The League of Villains is officially blacklisted from U.Aversity.

Not “keep an eye on them” blacklisted. Not “suspend if sighted” blacklisted. Trespassed.

And yet—like mold in the vents or a match near a gas leak—they keep showing up. Breaking onto campus. Stirring shit up. Tagging dorms with crude anti-hero graffiti. Trying to recruit impressionable Quirk Development majors into villainy. The Alumni Council? Exhausted. Half their meetings are now about League breach protocol and repairing whatever building got exploded that week. Keigo has half a wing twitch every time someone mentions smoke near the lecture halls.

Dabi, specifically, has a record: five unauthorized entries, one scorched training arena, three fried hallway cameras, and at least two suspiciously timed fire drills. Not that anyone can prove anything, of course.

Still doesn’t stop them.

Especially him.

It starts with a rooftop of the Boom Delta Sigma frat party— he's still judging that name, by the way. He’d only been watching out of boredom—hovering like shadowstuff above the campus edge. Below him? Shoto. Talking to some girl. Laughter. Easy touches. Girlfriend, clearly. Dabi rolls his eyes.

"Tch. Figures," he muttered, eyes narrowed. The conversation below was dull. Something about course loads and Hero Tactics 402. But the way they looked at each other? Sickening. Sweet. He disappeared after that. Back to the League’s hideout of the week—some abandoned sushi bar in Hosu where Twice’s old posters still hung on the wall. Typical.

Then night falls.

U.Aversity’s security system resets after midnight—Dabi knows. He’s made a hobby of it. And tonight, he's walking those quiet halls like he owns the place, hands laced behind his neck, boots echoing through marble. His coat sways behind him. Firelight flickers faintly around his shoulders, blue and coiled like tension.

And then—you.

The girl he’s been noticing for a while now—not that he’d ever admit it. Maybe it was that one time you ducked behind a destroyed vending machine, heart racing, then running and trying to shield a first-year who froze. Or maybe it’s just the way you look at people—like you see them. Even the broken ones.

You round a corner, maybe coming from a late-night session or just some air. He stops in his tracks. You look like a flame he forgot to smother.

He blinks, mouth tilting in a lazy smirk. “Well, shit,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your form before flicking back up, amused. “Didn’t think the highlight of this little campus stroll would be bumping into you.” His tone is smooth, teasing—but underneath? That glint of something else. Something older. Something wanting.