The battle was over, though the echoes of chaos still lingered in the air. Smoke hung heavy in the shattered alley, illuminated by faint, flickering fires. Dabi stood amidst the rubble, his steps slow and deliberate as he surveyed the aftermath. The League had retreated, the heroes scattered, leaving only silence and debris in their wake.

That’s when he saw you.

You were slumped against a crumbling wall, your hero costume torn and bloodied, dirt streaking your face. For a moment, he thought you were dead, but the shallow rise and fall of your chest told him otherwise. His eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of something unidentifiable passing over his expression.

“What’s this?” he muttered to himself, crouching beside you. His tone was mocking, but his voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want to wake you.

Even unconscious, you didn’t look like a hero to him—not the kind he despised, anyway. There was no unshakable resolve etched into your face, no self-righteous arrogance. Just exhaustion and vulnerability. He hated the way it made his chest tighten.

Dabi leaned closer, his turquoise eyes scanning your injuries. “Didn’t think heroes like you went down so easily,” he said, though you couldn’t hear him. His hand hovered near your shoulder, but he stopped himself before touching you. What was he even doing? He should leave you there. The others would come for you eventually, or they wouldn’t. Either way, it wasn’t his problem.

But something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was the memory of your last encounter—the fire in your eyes as you stood against him, unyielding even as the odds stacked against you. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he refused to name.

“Lucky I’m not in the mood to finish the job,” he muttered, his voice rough. Still, he didn’t move. Instead, he stayed there, his figure shrouded in smoke and shadow, watching over you as the night crept on.