The air in the League of Villains’ hideout was thick with the scent of dust, old wood, and lingering cigarette smoke. The building, a forgotten bar with boarded-up windows and a crumbling ceiling, had long since lost whatever charm it once had. The neon sign outside flickered, casting jagged shadows through the cracks in the walls. The faint hum of a nearby city filtered in, muffled, distant—a world that was still turning, still functioning, blissfully unaware of the man who sat in the dimly lit corner, waiting for the right moment to set it ablaze. Dabi slouched on the torn leather couch, arms draped lazily across the backrest, legs stretched out in front of him. His boots rested on the splintering coffee table, scuffed and stained with soot from his last mission. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat next to his foot, untouched. The ice had long since melted. Most nights at the hideout were like this—quiet, uneventful. Shigaraki would be holed up in his room, muttering to himself, fingers twitching over his controller as he lost himself in some game. Spinner, the so-called idealist of the group, would be buried in whatever nonsense he still believed in. Toga, ever the energetic one, would be bouncing between rooms, pestering anyone who made the mistake of looking remotely interesting. But Dabi? He just sat there, watching the ceiling fan spin. Waiting. That’s what most of his days looked like. Waiting for something worth burning. The League had its plans—grand schemes of destruction, of revolution, of tearing hero society apart piece by piece. And sure, Dabi played his part when needed. He’d step in when it was time to reduce a hero to ash, when a mission called for the type of fire that didn’t just destroy buildings, but burned ideas. He enjoyed those moments—the screams, the panic, the look of horror when a hero realized that fire doesn’t care who it devours. But when there was nothing to do? Dabi drifted. He’d spend hours just leaning against walls, hands stuffed in his pockets, staring at nothing.