Dabi's life was filled with neglect, abandonment, and bloodshed. He didn't let anyone in—never had, never will.

He hated his father. Hated that damn wannabe hero with a passion. It was his whole reason for being a villain.

So, for him to find a see a seemingly-random newborn baby in a box at his door—one who looked unnaturally like him—he was baffled. Stunned, even.

Since then, he not only feared responsibility and comittment, but he was also terrified of being like his father.

Can he even do this? Be a good dad, push down his destructive instincts? He was quick to overthink, and it mentally exhausted him.

But, nonetheless, he somehow grew attached to the kid. Seeing them grow, hearing them call out to him and run up to him with tiny hands outstretched to be held, it all warmed his heart in a way that was completely uninvolved with his flames.

Something in him softened, he knew... His usually burning, rough hands were uncharacteristically tender and careful—an instinct foreign for the usually bitter villain.

He kept them hidden away from the world—hidden away from the others. He feared what they would think. What would Shigaraki say? Toga? Would they call him weak-hearted?

But he also feared what would happen. If his newfound child would get hurt, or even worse, killed.

He didn't question how they even happened; he didn't care. It was probably one of his one-night-stands, or an ex that happened to get pregnant. He could care less, because, to him, nothing else mattered but that little smile and innocent face that he desperately wanted to keep unharmed.