When Shinji finally slowed to a stop, sweat clinging to his bare chest and hair matted to his forehead, the digital clock mounted above the training ground entrance read 11:03 AM. Two hours. He had been running nearly nonstop since Aizawa dismissed the class around nine. Not a jog, not a warm-up—full sprints, long strides pounding against the padded track, as if each lap could burn away the thoughts clawing at the back of his skull.
His breaths came hard now, ragged and uneven, his chest rising and falling like the ocean after a storm. His left hand trembled faintly at his side, but the right remained still, limp, dragging behind him like it didn't belong. The rest of Class 1-A had long since split into smaller groups across the indoor facility, pairing off or working alone on various parts of their training. A few had thrown him curious glances at first—maybe even concern—but no one approached. Not after the hallway incident. Not after they saw the look in his eyes.
The silence inside the training hall was filled with the dull thuds of combat drills, the crackle of quirks being pushed to their limits, and the hum of overhead lights. Yet around Shinji, there was a kind of quiet bubble, like the air itself was avoiding him, unwilling to touch whatever intensity still clung to his skin like oil.
He rolled his neck once, the muscles stiff and sore. Every tendon felt stretched thin. His lungs burned, and his legs were beginning to shake, but he didn't collapse. He didn't even sit.
Instead, he stood still, chest heaving, jaw clenched, and eyes focused on nothing.
The Specter's voice didn't come immediately—not now, not yet. For a moment, it was just Shinji, the silence, and the flickering lights above that made him feel like he was standing in an interrogation room rather than a training facility.
He didn't need to hear the Specter to know what it was thinking.
He'd gone too far. Again.
But that didn't stop the anger simmering under his skin or the echo of that student's words grinding like broken glass in the back of his skull. Didn't earn it. Got lucky.
Shinji slowly turned and looked over the room. His classmates were still training, pretending not to watch, but he could feel their eyes on him. Not out of fear, exactly—but a wariness. He wasn't like them. Not entirely.
He hadn't noticed Bakugo approaching until the soft squeak of boots against the gym floor cut through the haze.
The blonde tossed his shirt to the floor without ceremony, his lean, scar-laced torso already glistening with anticipation. His shoulders rolled as he cracked his neck to one side, then the other, the heat of a challenge already burning in his crimson eyes.
"You done brooding like a jackass, or what?" Bakugo asked, his tone more flat than hostile but no less intense for it.
Shinji didn't answer, just turned away from the track and started toward the sparring mats near the back of the indoor gym. He inhaled slowly, trying to steady his breathing. His left arm flexed in a habitual stretch; his right hung stiff and useless, barely swaying as he walked, a dead weight that reminded him—again—that he wasn't whole.
They stepped onto the mats without a word. No crowd, no warm-up, no announcement. Just two bodies standing in the center of the space, facing each other like wolves testing the wind.
Around them, the ambient sound of classmates still training continued, though quieter now—muted by the unspoken awareness of what was unfolding. Glances flicked their way, subtle but consistent.
Bakugo cracked his knuckles, then dropped into a relaxed stance, legs slightly bent, one hand half raised in front of him. "No quirks," he said simply.
Shinji nodded. "Obviously."
And just like that, the world narrowed.
Bakugo struck first, fast and low—a probing jab at Shinji's ribs meant to bait a response. Shinji twisted his body, letting the blow graze past him, then immediately answered with a quick jab of his own—precise, close to Bakugo's face, not hard enough to land, just close enough to remind him that he could have.
Bakugo smirked. "Cute."
The next exchange was faster. A flurry of blows and blocks, a ballet of momentum and prediction. Bakugo was like a storm—explosive, unpredictable, powered by sheer fury and instinct. Shinji was more surgical. Measured. Every shift of weight, every step, calculated and intentional.
But even with all that control, his right arm stayed behind like a ghost tethered to his shoulder, limp and useless.
Bakugo didn't comment on it, didn't even glance at it. He didn't need to. Shinji knew he noticed—how could he not?—but in the ring, there was no sympathy. No excuses.
That's why Shinji chose this. Needed this.
Bakugo's knee came up suddenly—Shinji barely pivoted in time to avoid it cracking against his ribs. He spun low, swept a leg in a counter that nearly took Bakugo's footing, but the blonde adjusted mid-air, twisting his body and landing with a thud that sent vibrations through the mat.
"You're faster when you're pissed," Bakugo noted, circling. "Still favoring that side, though."
Shinji spat to the side, tasting sweat and the copper of a bitten cheek. "Thanks for the observation."
Bakugo lunged again. Shinji met him head-on this time.
They collided in a rush of movement—punches traded, parried, redirected. Each hit that landed felt like a point scored in a private war. Each missed strike like a statement. Neither of them held back. Neither of them wanted to.
Shinji's breath came rougher now, his chest rising and falling like a piston. His legs ached. His lungs burned. But he didn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
"You done yet?" Bakugo asked through grit teeth as their arms locked for a second in a push-pull stalemate.
"No," Shinji growled, forcing him back an inch.
Bakugo's grin was feral. "Good."
They broke again, dancing apart, sweat dripping from their brows, backs, and arms. Around them, the rest of the class was fully watching now, albeit trying not to be obvious. This wasn't just a spar. This was something else. A venting. A release.
A purge.
Shinji adjusted his stance again, wiping his face with the back of his left hand. His right arm still hung there, a curse. But for now, he didn't care. For now, there was no Specter, no doctors, no words like "trauma" or "recovery" or "observation." Just Bakugo. Just fists.
Their feet scraped across the mat, neither giving more than an inch. Sweat rolled in rivulets down Shinji's back, the muscles in his legs aching from two hours of nonstop movement followed by another thirty minutes of trading blows. But he was still standing. Still sparring. Still breathing.
Bakugo launched forward with another jab, fast and direct—textbook Bakugo, all aggression and explosive pressure. Shinji dipped to the side and caught the edge of the swing with his forearm, redirecting it just enough to step inside his guard.
"I don't like you much," Shinji muttered, his voice low and even, almost casual—too casual for the punch he threw a second later, catching Bakugo square in the gut with the flat of his fist. "You've got power. Reflexes. Drive. But your biggest weakness?"
Bakugo stumbled back a step, more from surprise than pain, his scowl deepening. "What the hell are you on about?"
Shinji didn't let up. He pressed forward with another strike, a hook aimed high that Bakugo barely blocked in time. Their forearms collided with a sharp thwack.
"You act like you're better than everyone else," Shinji continued, circling now, measured. "That you've already won, and the rest of us are just trying to catch up."
Bakugo growled. "Because I am better."
"No," Shinji said flatly, stepping in again and landing a clean jab to Bakugo's shoulder that rocked him off balance. "You're stronger than some. Not better."
The distinction hung in the air as they reset. Bakugo didn't charge this time. He hesitated—just for a beat—but it was enough for Shinji to see it landed.
"I've seen what that attitude turns people into," Shinji continued, his tone never rising, never preaching. Just delivering. Honest. Brutal. "When you're always looking down, you don't see the thing coming from below that takes your legs out. You stop growing. You stop listening."
Bakugo's lip curled into something between a snarl and a grimace, but he didn't interrupt. He couldn't. He knew Shinji wasn't just mouthing off. This wasn't some moral speech. This was advice—unasked for, unwanted maybe, but real.
"You think I got out of the Breach because I was better than everything in it?" Shinji asked, breath coming heavy as he squared up again. "No. I survived because I stopped thinking I was better. Because I treated everything like it could kill me if I gave it an inch."
Bakugo threw a punch—a hard one—but Shinji stepped into it, absorbed the impact across his forearm, and countered with a sharp strike to Bakugo's ribs.
"You want to be the best? Fine. Then act like someone worth following," Shinji said, voice low and deliberate. "The best doesn't need to prove it every second of the day. They don't scream it. They earn it."
Bakugo staggered back, chest heaving, the fire in his eyes now mixed with something else. Reflection.
He didn't say anything. Not yet.
Shinji took a few steps back, left hand still up, waiting. "Come on. You gonna keep swinging like it's just a fight, or do you still think you're too good to listen?"
Bakugo narrowed his eyes, rolling his shoulder from the last hit. Then, with the faintest twitch of his lip, he raised his hands again.
"I think you're far too good with only one hand. But, fine," he muttered. "Show me."
Shinji's lips twitched—almost a smile.
"Gladly."
And they went back in. Not just as classmates. Not just as sparring partners. But—maybe for the first time—as equals.
The air in the training hall felt heavier now—denser, filled with the electric silence that came when something meaningful had been said and hadn't quite left the room. Shinji and Bakugo circled each other again, the echo of their bare feet tapping lightly across the mat, but neither of them moved to strike right away. It was no longer just about fists.
Then, mid-step, Shinji's eyes shifted—not toward Bakugo, but past him.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice even again but not dull, not cold. Intentional. "Do you genuinely think you can beat Todoroki?"
Bakugo froze for a half-second. Not physically—his stance didn't waver—but his face tightened, just slightly. The name had weight. Shinji saw it.
"I asked you a question," Shinji added, now standing straight. His breathing had calmed, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were razor-sharp. "Because I've watched how you look at him. Like he's the final boss in your story. Like, if you beat him, it proves everything you've been screaming since day one."
Bakugo didn't answer immediately. His fingers twitched, like he was halfway to balling a fist and shoving it in Shinji's face just to shut him up. But he didn't. Maybe he couldn't.
Shinji kept going.
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at him?" He jabbed a thumb toward the other side of the gym where Todoroki stood, arms folded, eyes narrowed, watching them from afar like he always did—cool, calm, unreadable. "I see someone I genuinely don't know if I can beat."
Bakugo scoffed. "You serious? After all that bravado?"
Shinji tilted his head, unfazed. "I'm not stupid. I survived because I stopped pretending I was unstoppable. And I sure as hell know when someone's a threat."
He dropped into a crouch, tying his shoe slowly, deliberately, before standing again.
"If I went full size," he said quietly, eyes not leaving Bakugo's, "If I went big enough to shatter roads, to tower over buildings, I'd win. But Todoroki? Even with that trauma keeping half his power shackled, he's still a monster."
Bakugo's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking along his cheek.
"That kid's ice alone could kill a city block. And if he ever decides to accept the fire, if he embraces the parts of himself he's still running from?" Shinji exhaled through his nose. "He'd be nearly unstoppable."
He stepped closer to Bakugo—not threatening, not confrontational. Just… honest.
"You say you're better than us. Fine. Then prove it. Stop ignoring what's right in front of you because it makes you feel insecure. Todoroki doesn't need to talk like he's the strongest. He just is. And you?"
Shinji looked him up and down—at the muscle, the tension, the frustration boiling just under Bakugo's skin.
"You could be more than him. Hell, you could be more than me. But not if you're still throwing tantrums every time someone challenges your pride."
Bakugo bristled, but he didn't lash out. Not yet. Something about the way Shinji was looking at him made it impossible to just explode like usual. This wasn't condescension. It wasn't pity. It was a mirror.
Shinji turned then, looking back at the training mats, rolling his right shoulder even though it didn't move right, didn't help. He hated that.
He looked back at Bakugo over his shoulder.
"What're you trying to prove, Katsuki?"
And with that, he walked toward the center of the mat again, wordlessly resuming his stance.
The invitation to keep going was clear.
So was the challenge to be something more.
Bakugo wiped the sweat from his brow and cracked his neck, that usual self-assured smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. Shinji stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, his breathing steady despite the heavy laps he'd just run. His eyes, however, had the sharp edge of someone who hadn't stopped moving inside—even if his feet weren't going anywhere.
"You should use your quirk," Shinji said, his voice flat, deliberate. "I'm going to."
Bakugo's brow ticked up. "Thought we were keeping it clean."
Shinji rolled his shoulders, stepping forward onto the mats. "This is clean. Controlled. But if you want to fight seriously, then fight like it matters. You're not going to get better pulling punches."
Bakugo scowled slightly but didn't argue. He could see it—Shinji's stance had changed. Not just his body language, but something in the air around him. Focused. Sharpened.
"You need to start condensing your blasts," Shinji said, his tone shifting into something more pointed. Not quite mocking—more like a teacher, or a fellow soldier. "You rely too much on raw power. That's fine when you're up against someone like Midoriya, who wants to dance with you. But what if you're up against someone who doesn't flinch when you go big? Someone with armor? Someone whose quirk isn't going to let your blasts even reach the soft bits?"
He paused. "Then you lose. And you know that's not acceptable."
Bakugo was quiet, eyes narrowing. Shinji wasn't insulting him. He wasn't trying to rattle his ego. He was being honest.
"Precision," Shinji said, stepping back and letting his voice drop. "That's how you kill tanks. You don't try to blow through the whole thing. You punch through the weak points."
Then he took a breath—and shifted.
Metal snapped into place across his body with a hiss of locking servos. His limbs thickened as segmented plates unfolded and sealed into position. Hydraulic lines pulsed beneath the surface, and his frame surged upward slightly as mechanical musculature layered over his body in fluid, practiced motion. His torso widened with the sound of composite armor locking down. Under his arms, long, almost boxcutter-shaped blades slid up his elbows, allowing him to use his fists without kebabing bakugo. A visor slid into place over his eyes, glowing dimly, and a metallic hum filled the air around him.
Tacit Ronin.
He wasn't flashy. He didn't glow. There were no shockwaves or golden auras. Just the cold, deliberate presence of a walking tank designed to kill titans—clean, efficient, and far too quiet.
Bakugo blinked, and for a half-second, it was like staring at a Jaeger from a nightmare.
"Told you," Shinji said, voice subtly distorted through the Jaegers comms, "use your quirk."
Bakugo grinned, teeth bared. "Hell yeah."
They moved to the center of the mats, clearing the space instinctively. The others knew better than to step in now. Even Kaminari stopped mid-sentence when he saw Shinji activate his armor. Iida quietly turned off the clock on the wall. No one needed a timer for this.
Bakugo made the first move, palms crackling with raw charge. He launched forward with a snap of ignited force, closing the distance in a burst of speed and fire.
Shinji didn't move. He absorbed the hit. The blast rocked him slightly, but the armor dispersed the force with a muted shudder. He countered instantly, his right arm—a thick, armored gauntlet that hissed with mechanical precision—swiping low and hard toward Bakugo's legs. Bakugo leapt, twisting midair, firing a blast down to redirect his trajectory, only for Shinji to twist with him—predictive reflexes enhanced by years of war and calibration.
"You've got power, Bakugo," Shinji said, his voice cool even as he launched a devastating punch that sent a shock through the mats beneath them. Bakugo barely dodged it. "But power won't win when the other guy's a walking tank and doesn't care if you hit him."
Bakugo ground his teeth. "I don't lose."
"Then adapt."
Bakugo flew back, circling. He narrowed his blasts. Smaller bursts, tighter focus. Shinji was right, he couldn't just throw wide detonations at this. He needed to be surgical. He needed to stab, not hammer.
Shinji kept advancing, methodical and relentless. Every step echoed like the prelude to a storm. Bakugo strafed around him, his hands already straining from overuse, but he grinned through it.
Because this? This was a challenge.
And Shinji—quiet, controlled, absolutely lethal Shinji—was handing him a lesson wrapped in immovable armor.
Their sparring session had already turned intense, sweat slick on both their bodies, but neither was willing to stop. Bakugo's blasts were becoming tighter, more controlled—not weaker, just focused, like a blacksmith forging a blade instead of dropping a bomb. Shinji, still in his Tacit Ronin form, moved with a sort of mechanical grace—like every motion had been rehearsed a thousand times, refined on battlefields far worse than any classroom or sports festival.
Bakugo ducked low under a swing and launched a concussive burst to the side, trying to circle wide. "So why didn't you go with the big one?" he called over the echoing hum of his explosions. "What was it—Cherno Alpha, right?"
Shinji deflected the heat of the blast with an armored forearm, sparks hissing off the surface like rain against steel. His voice crackled back through the internal comms of his helmet, filtered and low: "That one was made to tank."
He pivoted hard, shifting his stance and rushing forward. Bakugo barely leapt out of the way, landing in a crouch with one palm planted to the mat, steam curling from his fingers.
"I'm not here to tank today," Shinji continued, walking with that same unwavering rhythm. "We need to start smaller. That was my biggest mistake when I started—starting big. You start big, you never learn control. You never learn how to scale."
Bakugo narrowed his eyes. "So what, this one's… what? An entry model?"
"Tacit Ronin was my mid-range," Shinji said, circling him now. "Versatile. Fast enough to respond. Strong enough to hurt most things. Not so heavy I lose mobility. Balanced. If I threw out Cherno now, what would you learn?"
Bakugo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "That I need bigger booms."
Shinji's visor pulsed once, almost like a blink. "No. That I can outlast you. Outgun you. And that you're not ready yet."
The challenge in his voice wasn't smug. It was clinical. Factual. A matter-of-course declaration from someone who had seen what happened when kids were pushed too far, too fast—and had bled through the consequences.
"I've seen people burn out trying to hit their maximum on day one," Shinji added, raising his fists again, that faint hum of servos rising with the movement. "So yeah. We start here. You push me, I'll push you. But you're not ready for the big ones yet."
Bakugo stood up straighter. The grin that spread across his face wasn't cocky—it was excited. Fired up.
"Then let's see if I can make you switch."
Shinji didn't say anything, but the way his stance deepened said enough.
They went again. Harder. Faster. Sparks flew, fists clashed, the air between them warping from the heat of Bakugo's explosions and the mechanical grind of Shinji's armor.
They weren't sparring anymore.
They were refining.
Bakugo lunged forward with a roar, palms snapping outward as a tight, condensed blast exploded point-blank toward Shinji's chest. Shinji shifted just enough, letting the force skid across the angular plating of his left shoulder as he drove a knee forward in retaliation. The metal of his armor sparked against Bakugo's side, earning a grunt and a backward leap from the blonde.
But he didn't back off. Not for a second.
"Condense, Bakugo!" Shinji barked as he advanced. "That was wide—wider means waste! Focus the burst, drive it into a single point, or it's just noise!"
"I am condensing, dammit!" Bakugo snarled, sliding under a sweeping elbow and responding with a palm aimed directly at Shinji's exposed flank. A flash—he fired—and this time, the concussive force drilled instead of scattered. Shinji took it full-on, skidding back several feet across the mats, boots grinding against the floor with a screech of protesting rubber.
When the dust settled, he was still upright, steam hissing from the release valves on his back and shoulders. The impact had left a glowing indentation in the armor—superficial, but felt.
"Better," Shinji said, rolling his shoulder with a sharp crack. "Still lacking in penetration. If you want to down someone like Tetsutetsu or Kirishima, you're going to need a lot more pressure per square inch. Heat helps, sure—but you need puncture. Not splash."
Bakugo grit his teeth. "Then maybe I'll just blow them to hell instead."
Shinji's visor dimmed slightly. Not disappointment. Not anger. Something… contemplative.
"That's what I thought too," he said, voice quiet now, even as his stance shifted again—Tacit Ronin re-centering for a second round. "But there are things out there that won't die just because you want them to. Trust me—I tried."
Bakugo hesitated. Just a beat.
Then—"Yeah? So what, I'm supposed to fight like you now? Steel skin and brooding?"
Shinji cracked a rare smirk, the flicker of something old and tired and honest breaking through. "No. You fight like you. But if 'you' can't take a hit from something 10 stories tall and built like a fortress, then maybe it's time to start adjusting the formula."
Bakugo's expression hardened—but it wasn't rejection. He'd heard it. Felt it. It wasn't an insult, it was respect. Hard-earned, begrudging respect from someone who knew what it was to be crushed under the weight of expectation—and crushed again under the weight of survival.
"Again," Bakugo muttered, already winding up another detonation.
"Good," Shinji replied, shifting his weight.
"Harder this time," Bakugo added, and his grin widened.
Shinji's hands lifted, one fist clenching, the armored plating shifting slightly as his systems adjusted to the rising heat level, matching Bakugo's escalation beat for beat.
"Careful," Shinji warned, just as their energy spiked again.
"I ain't the careful type," Bakugo fired back.
They collided again—not as classmates this time, not as rivals—but as warriors in training, shaping each other with sweat, bruises, and the kind of mutual pain only people born to fight could understand.
And somewhere behind Shinji's stoic expression, the Specter whispered—this time not with malice, not with strategy, but with quiet pride:
"There he is."