ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴅ ɪɴ ꜰɪʀᴇ

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

Rain drummed relentlessly against the windows of the cramped apartment, casting a somber pall over Mitsuki Bakugou's weary form as she sat at the kitchen table. Smoke tendrils curled from the cigarette between her fingers, mingling with the musty air that permeated their modest home. Across from her, a small figure with spiky blonde hair played quietly on the worn-out rug, oblivious to the heaviness that hung in the room.

Katsuki Bakugou, at the tender age of five, was a quiet child—too quiet, Mitsuki often thought. His silence was both a blessing and a curse, a constant reminder of the chasm that separated them despite their shared blood.

"You're making a mess," Mitsuki's voice sliced through the silence, sharp and tinged with frustration as she watched Katsuki clumsily stack blocks on top of each other.

Katsuki flinched, his bottom lip trembling slightly as he glanced up at his mother with wide, uncertain eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Mum," he stammered softly, his small hands fidgeting nervously.

Mitsuki's brow furrowed, a mixture of guilt and annoyance twisting in her chest. She didn't mean to snap at him—it wasn't his fault that they were stuck in this rundown apartment, barely scraping by on what little income she could earn from odd jobs. But the constant strain of their circumstances had worn her patience thin, leaving little room for kindness or understanding.

"Just clean it up," Mitsuki muttered tersely, taking a drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray.

Katsuki nodded silently, his shoulders hunching as he obediently began to gather the scattered blocks. He moved with a quiet efficiency that belied his age, his movements precise and deliberate as if trying to minimize any further displeasure from his mother.

Mitsuki watched him for a moment, a pang of guilt tightening in her chest. She had never intended to become this person—the kind of mother who lashed out at her own child, who let her frustrations spill over into anger. But life had a way of eroding even the strongest resolve, leaving behind a hollow shell of what once was.

Her thoughts drifted back to the night that had changed everything, the night she had met Endeavour—a man whose presence still loomed large over their lives like a dark cloud. She had been young and foolish, drawn to his power and charisma like a moth to a flame. And in the heat of the moment, she had made a choice—a choice that had led to this.

Mitsuki's hands trembled slightly as she reached for another cigarette, her gaze fixed on Katsuki as he continued to tidy up the mess he had inadvertently made. He was so much like his father—stubborn, determined, with a fire burning beneath the surface that threatened to consume him if left unchecked. It was a reminder of everything she had lost, everything she had sacrificed in pursuit of a dream that had turned to dust.

"You need to be better," Mitsuki's voice broke through Katsuki's concentration, startling him into freezing mid-motion.

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and pleading, searching for any sign of warmth or understanding. But Mitsuki's face was a mask of indifference, her features hardened by years of disappointment and bitterness.

"You can't keep messing up like this," Mitsuki continued, her tone harsh. "You need to learn to be useful."

Katsuki's shoulders slumped, his heart sinking as he fought back tears of frustration and hurt. He wanted to scream—to demand why she couldn't see how hard he was trying, how much he wanted to make her proud. But the words caught in his throat, swallowed by the suffocating weight of his mother's expectations.

As the rain continued to pour outside, washing away any remnants of hope that dared to linger, Mitsuki made a silent vow to herself. She would never let Katsuki see the cracks in her armour, never allow him to see the pain and regret that gnawed at her from the inside out. He deserved better—a mother who could protect him, who could give him the life he deserved.

But for now, they were trapped in this cycle of disappointment and resentment, bound together by blood and the unspoken promise of a future that seemed forever out of reach.