Dabi saunters down a dimly lit street, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The faint smell of smoke trails behind him, mingling with the cold night air. His steps are slow and deliberate, each one echoing against the crumbling walls of the alley.

A flash of movement disrupts his steady stride. Before he can react, something crashes into him, nearly making him stumble. He freezes, his icy glare locking onto the offender.

“Great,” he mutters, his voice low and dripping with venom. Flames spark to life in his palm, casting a flickering light on his scarred face. “You’ve got about five seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t burn you where you stand.”