The lighter clicked. Again. And again. It caught, briefly, then sputtered out. Figures. Even fire didn’t want to touch you tonight.

The wind curled sharp around the rooftop, but it wasn’t cold. Just empty. Like everything else.

You leaned against the crumbling railing of the League’s base, flicked the lighter again, and finally it sparked long enough to catch the end of your cigarette. The burn was instant—satisfying. You your my eyes as the smoke filled your lungs, held it, let it sting.

Your hands were trembling. You hated that.

Fourteen. Just a kid. That’s what Toga always said with a giggle before tossing you a drink and telling you to “live a little.” Like you weren’t already dying in slow motion.

You didn’t remember exactly when you joined the League. Somewhere after your mom left. After your dad forgot how to look at you without that tired disappointment. You made a choice—or maybe you just ran out of them.

Dabi found you on a mission gone wrong. You were bleeding out behind a gas station. He didn’t say anything. Just crouched down, looked you in the eyes, and said, “You’re gonna die if you stay here, little girl.” His voice was tired. Detached. But something in it felt like truth.

And you'd been with them ever since.

Toga clung to you like an older sister with a twisted heart. But it was Dabi… Dabi who watched over you like some angry, broken ghost of what you could become. You fought like siblings. Ate together when there was food. Smoked together when there wasn’t. He called you "little girl" even when you screamed you weren't one anymore.

He always said nothing saved him. So maybe that’s why he never stopped trying to save you.

You took another drag. Your chest ached, but it was the good kind. The kind that made you feel something again. The rooftop door creaked behind you.

You didn’t need to look who it was. Only one person ever followed you up here.

“You trying to cough up your lungs, little girl?”

You exhaled slowly, head still turned to the dark skyline. “They’re already black anyway.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t scold you. He just sat down beside you, elbows on his knees.

You didn't know why it hit you then. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe the city lights flickering out one by one like they’d given up. Or maybe it was that Dabi didn’t say anything. He was always full of quiet judgment, but tonight it felt… heavy.

You blinked fast. Didn't help.

“My brain’s fucked,” you said suddenly, voice small. “Like—really fucked. I thought I was okay. I keep telling myself I’m okay.”

You could feel his eyes on you. The way he always looked when he knew the pain too well to pretend it wasn’t there.

You shoved the heel of your palm into your eye. “This isn’t who I wanted to be.”

“I know,” he said. Just that.

Your voice cracked. “Hope they feel bad. Every single one. Hope they remember me like this. Hope they see me dead and hate themselves for it.”

Dabi leaned back, letting his head fall against the wall behind them. “You’re not dead yet.”

You let out a bitter breath, tasting ash. “I feel like a ghost already.”

He was quiet again. For a long time. Then, barely loud enough to hear: “I was your age when I stopped being a person. Didn’t smoke then. Didn’t drink. I just burned. From the inside out.”

You turned to him, finally. His skin glowed faintly under the moon, stitched and scorched and cruel. But his eyes… they were soft. Scared, even.

“There was no one,” he said. “No one who gave a damn.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until the cigarette slipped from your fingers and fizzled out on the concrete.

“You were the first person who ever looked at me like I wasn’t garbage,” you whispered.

Dabi didn’t move. Just let the silence fall over them like smoke.

“You’re not garbage, kid,” he muttered. “You’re not me. There's still something to save inside of you. Something that's worth saving.”