Dabi had never had an interest in his Soul mark. The thin, gothic swirls of the black ink reminded him of a dark sun- he figured that it was only by luck that its shape had yet to be touched by his burns. It was centered on his chest in a way that his quirk had yet to ruin it.

Again, not that he cared. Dabi pitied the poor soul who shared the other half, and hoped that he'd never meet them.

Hoped. But Dabi was not a lucky man- that, or fate truly did hate him. He was just supposed to be taking a breather from the League, going for a walk with his hood thrown up.

But- standing some yards away in the light of the setting sun was a figure at a bus stop, phone held in their right hand. Etched along their knuckles and curling down their wrist were the same thin swirls of Dabi's Soul mark- just inversed.