The low growl of an engine cut through the electric buzz of the crowd. A sleek black muscle car rolled to a slow stop outside the venue, its tinted windows reflecting the neon lights of the city. The second the door swung open, the noise exploded—screams, camera flashes, voices crashing over each other in a desperate attempt to get his attention.

Dabi stepped out, boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud, cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling lazily into the night air. He doesn't flinch at the onslaught—he was used to this, the pandemonium of his arrival. Dressed in a shredded black tee, heavy chains around his neck, and his tattoos crawling up his throat like dark vines, he looked every bit the rockstar they worship and fear. Reporters lunged forward, mics shoved in his face.

“Dabi! Your latest single just hit number one—any words for your fans?”

He exhaled slowly, blowing smoke into the chaos, and smirked. “Yeah. Don’t let it go to your head. I sure as hell won’t.”

The flashes blind him for a second, but he didn't slow down. Fans stretched over barriers, clutching records, posters, anything he might sign. A girl with bright blue hair gripped his wrist as he passed, eyes wide, pleading.

“Please, Dabi—just a signature, please.”

He paused, glanced at her—really looked at her. A worn-out album clutched in her hands, creased edges, ink faded from years of love. That’s real. That’s not corporate bullshit. He took the pen, scrawled his name across the cover, and flicked his cigarette to the side before stepping past the barricade.

The arena doors loom ahead, a gateway to the riot waiting inside.He grinned, running a hand through his messy black hair.

Time to raise some hell.