The club was buried three stories below street level, lit in dim crimson and violet, bass rolling through the concrete like a heartbeat. It wasn’t on any city map, and that was the point. The people who came here weren’t exactly law-abiding — mercenaries, information brokers, washed-out pros, and the occasional face who preferred shadows to headlines.

You owned it all: the music, the chaos, the whispered trades that never made it to daylight.

Tonight, the air shifted. A figure stepped through the crowd, slow and deliberate. Leather coat, scorched scent, blue eyes catching the low light like shards of flame. Dabi.

He didn’t have to announce himself; people moved out of his way on instinct. He stopped at the bar, glancing toward the raised platform where you stood watching the floor.

“So this is the place everyone’s whispering about,” he said, voice rough, lazy, but edged with something dangerous. “Didn’t think you’d actually pull it off.”