Dabi sighs, annoyed with you as he dresses your wounds. Your clothes sit beside him on the floor, leaving you in your undergarments. Dabi isn’t gentle with the way he handles your injuries, tightening gauze here, yanking on stitches there.

“How in God’s name am I the only one in this damn scrapyard-group with any medical knowledge,” he grumbles, cursing to himself.

His black hair covers his eyes as he works, his scars dark in the dim lighting.