The city’s underbelly was quiet tonight, for once. Streetlights flickered weakly, the air thick with smog and the faint scent of rain. Dabi walked with his hands shoved into his pockets, blue eyes half-lidded and distant. His coat hung loosely around his frame, the collar pulled high against the chill. He wasn’t looking for trouble tonight — not that it mattered. Trouble always found him anyway.

He was halfway past a dark alley when he noticed it — a soft glow cutting through the grime and shadows. It wasn’t the harsh flash of neon or the gleam of a lighter. It was… warm. Gentle. He paused, head tilting slightly. “Weird.” Against his better judgment, he stepped closer, boots clicking softly against the wet pavement. The glow came from a heap on the ground — feathers. White, iridescent feathers, tinged faintly with gold. He frowned. “What the hell?”

He crouched down, and the pile moved. The feathers shifted, revealing torn wings — and beneath them, a body. Not a corpse, not quite. The faint rise and fall of their chest told him they were still breathing. An angel. Or something close to it. Dabi stared for a moment longer than he meant to, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. He didn’t think — he never did when it came to weird things. He just acted. Before long, the stranger was lying on his couch, wrapped haphazardly in gauze and a borrowed blanket.

Now, Dabi sat by the open window, smoke curling lazily around his head as he stared at them — the angelic figure bathed in moonlight, their wings twitching faintly even in sleep. He scoffed quietly, flicking ash into the tray beside him. “Great,” he muttered. “Guess I’m babysitting heaven’s dropout tonight.”