Chapter Text
The halls of Musutafu General Hospital were alive with the rhythm of organized chaos—doctors and nurses rushing from room to room, the beeping of monitors, the hum of distant voices issuing commands. The scent of antiseptic and freshly sterilized equipment filled the air, mixing with the faint aroma of coffee from the nurses' station. It was a symphony of life and survival, a place where every second mattered, where hands could either heal or fail, and where knowledge, skill, and instinct meant the difference between hope and despair.
And standing at the heart of it all was Bakugou Katsuki, a newly minted surgical intern. He had dreamed of this moment for as long as he could remember. The weight of the white coat on his shoulders wasn’t just fabric pressing against his skin; it was the culmination of years of sacrifice, blood, sweat, and an unbreakable faith that carried him through every storm.
He exhaled, steadying himself, allowing the realization to sink in—he was here. He had made it.
The journey had been anything but easy. Medical school was brutal for anyone, but for an omega like him? It had been a war. The whispers behind his back, the doubting stares of professors who questioned his ability to keep up with the relentless demands of surgery, the sneers of some of his so-called peers who saw him as weak simply because of his secondary gender—it had been a constant battle to prove that he belonged.
But he had endured. He had fought. He had excelled.
Despite the countless nights spent buried in textbooks, the endless hours of practicing sutures until his fingers bled, and the grueling exams that pushed his mind and body to the limit, Bakugou Katsuki had graduated at the top of his class. Not just passed. Not just survived. He had dominated, like he always did.
Because he was meant for this.
Because God had put him here.
His faith had been his anchor through it all. When exhaustion had threatened to break him, when the doubt had crept in, when the weight of expectations had pressed so hard against his chest that he could barely breathe, he had turned to prayer. It wasn’t something he spoke about often, not when the world already saw him as an anomaly—an omega in a field dominated by alphas, a man who refused to fit into the box society tried to place him in.
But his belief in God was unshakable.
He believed that he had been given a purpose. That every struggle, every hardship, had been part of a greater plan. That he was meant to be here—to save lives, to push boundaries, to prove that strength wasn’t determined by gender, but by will.
And now, as he stepped into the surgical wing, the adrenaline in his veins burned hotter than fire, not with fear, but with exhilaration.
This was his battlefield.
This was where he belonged.
This wasn’t just a job.
This was his calling.
The doors of the hospital swung open, and the world he had stepped into felt like a battlefield. The trauma room was a storm of chaos—bodies covered in blood, the acrid scent of antiseptic failing to mask the raw stench of iron and sweat. The cries of the wounded filled the air, a stark contrast to the methodical commands of the medical staff trying to keep order in the madness. It was war. It was reality.
A stretcher rushed past him, a man groaning in pain, his abdomen torn open in a way that made even Bakugou’s iron stomach twist. His first real day, and already, the stark difference between cadavers in med school and living, breathing patients slammed into him like a punch to the gut.
This wasn’t theory anymore.
This wasn’t practice.
This was real.
And he was done working on the dead. Now, he was here to save the living.
He was ready.
🧪🧪🧪
“Oi, newbie, move outta the way unless you want your first day to be your last.”
Bakugou turned at the gruff voice, his gaze locking onto a tall, broad-shouldered man striding towards him like he owned the damn place. Crimson red hair, messily tied back, tattoos swirling up his forearms like flames, and a sharp, wolfish grin that gave him an almost dangerous charm. His white coat hung open over blue scrubs, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal corded muscle and ink.
Bakugou recognized him instantly. Kirishima Eijirou.
The Chief of Trauma Surgery.
The youngest surgeon to ever claim the position.
And, if the rumors were true, the biggest womanizer in the hospital.
Bakugou stiffened but held his ground. His first day wasn’t about to start with some overgrown alpha pushing him around. He wasn’t some fragile little thing who needed to move just because an alpha decided to bark orders.
“I wasn’t in the way,” he said flatly, arms crossing over his chest.
Kirishima arched an eyebrow, amused rather than irritated. “Feisty one, huh? Guess you’re the omega intern we’ve been hearing about.”
Bakugou’s jaw tightened. Of course. It always came back to that. No matter how fucking hard he worked, no matter that he graduated top of his class, people always saw his secondary gender before his skills. And it pissed him off.
“Yeah, and?” Bakugou snapped, standing taller. “Got a problem with that?”
Kirishima’s smirk only deepened, not mocking, but appraising, like he was testing Bakugou’s bite. “Not at all. Just hope you can handle the pressure, kid. You’re stepping into the battlefield.”
The words made Bakugou bristle. Kid? Kid?!
His hands curled into fists. “Tch, don’t call me kid. I didn’t bust my ass to get here just to be belittled by some inked-up playboy with a scalpel.”
A few nurses nearby gasped audibly, eyes wide as they watched the confrontation unfold like it was their morning entertainment.
Kirishima blinked—just for a second. And then, to Bakugou’s growing irritation, he threw his head back and laughed. A deep, genuine laugh, like Bakugou had just cracked the funniest joke in the world.
“Oh man, you’ve got a mouth on you,” Kirishima grinned, clapping a strong, warm hand on Bakugou’s shoulder. The contact sent a bolt of heat through Bakugou’s skin—not from embarrassment, but irritation. He hated being touched without warning. But Kirishima didn’t seem to care.
“This is gonna be fun,” the Chief of Trauma chuckled, shaking his head. “Welcome to hell, newbie.” And just like that, he strode off down the hall, leaving Bakugou fuming.
Fun?! He’d show that bastard fun.
Shaking off his irritation, Bakugou focused. His eyes darted over the trauma room, assessing the organized chaos, categorizing patients in his head—who needed immediate intervention, who was stable, and who was circling the drain.
His mind clicked into place, sorting through medical knowledge as fast as his adrenaline-fueled brain could process. The injured were everywhere—bloodied, groaning, some eerily silent, their injuries too severe to even cry out. This wasn’t like med school, where things were theoretical, controlled.
This was war.
And he was ready. He had to be.
Just as he finished his mental triage, the doors to the trauma bay swung open again.
Another victim was wheeled in.
"58-year-old male, motor vehicle collision. Tachy 160, BP 80 palp, decreased bilateral breath sounds!" A medic barked out, moving fast.
Bakugou immediately stepped forward, getting a better look. The man had a pen shoved into his trachea, an emergency field attempt at a cricothyrotomy. His breathing was shallow, and an army medic was manually insufflating oxygen, keeping the air moving.
Bakugou didn’t hesitate—he took over, gripping the bag-valve mask, his hands steady. His first time doing this on a living patient, but he knew how it worked. He had studied this, practiced this. His mind barely registered the nerves—just the action.
The second the man was transferred onto a trauma bay bed, Bakugou exhaled, taking his first proper breath since stepping into the fray. He had done it.
It was only then that he realized—he didn’t even know the guy’s name.
“Who is he?” Bakugou asked a nurse.
“Vincent Kenner.”
Bakugou let the name settle. His first patient.
He allowed himself the smallest smile before refocusing. “Okay, what happened?”
“Passenger in a limo—wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Car nosedived,” someone answered. “Muffled heart sounds.”
Before Bakugou could respond, a presence loomed behind him.
“What the hell did you just do?”
Kirishima.
His voice wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to it, something demanding. Assessing.
Bakugou turned slightly. “Nothing. Just assessed his wounds and got the accident details.”
Kirishima studied him for a second before nodding. “Fine. I’m taking over. You just watch.”
Bakugou nodded, stepping back. He wasn’t dumb enough to argue yet—this was his first real case, and the Chief of Trauma wasn’t just some textbook surgeon. Kirishima had experience, the kind you only got by being knee-deep in blood, elbows in someone’s open chest, and making the kind of split-second decisions that meant life or death.
Kirishima moved fast, eyes sharp as he assessed Vincent’s condition. “Who the hell put this pen here?”
Bakugou jerked his chin toward the trauma bay windows, where two army medics stood outside, chatting. “From what I heard, one of those guys.”
Kirishima clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. “Fucking brute work.”
Bakugou didn’t disagree. A cricothyrotomy with a pen? Desperate move. It had bought them time, but it wasn’t sustainable. The guy needed a proper airway now.
“Alright,” Kirishima decided, voice firm. “This guy goes into surgery. Now.”
Bakugou stepped aside as the bed rolled past the doors, his heart hammering in his chest. The rush, the adrenaline, the sheer weight of being in the middle of life-saving action—it was unlike anything he had felt before.
Kirishima was already moving, barking orders, setting things in motion, but then—
He turned back.
“You coming?” Kirishima asked, eyes flickering with something unreadable.
Bakugou bit his lip, barely suppressing a grin.
Hell yeah, he was coming.
His excitement burned hot inside him as he scrubbed in, his hands moving in practiced, methodical motions. This was it. His first real procedure. His first chance to prove that he belonged here—not just as a fresh-faced intern, but as a damn good surgeon.
Kirishima stood beside him at the sink, his arms and hands slick with antiseptic foam, scrubbing up with practiced ease. He didn’t even look over as he spoke.
“You ready, newbie?”
Bakugou exhaled sharply, adjusting his mask as he glanced through the observation window at the patient on the table. Vincent Kenner—58 years old, MVC victim, temporary cricothyrotomy done in the field with a goddamn pen.
The guy had been barely breathing when he was brought in. The makeshift airway had kept him alive this long, but it was unstable as hell. They needed to secure a proper airway now, or he wouldn’t make it.
Bakugou met Kirishima’s sharp, assessing gaze. “More than ready.”
Kirishima smirked slightly. “Good. Then don’t fuck up.”
Bakugou bristled, but the moment was gone as they stepped into the sterile, bright world of the trauma OR.
The Procedure Begins
The heart monitor beeped steadily as the team moved around the table, the air tense but controlled. Nurses prepped the instruments, the anesthesiologist confirmed sedation, and the overhead light gleamed against Vincent’s pale skin.
Bakugou took his place beside Kirishima, his hands gloved and steady. This wasn’t some practice cadaver, some theoretical exam. This was real. A life depended on him getting this right.
Kirishima nodded toward the patient’s throat. “Alright, we’re doing a proper tracheostomy. First step?”
Bakugou didn’t hesitate. “Make a horizontal incision two fingers above the sternal notch.”
Kirishima’s lips quirked. “Then go ahead, doc.”
Bakugou took the scalpel. The moment the blade met skin, everything else disappeared.
His world narrowed to the weight in his hands, the precision of his cut, the slow glide of the blade through layers of tissue. He controlled his breathing, keeping his hand steady. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
“Good,” Kirishima said, watching over his shoulder. “Now retract and expose the trachea.”
Bakugou reached for the retractor, his movements fluid, practiced. He separated the soft tissue carefully, exposing the cartilage of the trachea beneath.
Kirishima’s voice was low and sure. “See that? That’s your landmark. Now, cut between the second and third tracheal rings.”
Bakugou made the incision—precise, controlled, cutting clean through the cartilage. A small bead of blood welled at the edges, but nothing unexpected. His mind raced ahead, already thinking about the next step.
He could do this.
He was doing this.
Kirishima leaned in, close enough that Bakugou could feel the warmth of his body beside him. “Alright, newbie, here’s the tricky part. You’re gonna dilate the opening and insert the trach tube. No room for mistakes here.”
Bakugou nodded, his fingers already moving. He grabbed the dilator, carefully inserting it into the incision, widening the airway just enough to slide in the tracheostomy tube.
He could feel the weight of Kirishima’s stare, studying every movement he made, measuring him, judging him.
The moment the tube slid into place, Bakugou immediately secured it, connecting it to the ventilator. The soft hiss of air filled the room as oxygen finally flowed properly into Vincent’s lungs.
A tense second passed.
Then—
The heart monitor stabilized.
A normal rhythm. A steady breath.
Bakugou’s chest swelled with satisfaction, his eyes locked on the patient’s vitals. They had done it.
Silence stretched for a beat before Kirishima let out a short, impressed huff.
“Damn,” he murmured, pulling off his gloves. “You did that clean as hell.”
Bakugou barely had time to register the compliment before they were stepping out of the trauma OR. The rush of the procedure was still thrumming in his veins, and despite the exhaustion beginning to creep in, he felt alive.
The moment they hit the hallway, Kirishima clapped him on the back—hard.
“Not bad for your first rodeo, newbie.”
Bakugou scowled, rolling his shoulder as he shrugged off the heavy hand. “I know I’m good.”
Kirishima chuckled, shaking his head. “Cocky little thing, aren’t you?”
Bakugou shot him a glare but didn’t bother denying it. He had every right to be cocky. He had just nailed his first emergency procedure under the goddamn Chief of Trauma, and Kirishima had nothing to say except that it was clean as hell.
That was as close to high praise as it got.
Before Kirishima could say anything else, Bakugou turned on his heel, making sure to walk off before the bastard saw the faint pink dusting his ears.
Bakugou stepped into the locker room, dragging a hand through his hair as he pulled off his surgical cap. His scalp tingled from hours beneath the tight fabric, but he barely noticed. The adrenaline was still there, humming beneath his skin, making his fingers twitch with leftover energy. He had done it. His first real procedure—not just any procedure, but an emergency tracheostomy, under Kirishima’s sharp, scrutinizing gaze.
And he had nailed it.
He had expected to feel exhausted, maybe a little overwhelmed. But instead, all he could feel was the solid, undeniable satisfaction of a job well done. His hands had been steady. His technique? Clean. Efficient. Perfect. And he had earned something even rarer than a good first surgery—Kirishima’s approval.
The other interns had fumbled their way through their first cases today. Meanwhile, he had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Chief of Trauma and held his own.
He let out a breath, shaking off the last of the tension in his shoulders. He needed water, maybe a snack, then sleep before the next chaotic shift—but the second he turned towards his locker, he noticed the whispers.
At first, he ignored them. Hospitals were always filled with murmurs—doctors talking, nurses gossiping, patients whispering behind curtains. But these? These were about him.
Someone nudged their friend, barely bothering to lower their voice.
“That’s him, right? The omega intern?”
“No way,” another voice answered.
Bakugou rolled his eyes and walked past them like he didn’t care. And he didn’t—at least, not about their opinions. Let them whisper.
They’d learn soon enough.
He wasn’t just some omega intern.
He was Bakugou Katsuki.
And he was going to be the best damn surgeon this hospital had ever seen.
🧪🧪🧪
The next day, Bakugou was paired up for a practical skills drill. He didn’t mind skill tests. If anything, they were the best part of training. He got to prove he was better than everyone else.
His partner was Mina Ashido.
She was hard to miss—bright pink hair, sharp golden eyes, and an effortless confidence that made her stand out. She carried herself like someone who didn’t back down from a challenge.
The task was simple—a laparoscopic simulation, a delicate suturing exercise under a time limit. The goal? To suture a precise incision using minimally invasive techniques.
Most of the other residents struggled. Their hands shook under pressure, the delicate instruments slipping in their grasp. The instructors watched with thinly veiled disappointment as some fumbled just trying to get the angles right.
But Bakugou and Mina?
They killed it.
The second they started, it became an unspoken competition—who could suture faster, who could make their stitches cleaner, who could handle the pressure without breaking a sweat. Their hands moved in sync, their focus so sharp that they didn’t even need to communicate.
At the end of the drill, their simulated patient lay before them—perfect sutures, precision work, zero mistakes.
The instructor, an experienced surgeon who had seen more failures than successes in these drills, let out a low whistle.
“Damn. If you two weren’t residents, I’d recruit you for cardio.”
Mina grinned, pleased with herself, then turned to Bakugou, arms crossed, smirking.
“Not bad, omega.”
Bakugou waited for the usual irritation to flare up, the usual sting that came whenever someone used that word like it was meant to diminish him.
But this time?
It didn’t sound like an insult.
It sounded respectful.
Bakugou glanced at her, analyzing, deciding.
Maybe she wasn’t so bad.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets, “you weren’t a total disaster either.”
Mina laughed.
Bakugou thought maybe he wouldn’t mind eating lunch with her sometime.
🧪🧪🧪
Bakugou met Denki Kaminari in the worst way possible.
It was the first week of residency, and Bakugou was exhausted. His shift had been non-stop chaos, and he had finally gotten a short break—long enough to grab some food, maybe review his notes before diving back in.
He had just sat down in the breakroom, halfway through a medical journal article, when—
Loud. Obnoxious. A walking distraction.
Denki Kaminari burst into the room, phone pressed to his ear, talking at full volume.
“Yeah, man, I know! The new attending is hot as hell—hold on, bro, let me grab some coffee.”
Bakugou’s eye twitched.
“Shut the hell up,” he snapped. “Some of us are trying to focus.”
Denki blinked, caught mid-sentence. He turned to Bakugou, seemingly unfazed by the sheer murderous energy radiating from him.
Then, he grinned.
“Ohhh,” Denki said, pointing at him. “You're the feisty omega one.”
The room went silent.
Bakugou’s hand tightened around his book. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to glare at Denki like he was contemplating surgical murder.
“The fuck did you just call me?”
Denki did not back down. In fact, he laughed.
“Nah, nah, I mean it in a good way!” He held up his hands, looking more amused than scared. “You're cool. You look like someone who’d stab a guy if they interrupted your surgery.”
Bakugou stared.
That was… not wrong.
It was a stupid comment, but somehow, it didn’t piss him off.
Instead, it made him smirk.
Denki Kaminari was an idiot.
But maybe he wasn’t the worst idiot.
Maybe.
🧪🧪🧪
Over the next few days, Bakugou started to notice something weird.
The interns and residents still talked about him, still whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear. But now, the whispers weren’t laced with doubt.
“They said he was the best in his class.”
“I heard he nailed a trauma case on his first shift.”
“I saw him in the laparoscopic drill with Ashido. He’s fast.”
He wasn’t just the omega intern anymore.
He was the intern people were watching.
It was irritating. It was satisfying.
It was exactly what he had expected.
He didn’t care what they thought of his gender. He never had. The only thing that mattered was proving he was the best.
And little by little, they were starting to realize it.
Bakugou wouldn’t say he had friends—not yet, anyway. But Ashido was cool, and Kaminari, while an idiot, wasn’t completely unbearable. He had bigger things to worry about, anyway.
Like the fact that Kirishima had started calling him “newbie” every time they crossed paths.
Like the fact that his next shift in the trauma wing was coming up, and he wanted—no, needed—to prove that his first success hadn’t been a fluke.
Like the fact that, despite how much he hated people assuming things about him, he was starting to feel something he didn’t expect.
Like he belonged.
And that?
That was worth everything.
🧪🧪🧪
A week had passed since Bakugou’s first surgery, but the buzz surrounding it hadn’t died down. Every time he walked through the hospital, he could feel the stares, the whispers, the way people suddenly seemed more interested in him than before. It was both annoying and satisfying—annoying because he hated unnecessary attention, but satisfying because people were finally starting to recognize his talent.
By now, the whispers had turned into an actual conversation.
As he approached the breakroom, he could already hear the familiar voices inside—Denki, Mina, and a few other residents sitting around, talking over cups of bitter hospital coffee.
The moment Bakugou stepped inside, Denki spotted him and grinned.
“Oi, Bakugou, man, you’re kind of a legend right now.”
Bakugou scowled, already regretting walking in. “The hell are you talking about?”
Mina smirked from her seat, stirring her coffee lazily. “First-day interns don’t usually get a chance to scrub into surgery, much less with Kirishima.”
Denki leaned forward dramatically, elbows on the table. “Dude, do you not know about the Kirishima Curse?”
Bakugou raised an unimpressed brow. “The what?”
A few of the residents chuckled knowingly. One of them, a second-year named Sero, piped up, “Every intern’s first surgery with Kirishima is a disaster.”
Mina nodded, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “He pushes hard, asks too many damn questions, makes you overthink everything. Most interns either freeze up or fuck up.”
Denki pointed at him, grinning. “But you—we all heard your case went well. Which means you might be the first intern ever to not get destroyed by Kirishima.”
Bakugou shrugged, unimpressed. “It wasn’t that fucking hard.”
The room went silent.
One of the newer interns looked like they had just witnessed sacrilege.
A third-year resident nearly choked on their drink. “Excuse me?”
Mina raised an eyebrow at him, but instead of looking annoyed, she just seemed amused.
Denki, on the other hand, howled with laughter. “Oh, I like this guy.”
Another resident shook their head, looking at Bakugou like he had lost his mind. “Dude, literally everyone struggles their first time with him. How was it ‘not hard’?”
Bakugou scoffed. “I answered his damn questions, followed the steps, and closed up. What’s the big deal?”
Some of the residents looked mildly horrified by his attitude. Others—like Denki and Mina—just grinned in amusement.
Mina leaned back in her chair, eyeing him like he was some kind of fascinating new species. “Damn. I think you might be the most confident omega I’ve ever met.”
Bakugou just shrugged again, completely unbothered. “Yeah, well, I know I’m good.”
A few people rolled their eyes at his blatant arrogance, but Bakugou didn’t give a shit. He earned this confidence. He wasn’t going to act humble just to make them feel better about themselves.
The conversation shifted after that, moving onto discussions of upcoming rotations, complaints about their schedules, and gossip about a senior attending having a meltdown in the ER the night before.
For the first time since starting residency, Bakugou actually sat down in the breakroom, feeling like he had finally earned a moment to breathe.
Then, Denki dropped his bombshell.
“Man, last night was wild. You guys are never gonna guess who I hooked up with.”
Bakugou immediately regretted sitting down.
Denki grinned, his expression full of smug satisfaction. “Kirishima.”
The reaction was instant. The entire table erupted with noise—half the residents groaned, Mina nearly choked on her coffee, and Sero shook his head like he was disappointed but not surprised.
Bakugou, however, said nothing.
Because his mind was racing.
Kirishima was the Chief of Surgery. He was at the top. He was respected. He was supposed to set an example.
And yet, he acted like some undisciplined fool, sleeping around with interns like it was nothing.
This is exactly why Bakugou hates alphas like him.
Alphas who act like they can have whoever they want, whenever they want, just because they’re strong.
Alphas who walk into a room and expect admiration, respect, and submission.
Alphas who don’t have to work for anything the way he does.
Bakugou has worked his ass off to prove himself in a field that constantly undermines omegas.
He’s had to be twice as good as every alpha intern just to be treated like an equal.
He’s had to shove down his instincts, fight through biases, and refuse to be seen as weaker.
And then there’s Kirishima—who gets respect so easily. Who everyone loves, even though he does nothing to deserve it.
It’s not just annoying.
It’s infuriating.
Bakugou clenched his jaw, staring hard at the table, his fingers drumming against the surface. He didn’t even realize how much his hands were tightening into fists until Mina spoke up.
“No one cares, Denki.” She sounded exasperated. “We don’t need to hear about your sex life.”
Sero, however, leaned in. “I mean, I kind of want to hear how the Chief of Trauma fucks.”
Bakugou’s grip on his knee tightened.
Denki smirked, obviously enjoying the attention. “Well, if you must know—”
Bakugou cut him off. “This conversation is fucking stupid.”
Denki blinked, looking surprised. “Whoa, whoa, you good?”
Bakugou shoved his chair back and stood up. “I don’t give a shit about who you screw,” he snapped. “I’ve got better things to do than sit around listening to you brag.”
He didn’t wait for a response before storming out of the breakroom, his irritation burning in his chest.
Behind him, he could still hear Denki’s voice. “What crawled up his ass?”
Mina’s voice was dry. “Maybe he just doesn’t like hearing about Kirishima’s sex life first thing in the morning.”
Bakugou’s fists clenched.
Because fuck, maybe that was it. Maybe he didn’t like hearing about it.
Maybe he hated it.
Why should he have to be with the only surgeon that breathed sex.