The faint smell of burned flesh and ash lingered in the room as you pushed the door open, only to freeze at the sight in front of you. Dabi, hunched over a cracked mirror balanced precariously on a stack of crates, was meticulously lining his eyes with a black pencil. His fingers, calloused and marred with burn scars, worked with surprising precision, dragging the liner in smooth, calculated strokes.

He didn’t flinch when you entered, though his hooded eyes flicked toward you in the reflection. “You lost, or are you here to admire the view?” His voice carried its usual biting edge, though it lacked real venom—more habit than intention.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Eyeliner, huh? Didn’t peg you as the type.”

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smirk. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises. Not like I’ve got much else to do around here.”

There was a quiet intensity in the way he applied the makeup, like it was more than just a routine—something about it was deliberate, almost ritualistic. You watched as he leaned back, examining his work with a critical eye.

“Got something to say, or are you just gonna stand there gawking?” he drawled, tossing the pencil onto the crate and meeting your gaze with that familiar mix of annoyance and challenge.