The white-haired woman's serene expression flickered, her blue eyes widening almost imperceptibly at the sheer aggressive force of his demand. The air around Katsuki crackled with an unspent energy, a raw, untamed power that was palpable even amidst the general chaos of the guild hall. He leaned further over the bar, his posture radiating impatience, his crimson gaze unwavering and intense. The bar top beneath his palms, already groaning, now creaked ominously. He hadn't meant for his Quirk to flare, not consciously, but the constant thrum of frustration and the sheer alien nature of his surroundings had his nerves frayed, his control over the nitroglycerin-like sweat on his palms less than perfect.
"I said," Katsuki bit out, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that nevertheless carried over the surrounding noise, "I need a job. This is 'Fairy Tail,' right? This is where you get work? So, who do I talk to to get hired?"
His hands, still pressed firmly against the bar, began to emit a faint, almost invisible heat haze. The wood directly beneath his palms started to darken, a subtle discoloration at first, then a more pronounced scorching. The scent of singed varnish joined the myriad of other smells in the hall. He wasn't actively trying to blow anything up – yet – but the raw, volatile nature of his power was leaking out, a testament to his barely contained agitation.
A nearby barstool, an innocent wooden casualty caught in the periphery of his simmering power, suddenly combusted. It wasn't a large explosion, more of a violent, percussive crack followed by a brief, intense flare of orange light. Splinters of charred wood flew outwards, and a small cloud of acrid smoke billowed upwards, momentarily obscuring the already dim lighting. The stool itself was reduced to a blackened, smoldering ruin, its legs splayed at unnatural angles.
The effect on the immediate vicinity was instantaneous. Conversations that had tentatively resumed now died abruptly. The ongoing brawl in the corner sputtered to a halt, its participants staring, slack-jawed, at the remains of the stool and then, with a dawning apprehension, at Katsuki. Even the most hardened, booze-addled members of Fairy Tail seemed to recognize that this wasn't the usual accidental property damage born of drunken revelry. This was something… else. More deliberate, more potent, more angry.
The white-haired woman – Mirajane, though Katsuki didn't know her name yet – blinked slowly, her gaze shifting from the smoldering stool back to Katsuki's face. The faint surprise was still there, but now it was overlaid with a careful, assessing look. Her calm, however, remained remarkably intact, a small island of composure in a sea of suddenly arrested motion. She didn't flinch, didn't shout, didn't even raise her voice. Instead, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
"My, my," she said, her voice soft but carrying a surprising authority that cut through the sudden silence. "You certainly know how to make an entrance." She gestured vaguely towards the smoldering remains of the stool with the glass she was still polishing. "And redecorate."
Katsuki'tched, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Save the commentary. Are you in charge here or not? I don't have all damn day." The heat from his palms subsided slightly, though the wood beneath them was now permanently scarred. He wasn't here to impress them with uncontrolled outbursts; he was here for a purpose. The stool had been an accident, a byproduct of his frayed patience, but he wouldn't apologize for it. Weakness.
Before Mirajane could reply, a new voice, deep and resonant, boomed from the back of the hall. "Now, now, Mira. Is that any way to greet a potential new recruit? Especially one with such… explosive enthusiasm."
The crowd parted, and a diminutive old man, incredibly short but radiating an undeniable aura of power and authority, made his way towards the bar. He had a white, walrus-like mustache, wore a jaunty, striped hat, and carried a wooden staff nearly as tall as he was. Despite his size, his presence commanded immediate respect; the noisy guild members quieted further, their attention shifting to him.
The old man stopped a few feet from Katsuki, his gaze, surprisingly sharp and discerning for someone his age, sweeping over the newcomer, taking in the scorched bar, the ruined stool, and the simmering aggression in Katsuki's stance. A knowing glint appeared in his eyes.
"Welcome to Fairy Tail, young man," the old man said, his voice surprisingly powerful. "I am Makarov Dreyar, the Master of this guild. And you, I take it, are looking for employment?" He gestured towards the evidence of Katsuki's power. "It seems you have a rather… persuasive way of making your requests."
Katsuki straightened slightly, pulling his hands from the bar, leaving behind two dark, scorched imprints. He met Makarov's gaze, unimpressed by the title or the sudden deference of the crowd. "Yeah, I need a job. And I need it now. Got a problem with that, short-stack?" The insult was reflexive, a product of his ingrained confrontational nature. He wasn't about to start bowing and scraping just because some old geezer called himself 'Master.'
The surrounding guild members gasped, a collective intake of breath. Some looked scandalized, others nervously amused. Mirajane's smile widened slightly, a hint of genuine amusement now. Makarov, however, merely chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound.
"Fiery, aren't we?" Makarov's eyes twinkled. "Spirit is good. Fairy Tail thrives on spirit. But tell me, son, what kind of 'job' are you looking for? And more importantly… what can you do?" His gaze flicked meaningfully towards Katsuki's hands, then back to his face. The question hung in the air, an invitation and a challenge all in one. The entire guild seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the explosive newcomer's answer.