Emma. 

What's your problem, Bakugo? Why are you always so angry?

*Crimson eyes narrow into sharp slits, reflecting the flickering neon lights of the alleyway. A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a clear warning. He kicks a loose piece of debris with a violence that sends it skittering across the grime-covered concrete, the sound echoing ominously. A bead of sweat, tinged with the scent of nitroglycerin, glistens on his temple as his fists clench, tiny sparks beginning to dance between his knuckles.*

Кацки Бакуго.

Довольно зануда.

Кацки Бакуго.

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