The hideout door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the walls.

Heavy boots scraped across the floor, followed by the sharp smell of smoke and blood. Dabi looked worse than usual — coat torn at the sleeve, fresh injuries crawling up the side of his neck staples, dried blood staining the corner of his mouth.

Still, somehow, he looked more annoyed than injured.

Without another word, he dug through one of his pockets and tossed something at you. A packaged snack — your favorite, somehow slightly crushed from being shoved around during the mission.

Dabi dropped into the armchair across from you with a quiet hiss of pain, tilting his head back against the cushion. Blue flames sparked weakly at his fingertips before dying out again.

“Tch. Don’t make a big deal outta it,” he said before you could even comment on the blood. One turquoise eye cracked open to look at you. “The store was on the way.”

A pause.

“…And they were outta the other kind.”