Chapter Text
Bakugo notices the fridge light is out when he opens it, searching for something to drink. It hums low, the only sound in the dark kitchen, and the air inside is warm. He closes it quietly, the click too loud in the silence.
He drifts back to the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fists, rubbing his knuckles without realizing. His eyes sting, dry from lack of sleep. The only light is the blinking red clock on the microwave. 12:03AM.
His mother’s pacing. Phone in her hand, thumb moving fast. She keeps glancing at him but says nothing.
Bakugo doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know. His stomach is a tight knot, twisting harder with every pass she makes across the floor.
There’s a knock at the door.
His heart jumps, thudding in his chest, heavy and loud, echoing in his ears.
His mother doesn’t even look at him before she opens it.
A man steps inside. He smells like stale sweat and cigarettes, something sharp beneath it, something that makes Bakugo’s nose wrinkle, eyes watering. He shuts the door softly behind him, the latch clicking into place.
Bakugo doesn’t move.
The man’s boots creak against the floor as he approaches. His eyes roam over Bakugo, slow, calculating, like he’s a piece of meat on display.
Bakugo’s breath hitches, so soft he barely hears it himself. His fingers twitch, sparks dancing weakly before dying out.
His eyes lift slowly, meeting Mitsuki's. They are empty. Cold. Like she’s already somewhere else.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak.
The man’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing, fingers pressing into the muscle hard enough to bruise. Bakugo flinches, pulling back, but his body feels heavy, sluggish from exhaustion and the thick fear pressing into every bone.
The man’s other hand slides into his hair, rough, tilting his head up to inspect him. Bakugo’s eyes flutter, the fluorescent kitchen light too bright above him, making spots dance in his vision.
He tries to jerk away. A soft, choked noise escapes his throat, the first sound he’s made in hours.
The man chuckles, low, a sound that vibrates through Bakugo’s skull. “Perfect.”
Mitsuki turns away, rummaging in a drawer, pulling out a small glass vial filled with clear liquid. She holds it up, inspecting it under the light.
Bakugo’s eyes lock onto it, dread spreading like ice through his veins, making it hard to breathe.
The man shoves him down into the couch, his body folding, spine knocking against the cushions, head lolling back.
“Hag…” The word is small, a whisper swallowed by the darkness of the room.
She doesn’t look at him.
She uncaps the vial, the sharp chemical scent stinging his nose, making him cough.
The man forces Bakugo’s head back, fingers digging into his jaw, forcing his mouth open.
Bakugo tries to turn away, but the man’s grip is iron, unyielding. His arms are pinned, hands trapped under the man’s knees as he straddles Bakugo’s thighs, holding him in place.
His legs kick weakly, feet scraping against the floor, shoes squeaking, a pathetic, hopeless sound.
“Please…” His voice cracks, barely there, tears welling, sliding hot down his temples into his hairline.
The liquid hits his tongue, cold and bitter, sliding down his throat before he can spit it out. It burns, searing a path into his stomach, twisting the nausea in his gut into something unbearable.
He gags, choking, coughing it up, but Mitsuki’s hand clamps over his mouth, forcing him to swallow the rest.
He breathes hard through his nose, the air thick, the room spinning.
Mitsuki wipes her hand on her pants, not looking at him. She picks up the stack of bills from the counter, flipping through them slowly, methodically, as if she’s checking grocery money.
Bakugo’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, the edges of his vision going black.
“Why…” he whispers, tears streaming freely now, dripping down the sides of his face onto the couch.
She doesn’t answer.
The man lifts him by the arms, dragging him up, his legs dangling, feet barely touching the ground. His head falls forward, chin hitting his chest, drool and blood from his bitten lip dripping onto his hoodie.
His eyes find Mitsuki one last time as they drag him toward the door.
She’s counting the money, her face blank, as if he isn’t there.
A broken sob rips from his throat, quiet, raw, as the door slams shut behind him.
⸻
The hallway lights flicker above him as they drag him down the stairs. His shoes bump against the steps, one by one, leaving smudges on the dirty tiles. He tries to lift his head, but it’s too heavy, his neck refusing to obey.
His breath fogs in the cold air outside, but he barely feels it. His body is numb, floating, the drug crawling through his veins, pulling him under.
They shove him into the back seat of a black car. The door closes, sealing him in.
His head lolls against the window, cheek pressed to the cold glass, eyes half-open, tears drying on his skin.
He watches the streetlights blur past, gold and white streaks against the dark sky, each one pulling him further from home.