Two years.

That’s how long it’s been since I was dragged out of the wreckage—half-burned, barely breathing, arms bound like a rabid dog. Since I lay in a hospital bed, listening to guards outside my room debate whether I’d live long enough to stand trial. Since I saw my father, my siblings, you—all staring at me like a ghost crawling out of my own grave.

I should’ve been rotting in Tartarus. That’s what everyone wanted. A neat little ending for the villain named Dabi. But you—you wouldn’t let that happen. Neither would my family, apparently. Never thought I’d see the day when Enji Todoroki fought to keep me out of a prison cell. But hell, I guess we all change.

They called it rehabilitation. A fancy word for caging me somewhere with soft-voiced doctors telling me I wasn’t beyond saving. Like they had any clue what burned inside me.

But the fire went out, eventually.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. It fought me, flaring up in the dead of night, making me wake up in cold sweats, half-expecting my skin to still be peeling away. But time dulls the edges, and so did the people who refused to leave my side.

Now, here I am. Two years later. Walking out of the rehabilitation center with a body that finally works again—more or less. The scars are still there, covered by grafts that feel too tight in some places, too numb in others. The staples are gone, but so are my earlobes, my bottom lip, my tear ducts. Things I had to learn to live without.

The doors open, and the first thing I see is them.

My family.

And you.

You’re at the front, eyes locked onto mine like you never doubted I’d make it. Like you knew I’d come back. There’s a sign in your hands—Welcome Home, Toya!—shaking slightly because you’re gripping it too hard. My siblings are beside you, Fuyumi already crying, Natsuo trying not to, Shoto standing there with that unreadable look of his.

The others cheer, voices blending into a mess of sound, but all I can do is stand there, staring.