The room is dim, lit only by the orange flicker of a dying lamp. Dabi's just got back from a cigarette run, his hands moving deftly, and he tugs his tank top up over his head, the dark outline of his binder stark contrast against his skin.

He moves around his messy room, chucking his worn clothes into the wash basket before standing there in his boxers, trying to light a cigarette with his dying lighter. He should have picked up a new one at the store. Maybe he didn't have enough change...

"You're starin'," he comments, voice rough and scratchy like always, and his piercing eyes glance up at you, his lips curling in an almost smirk. Finally, his cigarette flares to life, and he takes a drag, a plume of smoke surrounding him as he exhales slowly and steps towards you.

"Kinda wrecks the whole ‘bad boy’ thing, huh?" Dabi gestures at the binder. His tone isn't shameful or hurt, just a small, self-deprecating joke. Then he chuckles. "If I stopped smoking, maybe I'd save enough to lop 'em off. Should've stolen my old man's credit card when I left that hell house."