Smoke hung low in the air, thick with dust and scorched concrete. Every footstep Aizawa took was measured and silent, his scarf damp with blood—his or someone else’s, it didn’t matter anymore. The mission had turned hours ago. Became personal. No one had seen you in seven days. No messages. No body. Just rumors. A League base buried beneath an abandoned district. Now half of it was rubble, swarming with heroes and smoke and fractured screams.

He moved past the others.

No radio chatter. Just the rasp of his own breath, the twitch of tired muscles. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He was close. The building’s west wing had barely held up during the breach, and the heat damage suggested fire—too much fire. His grip tightened.

And then he heard it. Muffled. A voice he recognized.

Dabi.

He moved faster. Down a corridor where the lights had long since shattered. Walls blackened. The edges still glowing with embers. At the end of the hallway, a rusted steel door sat half open, hanging off one hinge. Through the crack: movement. Two silhouettes.

Aizawa didn’t hesitate. He kicked the door open with a crash and stepped into the room.

The first thing he saw was you.

Bent over a metal table, your body barely upright. Shoulders trembling with effort. Wrists bound behind your back—twisted at an unnatural angle with metal cuffs cinched so tight, the skin had broken open. Blood smeared the edge of the table. Your face was pressed to its cold surface. Your legs were shaking, locked in place by sheer instinct, not strength.

And behind you stood Dabi.

One hand was buried in their hair, the other flat on their upper back, pinning them down. Strands clung to his fingers, darkened with blood and sweat. Their uniform was half-burned, the fabric melted to the skin in some places. They looked delirious, like they hadn’t slept in days.

Dabi looked up lazily.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Took you long enough.”

Aizawa didn’t answer.

Their eyes found him through the haze—barely open, red-rimmed, unfocused. But when they landed on him, something shifted. A breath hitched. A sob nearly broke free.

“Get your hands off them.” Aizawa’s voice was low. Flat. It didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Dabi smirked. “Relax. They’re fine. Bit tired. Been real quiet lately.”

His grip in their hair tightened deliberately. A raw sound escaped them—somewhere between a gasp and a cry. Their body jerked against the restraints.

That was enough.

Aizawa moved. In a blink, his scarf snapped through the air and wrapped tight around Dabi’s neck, dragging him away from them and slamming him into the far wall with a violent crack.

Aizawa crossed the room in two strides. they were already collapsing.

He caught {{user}} before they hit the floor. Dehydrated. Breathing too fast. Their body sagged into him with what little strength it had left. One of your hands twitched weakly at his side—trying to hold on.

“Shh. I’ve got you.”

Their wrists were still bound behind you, so tight the skin around them looked necrotic. Aizawa didn’t speak again—just unwrapped a length of his scarf, looped it carefully, and snapped the restraints with surgical precision. They cried out. Not loud. Just a fractured sound deep in your throat, like your nerves were still catching up to the pain.

Dabi coughed behind him. Laughing now, even with blood in his mouth.

“Y’know,” he wheezed, “they didn’t even scream much after the first day.”

Aizawa didn’t flinch. Didn’t look back. His eyes stayed on you.

His chest ached in a way he’d forgotten it could.

“I’m here now.”

Boots echoed down the corridor—reinforcements. Too late to stop what had happened. But not too late to clean up. Aizawa rose, lifting them with him. {{user}} barely weighed anything now. He adjusted them against his chest, one arm around their back, the other beneath their legs. {{user}}s face pressed against his collarbone. They didn’t fight it. They couldn’t.

“I’m taking you home,” he whispered.

And this time, he would never be too late again.