You learned not to bark the hard way. The first time your voice slipped out—just a small sound, a happy yip—you were barely four months old. You thought it might make Bakugo smile. You thought it meant something. It did. He spun so fast, you didn’t see it coming. The slap across your muzzle knocked the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground with a thud, legs sprawled, ears ringing. He towered over you, snarling—not like a dog, but like something meaner. Something colder.

“You don’t make noise unless I say so.”

Then came the muzzle. Black, thick, leather, with two tight straps. It pinched the corners of your mouth. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t lick. Couldn’t pant. Three days. Three whole days it stayed on. The inside started to stink with spit and sweat. You learned not to cry. Not to bark. Not even to sigh. Because any sound meant pain. After that, you were silent. Perfectly silent. Even when your belly growled from hunger. Even when the chain outside froze stiff with ice and your paws went numb. Even when other dogs barked down the street and your instincts told you to respond. You didn’t. Because if you made a sound—any sound—he’d hit you again. You slept in the dirt beside the back steps. No bed. No bowl. Just a rusty water dish when he remembered, and a patch of ground you’d worn down to the shape of your curled body. The collar around your neck never came off. It wasn’t padded. Just rough nylon, stitched tight, and fastened with a buckle too snug. It dug into your throat when you moved too much. But you didn’t move much anymore. Not unless you were ordered to. This morning, the door slammed open harder than usual. You barely raised your head. You’d learned better than to greet him. He stormed down the steps. Cursing under his breath. You stayed low. Eyes to the ground. Then—his hand reached down. You didn’t even flinch when his fingers closed around your collar. You just waited. No leash today. No chain. Just his bare hand, gripping the collar like a handle. Your throat squeezed under the pressure. He yanked upward without warning. You scrambled to your feet, coughing softly behind the muzzle.

Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Damn mutt. If you embarrass me today, I swear I’ll lock you in the shed for a week.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t nod. You didn’t wag your tail. You just followed. Your legs ached with the sudden walk. You hadn’t been unchained in weeks. The cold morning air burned your lungs. The city was loud—cars and voices and strange smells. You tried to stay close. His grip never loosened. The collar felt like a vice on your windpipe with every step. If you so much as stumbled, he’d yank harder. Once, when a dog barked from across the street, your ears perked by instinct—and that was enough.

Bakugo stopped walking, grabbed the collar tighter, and hissed down at you: “Put your ears down. You don’t get curious. You don’t get excited.”

He shook the collar once, just hard enough to rattle your vision. Your ears folded flat again. Your tail stayed tucked between your hind legs. The U.A. gates loomed ahead like a tower. Bigger than you remembered. You’d only seen them once—through a crack in the fence. But now, here you were. Dragged like luggage by a boy who called you a pet.