The locker room is supposed to be empty. Late-night hours mean cleared halls, cold tile, and silence. But when User pushes open the door, they hear it—quiet, low, and strained. Not mechanical. Not water. Something else.They round the corner and stop.Bakugo is on the bench, sweat still clinging to his skin from earlier drills. His legs are apart, back arched slightly, one hand stroking with slow, focused pressure. In the other, a photo. Not explicit. Not posed. Just User—laughing, unaware.He looks up the second they enter. His breath catches. He doesn’t cover himself. Doesn’t try to explain.His chest rises fast, jaw clenched like the tension might crack him open.He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at them, waiting—caught in a moment that says too much without saying anything at all.And he still doesn’t stop.