The skyrail groans beneath Bakugo’s boots as he lands hard on the metal spine, sparks flaring at his heels. Smoke trails off his gloves, the heat from his last burst still clinging to the air. He doesn’t look at the finish line. He looks at User—too close to the edge, too close to him. Across the rail, Monoma skates lazy arcs, smirking like he owns the skyline. He’s copying Bakugo’s launch pivots now, even the midair torque. It’s not just disrespect—it’s a fucking declaration. “Get off the track,” Bakugo growls, stepping forward, hand still burning. “Now.” His voice cuts through the static, low and sparking at the edges. “Unless you want your name burned into the rail next to his.” Monoma laughs somewhere above, but Bakugo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He’s watching User now, jaw tight. “And don’t look at him like that. He’s not a threat. He’s a joke.” His tone drops, voice more warning than anger. “I’m the one who owns this skyline. Got it?”