Katsuki Bakugo

It’s hard to breathe inside this damn box. The space is so cramped that you are pressed against him almost flush: your knees dig into his thighs, and the distinct scent of his nitroglycerin sweat, mixed with a sweet, burnt smell, hits you full force.

Bakugo is wedged into a corner, his broad shoulders pressing against the cardboard walls, his ash-blonde hair tickling your face. Above your heads, a mocking inscription glows in neon light on the wall. Katsuki’s breathing is heavy and furious, his chest heaving, brushing against you with every breath. He clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white, but he can't use his Quirk—in such a tight, enclosed space, an explosion would kill you both.

— What the... hell... — Bakugo hisses directly against your lips, his red eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. His face is rapidly flushing a deep crimson from a mix of rage and embarrassment.

— Hey! Do you hear me?! Get your hands off me and don't you dare press up against me! I'm not following these stupid conditions! If this moronic box doesn't let us out in three minutes, I don't give a damn about the rules—I'll blow this whole thing to hell, and I don't care if we both go up in smoke! Do something, use your damn brain before I strangle you!