Despite bright hopes and even brighter intentions, nights like this were common in Ochako's life. There was always some party to be crashed, some date to be ruined, some bad guy to fight—and more often than she'd like to admit, she was the bad guy. She was the one who got her hands dirty. It seemed that she was the one who was pointing a gun in someone's face— she was the one who was dragging a corpse through her fuckin' living room and ruining her carpet—which was so annoying to clean. She sighed and rolled her eyes at the thought of getting blood out of her nice, fluffy white carpet.

(She should call Katsuki.)

It's not like you can just call a cleaning service to get blood out of your carpet—most of the time, you'd just end up with more blood on it. She didn't grow up with nice things and dammit, she was going to keep her carpet white. She peeled off her own shows, noticing the dirt and blood stuck to them and dropped them outside, stepping into her home barefoot. The last thing she wanted to do after this emotional roller coaster of a night, is to stain her fucking carpet with some creep's blood.

(Why hasn't she called Katsuki?)

She laughed in spite of herself. She had a gun pointed to her earlier in the night—she almost got her almost-boyfriend killed, and here she was, thinking about how annoying it is to get blood out of her carpet. Honestly, she was desensitized from it all. The screaming, the violence, the danger—none of it phased her anymore. At this point, she wasn't even fearful that someday she could end up in a fight that she can't win. Any semblance of fear or hesitation was removed from her body long before she'd met Katsuki—stamped out while she was just trying to survive. Her body was always either in fight or flight mode, and it was rare if she ever ran.

(She doesn't deserve to call Katsuki.)

It's funny, once upon a time she could barely keep her head above water. Everywhere she went there was somebody following her, some body falling at her (and staining her fucking carpet), and some fucking meeting she had to be at. She groaned at the very thought of those motherfucking meetings. They were always at the asscrack of dawn in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and if she was a second late or if a single hair was out of place, everyone there would think she was showing weakness. And weaknesses were to be exploited—quickly. Which meant, at least to Ochako, more blood on her fucking fluffy carpet. And to make it worse, rent was always due.

(Katsuki probably hates her.)

And now? She's fucking swimming. She hadn't actually worried about rent in over a year. There was always someone following her, but she could handle it—if Shouto or Denki didn't handle it before her. Best of all, there was nobody around to look down at her for being late to a fucking meeting. It seemed that the water that was always threatening to drown her turned into blood—and she thrived in it. Her only struggle now was trying to keep everything around her clean while she was covered in blood at the same damn time.

(Katsuki definitely hates her.)

She sat down on the couch, noticing small depressions in her carpet, and tiny, almost invisible traces of dirt lingering where she'd stepped. Of course, she was gonna have to clean her carpet anyway. Ain't that a fuckin bitch. She laid down on the leather couch, grateful that no matter how dirty it was, it'd be easy to clean. Shuffling through her purse, she found her phone and dialed her most recently called contact—her brother.

(She's calling the wrong person—why isn't she calling Katsuki? She needs to call Katsuki. She's sorry.)

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice serious—a tone he only used when it came to her.

"I'm home," she said back, her voice smaller than she expected, "I'm fine."

"If you were fine, you wouldn't have called me."

"I think I'm fine," she said, her voice growing stronger, "I'm a little annoyed 'cause we gotta clean the carpet again." Yeah, sure—she was only a little annoyed over the carpet.

"What's on it?"

Ochako Uraraka was, fundamentally, a bad person—and she'd be a lot happier if she accepted it and stopped pretending otherwise. Katsuki—thinking about his name stung—was right, she was a killer and ganster and those were the worst things a person could possibly be. She was a liar and a thief and a murderer and she did it to keep her carpet clean. There wasn't even a good reason behind all the bullshit she pulls on a daily basis. Hell, if she was feeling particularly sheisty, she'd do all three in a day—and sleep like a baby in the night. She wasn't even just a gangster—gangsters are human. They have feelings and morals and there's a limit to how much havoc they wrecked in a day. She...she didn't have any of that. She'd do whatever it takes if it meant she'd get what she wanted accomplished.

(Katsuki was right.)

She looked into the dark glass of the coffee table, staring at her own reflection. It was funny, the woman in the glass didn't look like a monster. It's not like her eyes were red or yellow, or that she had fangs hanging out her mouth or snakes in her hair. No, she didn't see anything like that on the coffee table. Instead, she saw a young woman wearing too much makeup in a dress that was too expensive for her with big brown eyes and a quivering bottom lip.

And truthfully, it disgusted her. A fat tear hit the glass with a loud plup, and she almost lost it. Uraraka Ochako was not about to sit around and cry because someone called her a name. She was a smart, strong, rich bitch and by the looks of her reflection—she was a damn cute one, too. And if that was who she was, then that would have to be okay. It's not like she had the option of anything not being okay. In her life, things were either okay or they were fatal—and she'd do anything to keep it from becoming fatal.

(Katsuki had every right to hate her.)

"Nothing important. I'll get it out in the morning," she said, finding a voice she didn't know she had anymore. She stood up, stretching her legs and took a step on to the fluffy carpet, feeling the dirt and grime underneath her feet. It probably had always been there, she just stepped too delicately to notice. She snapped her neck to the side, feeling it pop and relishing in that sensation. "No—actually I won't be able to get it all out in the morning," she said, mostly to herself.

"Why not? I know you hate any spots on the floor."

"'Cause I'll be busy in the morning," she said nonchalantly, "I do have a business to run. Money moves to make, my dear brother."

"I thought you hated that shit."

"Sometimes," she admitted, "but I'm the best at it and it keeps my bills paid. I can worry about a fuckin' clean carpet later."

She heard a small chuckle from the other line before it disconnected, and she, surprisingly, flet the corners of her lips tilt up. She gingerly picked her heels up from outside and brought them to her room, throwing them into her closet with a soft thud—swapping them out for a pair of boots. If she was going to work then she was going to work—and there was no room for error.

(She wishes she can call Katsuki.)