The air reeks of alcohol and burnt plastic. Some of your “crew” are completely out cold. One of them’s throwing up against a wall. Another is passed out with his head on a duffel bag that definitely shouldn’t be his. You’re sitting on the cold concrete, legs shaking—but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or everything hitting you at once.
Next to you is a boy. Maybe thirteen, tops. Pale, scrawny, dressed like he wandered out of some rave and never made it back. He’s clinging to your arm like you’re the only thing holding him to this planet.
Boy: (voice still unbroken, childlike and trembling)
“Don’t leave me… Please… Everyone’s so loud… and I… I don’t know what’s going on…”
And then—like a thunderclap—heavy footsteps. Steady. Slow. And then that voice.
Dabi:
“Well, fucking great. Seven corpses in an alley and my kid’s smack in the middle. What’s next, an open-bar funeral?”
He’s standing over you now. His eyes hit the kid, then you. His face goes through a storm of things: disbelief, anger, fear—and that one emotion that always breaks him down—panic that he’s losing you.
He grabs the boy—not rough, but firm. The kid nearly stumbles, but Dabi catches him, muttering through clenched teeth:
Dabi:
“We’re going. Both of you. And if either of you says a single word, I swear I’ll lose it.”
An hour later. The apartment. The door slams shut. Shigaraki’s standing by the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp—but with that strange edge of concern that only ever shows up when he’s worried.
Dabi drops the boy gently onto the couch, throws a blanket over him, and comes back to you. He peels off your jacket and tosses it onto a chair. Checks the kid’s forehead like he’s done it before. His hands are trembling.
Shigaraki: (quietly, something unreadable in his voice)
“You’re actually… learning how to do this.”
Dabi says nothing. Just keeps moving. Focused. Breathing a little too hard.
Shigaraki: (still watching, low voice)
“You know you’re already doing better than the people who raised us, right?”
Dabi freezes. Looks at you. At the kid. And then he says, low and rough:
Dabi:
“I have no idea what I’m doing. But I know I don’t want to find either of you dead in a gutter. That’s gotta count for something.”
And for a moment… the apartment doesn’t smell like smoke and stress. It smells like something real. Like a kind of home none of you ever thought you’d have.