hand, the unmistakable outline of a suppressed handgun.

Threat assessment: hostile.

The figure seemed to take in their surroundings, then slowly began to move into the laboratory proper. Izuku took a deep breath before he struck, emerging from behind the storage array like smoke given form, the blue glow fracturing around his black tactical suit. The intruder spun toward him with inhuman reflexes, launching a strike aimed directly at Izuku's helmet visor.

But Izuku absorbed the blow with the reinforced fabric at his forearms, though the impact still sent shock waves through his bones. Enhanced strength. Definitely not standard. He slid his palm along the intruder's wrist, redirecting the force rather than meeting it head-on, but even deflected, the power behind the strike was alarming.

"Federal agent," the intruder growled, voice distorted through what sounded like a tactical mask similar to Izuku's own. "Drop your weapon."

Bullshit. Hand-to-hand combat erupted immediately, both demonstrating advanced close-quarter techniques. Izuku punched and delivered combos to strike for nerve clusters, seeking to disable rather than kill, now that interrogation was an option. But his opponent countered with matched speed, recognizing and deflecting his specialized attacks. 

They grappled across the laboratory floor, each seeking the dominant position. The intruder was strong, stronger than even his frame suggested, musculature characteristic of an alpha. Each strike carried destructive potential. Each block required perfect timing. But Izuku was a second too late before he felt a rib crack under a vicious blow, pain register delayed as he countered with an elbow strike to the opponent's solar plexus, feeling satisfying impact of compressed diaphragm. The intruder wheezed but recovered with unnatural quickness, although their breathing was heavier.

They separated in the flickering light, circling each other in assessment. No shots had been fired, sound discipline remained paramount as both masks remained in place, obscuring identity but not lethal intent. Both recognized the deadly capability they faced.

"Who sent you?" Izuku demanded, voice calm and quiet despite the exertion.

The intruder didn't respond verbally, just launched a new offensive, a complex combination of strikes designed to overwhelm. Izuku recognized elements of military close-combat systems blended with what appeared to be specialized assassination techniques. Izuku noted the subtle feints, the way patterns never repeated, always baiting reactions before exploiting new openings. This was no common operative.

He parried the assault, using momentum to create openings for his own attacks. A knee strike connected with the intruder's thigh, targeted impact designed to deaden muscle temporarily. The man grunted but adjusted stance to compensate, pivoting into a roundhouse kick that would have taken Izuku's head off if he hadn't ducked at the last possible moment.

The kick connected with a laboratory cabinet instead, the intruder's reinforced boot leaving a sizable dent in metal casing. The intruder backed Izuku toward a support truss wrapped in acoustic foam. He feinted high, drawing Izuku's guard up, then pivoted to lock Izuku’s arm and slam him into the padded steel. The impact was muted by the foam but jarred Izuku's ribs harder than expected. He rolled free, shaking off the stabbing pain in his side as his opponent pressed the advantage. 

The strobing effect created disorientation, shadows leaping with each pulse. Izuku used it to advantage, changing position during blackouts, each blackout giving him a split-second to maintain unpredictability. But his opponent seemed equally adept, matching tactical adjustments with uncanny precision of someone who was sure of its kill. Whenever Izuku tried to loop behind him, the intruder pivoted, head turning with uncanny awareness even in darkness.

Still, Izuku refused to slow. In a jagged blur, he leapt forward during a blackout, his hand slamming a fist into the valve of a small cryogenic tank anchored to a nearby workbench. Instantly, frigid vapor hissed out in a roiling cloud, cloaking them in a sheet of white that swallowed light and sound. 

He hit the mist like a ghost, moving between invisible landmarks he’d memorized in the facility’s blueprints. A crouch here, a sidestep there. The vapor curled around his boots, giving him neither purchase nor traction—yet his shoes found micro-fissures in the epoxy floor, letting him pivot so fast it felt like he bent on a blade’s edge. He launched a rapid barrage of palm strikes: one to the solar plexus, another under the ribs, fingertips collapsing cartilage at nerve clusters. Then, just as the intruder tried to pull back, Izuku’s fist cracked against a helmet. There was no satisfying crunch, only a sharp snap of impact, and the masked head jerked violently as if it had been tethered by a cable.

But the triumph was immediate and fleeting. The second the helmet jerked, the intruder’s leg shot out in a low, predatory sweep that caught Izuku’s calf. He went down hard—knees collapsing under the sudden shift—his torso pitching forward. The biting cryo-fog dissipated around them, revealing a tableau of swirling powder and rising sparks from a ruptured containment line nearby. The intruder pivoted, sliding low, and swept Izuku’s feet out from under him. In one fluid movement, he grabbed Izuku’s arm, twisted, and flung him across the floor like a ragdoll.

Gravity yanked Izuku’s breath out of his lungs as his back collided with a patch of foam insulation. Pain bloomed along his spine, hot and electric. Instinctively, he curled, absorbing the impact on his forearms before his shoulders met the cold tile. The world snapped back into focus as the mist finally cleared—revealing the intruder still standing, untouched, the mask’s visor reflecting the blue glow of the quantum arrays behind him. There was no hesitation in that stance; no sign of fatigue. Only the certainty of someone who believed the fight was already won.

Gasping for air, Izuku rolled to his feet. Each inhale was a rasping hiss, each exhale a promise of return. The lower half of his visor spider-webbed from the collision, glass fragments glittering like frost in the fluorescent luminescence. He blocked the cracked plastic with his palm, blinked through the haze, and let tactical patterns reestablish themselves behind his eyes. There was a countdown humming in the central system—one minute, fifty seconds… alarms would snap back in less than two minutes. Either he finished this fight now or he became a sitting target for every guard drone in the complex.

He blinked, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. It was time to switch fronts entirely. Panting, he scanned the room: a row of console banks against the far wall, every screen flickering static. Above that, a catwalk edged around the chamber like a horseshoe, thin metal grates blinking with warning lights. And to his right, an equipment rack bolted to the floor—its back panel open, revealing thick, cloth-braided data cables coiled like lifelines. In one movement, he dropped into a low crouch, snagged a coil, and snapped it free.

The masked intruder moved like a wraith to intercept him, legs already tightening, muscle tasting for leverage. But Izuku lunged sideways, wrapping the cable around the intruder’s midsection, intended to bind him—or at least force him off-balance. The cord cinched tight with a metallic clink of the carabiner buckle, sending a jolt of surprise through the intruder’s torso. Yet instead of pulling the masked fighter off his feet, the cable looped lengthwise, and the intruder slid forward, pivoting on one boot. The taut rope reversed direction, yanking Izuku off his axis, and he tumbled chest-first into the console bank. Sparks flew as his helmet scraped the edge of a ruptured circuit board, sizzling as the metal sparked red-hot.

Pain exploded across the left side of Izuku’s skull; the cracked visor splintered and spat micro-shards into the air. For a moment, all he could see was darkness at the edges of his vision, like a solar eclipse retrofitting itself to party-strobe lights. Somehow, though, there was faint light still: the intruder, advancing—black boots gliding over shattered cable, the masked head tipping up to peer down. He extended a gloved hand, as if to pluck Izuku from the floor, but Izuku was already spiraling into the next move.

A heartbeat later, Izuku rammed his palm into the console’s jagged side, using the force to spring up. He staggered backward, cloak flaring as he regained his balance. He could taste blood: coppery and hot on his tongue. The left side of his helmet bled a fog of frost and steam, and he let that crackle guide him, alerting him that the intruder was still for a fraction of a second longer than perfect. And that fraction was all he needed.

With a suppressed grunt, he sprinted straight at the intruder, then launched himself upward with a running jump planted on the vertical panel of the equipment rack. The rack shuddered under his weight, but held. From there, he caught the lip of the catwalk above with gloved fingers and flung his legs upward. A perfect wall-run; his boots scraped across the metal, toes finding tenuous ledges in the narrow lip. 

The masked fighter blinked, recalculating, but it was too late. Izuku vaulted off the catwalk rail with enough force to send him flying toward the intruder’s unprotected helmet with a flying knee. The maneuver was desperate, acrobatic, designed to end the fight through superior positioning and momentum.

Mid-air, the world became a narrow tunnel of sight, but that tunnel fluctuated, because at the last moment, the opponent sprang forward. The two bodies clashed with bone-rattling force, and they fell together in a tangle of limbs toward the floor below as the intruder caught him mid-air, grip mechanical and unrelenting. But as those hands gripped him, Izuku felt something else—the subtle tremor of overexertion, the microscopic hesitation that came from sustained combat even in enhanced individuals. His opponent was strong, but not inexhaustible. 

There.

That flicker was all Izuku needed. Instead of fighting the controlled descent, Izuku embraced it. He went completely limp for a split second, dead weight that threw off his opponent's calculated spin. Then, at the precise moment when the intruder's grip loosened to readjust for the unexpected shift in momentum, Izuku exploded into motion, spinning within the grip. 

His hands found purchase on his opponent's tactical vest, fingers hooking into the reinforced webbing. He used the intruder's own downward force against him, converting what should have been a devastating takedown into a controlled pivot. The shift reversed momentum. Suddenly, it was the intruder who was spinning toward the ground, no time left to adjust. 

The reversal was breathtaking in its execution—a perfect storm of physics, timing, and desperation that transformed certain defeat into sudden advantage. As they hit the laboratory floor, it was Izuku who landed on top, his opponent's back striking the tiles with bone-jarring impact. His mask, already damaged from the earlier collision, now had the left side of the reinforced material torn away entirely, cool air hitting part of his exposed face as combat-heated blood pounded through his veins.

In the same fluid motion that had reversed their positions, Izuku's tactical knife appeared in his hand, breathing hard with his own pulse pounding at the temples. The blade flipped out between his fingers with a whisper of motion, steel gleaming cold in the high-intensity luminescence. He let gravity do the rest. The knife arced downward, blade aimed at the narrow seam between helmet and armored collar, pressing against the thin strip of exposed.

“Enough,” Izuku snarled, voice a growl resonating in the chamber like a low-frequency alarm. Blue light from a toppled quantum array cast his face in stark relief: sweat beading at his jawline, one eye framed by cracked visor, the other wide and fierce. Knife hand rock-steady despite his elevated pulse as he pressed the tip of the knife into the helmet’s cheap polymer, high voltage sparks arcing across the edge with horrid static. 

The masked fighter’s hands lashed out in muted desperation, but Izuku’s pressure was unyielding. He cataloged the intruder's hammering heartbeat, the slight tremor of controlled breathing, the heat radiating from enhanced muscle mass. The intruder’s breath rattled in his throat as he stayed limp against the knife’s angle, fingers twitching in a futile bid to break Izuku’s grip.

“Count your next move in milliseconds,” Izuku continued, tone flat as steel. “One slip, and you’re bleeding out in thirty seconds.” Each word was clipped, deliberate. The intruder froze, clearly recognizing the legitimacy of the threat. For three heartbeats they remained locked in deadly tableau, Izuku's blade dimpling the fabric protecting his opponent's throat. Victory tasted like copper and adrenaline on his tongue.

Izuku’s grip trembled as the intruder’s single word shattered the tension of the moment:

“Midoriya?”

It pierced the charged silence like a high-caliber round. For a heartbeat, Izuku’s body stiffened, knife edge pressing against the man’s tactical vest at the throat, steel nearly brimming with cold intent. Yet beneath that veneer of control, confusion flared hotter than any wound.

“Who—” Izuku’s words faltered, dropping into a whisper that echoed off the dormant quantum arrays. His pulse thrummed through his ears. The intruder’s hands, once ready to fight, moved deliberately toward the edge of the mask.

Izuku felt the air grow heavy, as though the lab itself held its breath. Particles of cryo-fog drifted through the blue-tinged light, swirling around the two of them in slow-motion eddies. The blade at the intruder’s neck glittered in the pale glow, ready to strike if this proved to be misdirection.

As gloved fingers peeled back the tactile latch, the mask came away—revealing features Izuku had only ever encountered recently for the first time. Crimson eyes ignited beneath a crown of ash-blond hair, damp with sweat and speckles of blood from Izuku’s earlier blow. A face dominated by fury and dawning recognition, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that looked cut from stone. 

"Bakugo," Izuku breathed, disbelief twisting around his gut like a vise in complicated realization.

But it wasn't just the visual recognition that struck him. The instant the mask fell away, an invisible tide crashed into Izuku’s senses. It wasn’t the sterile tang of recycled air from his tactical mask. It was raw. Prime. A heady fusion of gunpowder, smoldering charcoal, and something feral at its core—burnt sugar streaked with the metallic bite of adrenaline. Bakugo’s scent hit with the force of a detonation, concentrated and scorching, searing through Izuku’s stabilizer-laced bloodstream.

A tremor ran through Izuku’s knife hand. The world pitched slightly with white-hot flashes of memory: their first meeting in that warehouse, the faint echo of Bakugo’s smirk as if those moments were embedded in his bones. His lungs seized, lungs tightening as instincts older than training surged forward. He was no longer a tactical operative; he was a being driven by something more primal.

His stabilizer levels, already compromised by the extended combat and recent stress, couldn't process the onslaught. The chemical barriers that had protected him for years cracked under the assault of pure, concentrated alpha musk at point-blank range.

Oh.

Eyes half-lidded, his breath came shorter, pulse spiking as heat blossomed behind his ribcage, spreading outward until his entire torso felt aflame. Before rational thought could intervene, his hands braced on either side of Bakugo's head as he lowered himself, chasing that intoxicating scent to its source.

The first inhale was devastating.

Time slowed: the strong pulse at Bakugo’s neck, the damp curve of his collarbone. Izuku closed his eyes, letting the scent flood him—burning, intoxicating, electric. This close, he could map every note of Bakugo's scent profile, the way it all blended into something uniquely him. The alpha's pulse jumped beneath his proximity, heat radiating from skin that smelled like danger and promise in equal measure. The fragrance was heady, overwhelming, flooding his system with fantasies he'd been actively trying to avoid.

The alpha’s breath hitched, eyes widening as he registered Izuku’s shift—muscles taut, head tilted back, lips parted as if savoring an elixir. A sound escaped him, not quite moan, not quite whimper, but something that he'd never made before.

Fuck. What am I—

The world snapped back into focus with bone-rattling clarity as Izuku’s rational mind hammered against the haze. Reality crashed back like ice water. Izuku's eyes snapped open, taking in the scene with horrifying clarity. He was straddling the infuriating alpha, again, knife at the alpha's throat, having just scented him like some kind of scent-drunk omega in heat. A searing shock of shame and heat coursed through him in equal parts.

He jerked backward with enough force to nearly lose his balance, the tactical knife clattering to the floor as he scrambled off Bakugo's prone form. The impact jarred his shattered ribs, sending stabs of pain across his torso, but he barely noticed. He scrambled to his feet, gaze dazed and unfocused, chest heaving with ragged breaths—each exhale a shuddering attempt to escape the lingering scent that clung to his senses like smoldering embers.

"What the hell—" he started, then stopped, the words tangling in his throat as he stared down at Bakugo's unmasked face.

The alpha remained prone for a moment, crimson eyes tracking Izuku’s every movement from the laboratory floor. His steely gaze narrowed with something between confusion and dangerous awareness, flickering to something darker as his own pulse thrummed against his neck where Izuku had just bowed. The alpha's chest rose and fell with controlled breathing, but Izuku could smell the spike in his scent that made his rebellious body flutter with unwanted recognition. 

Then, with a low, warning growl, Bakugo pushed himself up to a half-kneel, heat radiating off his body in waves. He glared at Izuku, silent but seething, every muscle coiled to spring. But all of that postering was nothing now, just a muted backdrop to the electric charge crackling between them. Izuku’s gaze flicked to the serrated knife at his feet, then back to Bakugo’s unmasked face—bronzed skin, flecks of sweat catching weary light, and those savage, crimson eyes that bore into him.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Bakugo growled, the question vibrating with barely-contained violence. Every fiber in Izuku’s body screamed for something he couldn’t name. His throat went dry; the high-octane adrenaline of combat gave way to raw hunger, an all-consuming need he had never felt before. 

Izuku barely registered the approaching crisis, still caught in the aftermath of his body's betrayal, still drowning in the lingering traces of Bakugo's scent that seemed to have rewired his nervous system entirely. He willed himself to make create more distance, but his legs felt leaden, uncooperative. He swallowed hard, tasting copper and shame on his tongue, trying to push down the lingering haze of desire. 

Yet in the space between the strobing red emergency lights that bathed them both in rhythmic pulses of color, he could not tear his eyes away from Bakugo’s raw intensity. The scene felt like something from a fever dream. And for a single, suspended heartbeat, he forgot the mission, the code, the imminent security threat.

What just happened?