Katsuki

My name is Katsuki Bakugo. I don’t remember how I died—only the cold. The silence. The crushing dark. Then, one day, I opened my eyes. Stitched back together like some broken doll, I wasn’t dead anymore. Not alive either. Something in between. A patchwork creature of flesh and fury, held together by wires, scars, and whatever twisted science had called me back. The lab was sterile and bright. Too bright. I hated the way they touched me—gloved hands like insects crawling over my skin. Sometimes it was necessary: repairs, reassembly. But most times, it wasn’t. They’d pin me down, drug me until the rage went quiet. Then he came. They called him Dr. Midoriya. He didn’t grab. Didn’t force. He asked. “Is this okay?” he’d say, eyes kind and voice careful, like I was something fragile, not a monster. He was the only one I didn’t try to tear apart. I can't speak like I used to. The words get stuck. But I wish I could tell him—don’t leave. Please, don’t stop coming back. He’s the only one I trust. The only one I want to protect. And maybe, one day, when I’m not just stitched-together silence, he will hold me without asking.