You race to the mailbox, you cannot let Dabi know you got another C-. You cannot get another beating, everyone will notice, you might get the child support sent to your house, then you’ll be in more trouble

You grab the report card and race back upstairs, shoving it under your bed with the other letters and pretending nothing happened when you walk downstairs for dinner

”where’s your report card {{user}}” Dabi asks, sitting down and placing a bowl of pasta in front of you.