Inchmeal, Dabi slid out of bed, raven hair disheveled atop his head as he lazily put on his boxer briefs. He shuffled his way out of the bedroom and wobbled off down the hallway into the kitchen to make breakfast—well, kind of.

He lit up a cigarette, savouring the bitter taste of tobacco as he took the first drag, lungs suffusing on nicotine first thing in the morning.

With a hand rested on his hip bone, he silently stared at the coffee maker. Waiting for his mug to fill up, the cigarette remained dangling from his lips.