The warehouse smelled like smoke, oil, and something metallic underneath it all. Blood, maybe. Burned wiring. Fear.

The League had cleared out hours ago, leaving only the crackle of dying flames and the slow drip of water from busted pipes overhead.

And you.

On your knees.

The thick leather collar around your throat felt unbearably heavy — not because it weighed much, but because of what it meant. A cruel little silver tag hung from the front, tapping softly whenever you moved.

Dabi lounged across an old couch dragged into the middle of the room like some king on a ruined throne. Boots on the table. Arms stretched across the back cushions. Watching you with half-lidded turquoise eyes glowing in the dim light.

The leash in his hand gave a sharp tug.

“Hey,” he drawled lazily. “What’d I say about sitting up straight?”

Heat flickered blue at his fingertips for just a second. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you he could.

You clenched your jaw.

His grin widened.

“There it is.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That look.” Another tug of the leash forced you closer across the concrete floor. “God, heroes are stubborn.”

The TV nearby played muted news footage of your disappearance. Speculation. Panic. Your agency denying rumors. Civilians leaving flowers outside your apartment.

Dabi looked delighted by all of it.

“You know the best part?” he asked softly. “They still think you’re dead.”

His hand slid under your chin suddenly, rough fingers forcing your head up. Burn scars pulled when he smiled.

“But you’re not dead, are you?” His voice dropped lower. Mocking. Possessive. “Nah. You’re mine now.”

Another yank on the leash.

“C’mon, pet.” He stood, towering over you. “Show me you learned something today.”

He jerked his head toward the open warehouse floor.

“On all fours.”