interlinked

two

By second year of high school, the war had ended, but nothing felt the same.

The war distracted him from the string, made him focus on the task at hand, but now that it was over...

The city was still a patchwork of construction sites and broken glass. Classrooms sat half-empty most of the time, their desks reminders of who didn't make it back. And everyone carried something with them, some heavier than others.

Bakugou carried scars.

They ran jagged across his arms, a large explosion shape in the spot where his heart would be, and a heartbeat scar on his right cheekbone, souvenirs burned into his skin that refused to fade.

His pride had taken hits too, but it hadn't shattered. He was still here. Stronger and sharper. He wasn't the same explosive, reckless kid from his first year but he wasn't broken either.

He'd clawed forward, step by bloody step. He was going to be the Number One Hero. That hadn't changed at all.

The string hadn't changed either.

At least, not in the way he wanted.

It pulled harder now. It seemed.

Sometimes, in the middle of a mission debrief, he'd be scrawling notes in that jagged handwriting of his when his pinky would twitch. The thread would jerk.

It wouldn't be a soft nudge either. Instead, something sharp, like someone was tugging at him from the other end.

He'd curse under his breath, shoving his hand into his pocket like he could hide it from the world.

It glowed more too. Although faint, it was always when he least expected it. Reflected in the glass during patrols, flashing at the corner of his eye in the training hall, like it wanted to be noticed.

It wasn't disappearing anymore. He could see it fade somewhat, but it was way more clear. Way more solid. It didn't fade into some unreachable horizon now.

No, not at all.

Now it stretched somewhere across the city, stubborn and insistent.

Close. Too close.

He hated it.

The gnawing irritation lived in his bones. Years of telling himself it didn't matter, years of treating it like white noise.

Suddenly the damn thing had the audacity to yank harder? Like the universe was challenging him, daring him to admit he gave a damn?

Bullshit.

After everything—the war, the weakness he'd tasted, the brush with death—he was supposed to come out of it stronger and free. He'd survived all of that just to be yanked around by some invisible leash?

No. Not him. Not Katsuki Bakugou.

But his hand betrayed him every time. Twitching and clenching like it knew something he refused to believe.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

On the other side of the city, you felt it too.

The tugging hadn't always been this bad. For years, the string was faint, stretched so far you thought it might vanish.

But now?

It hummed like a live wire, pulling every time you slowed down so much as slowed down. Sometimes you swore you could feel it—like a hand brushing yours, restless, waiting.