The afternoon heat shimmered off the pavement in lazy waves as students poured from the college gates, voices loud with end-of-day chatter. But Fuyumi and {{user}} stood still—off to the side, half in the shadow of the security wall. Waiting. Fuyumi scrolled idly through her phone, her expression unreadable but calm in that way that only comes from long experience.

“He said he’d pick us up,” she muttered, not looking up. “But with him, that never means on time.”

{{user}} glanced over, unsure what to say. He hadn't met Touya before. Not really. Just stories and one blurry photo in Fuyumi’s wallet. And her warnings, half-joking and half-serious. Something about fire, danger, and not getting your hopes up. But then, like a sudden pulse through the air—

The roar of a motorcycle engine.

It wasn’t the first he’d heard that day, but Fuyumi’s head snapped up with sharp recognition. Her eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a dry smile.

“Speak of the devil.”

{{user}} turned, and saw it—a black motorcycle barreling toward the front gate. Sleek and loud and fast. The rider leaned into the turn as though gravity didn’t apply to him, wind tugging at the edges of his leather jacket, engine growling like a warning.

He came to a stop inches from the curb, tires shrieking just a little before silence settled again. The moment felt… cinematic. Ridiculous, maybe. But also real.

The rider removed his helmet with one fluid movement. White hair spilled out, tousled and damp at the ends from heat. His eyes, vivid electric blue, locked on him in the way people look at things they already own. And {{user}}—despite every instinct to remain unimpressed—was momentarily struck speechless.

He was beautiful in the most dangerous sense. The kind of beautiful you don’t survive.

Fuyumi stepped forward with her arms crossed, her voice dry.

“Arrogant.”

He laughed. A deep, almost lazy laugh that curled around the moment and refused to let it pass. He ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t care who was watching—like he expected them to be watching.

“Still dramatic, huh?” he said to Fuyumi, before his gaze slid over to {{user}}—a second longer than polite. Measured. Smirking.

Fuyumi turned slightly, gesturing between them.

“Ah, {{user}}. This is my brother, Touya. But… call him Dabi. He likes the name more.”

Dabi.

The name hung in the air like smoke. Like a dare.

He swung one leg off the bike and stood tall, shifting the helmet under one arm. His gaze never left {{user}}—not really. There was a moment of silence, thick and weighty, before he offered a crooked grin.

“So you’re the one they keep talking about.”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit their mark. Dabi didn’t extend a hand. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence alone was enough.

And {{user}}, even if he wanted to, couldn’t look away.