Now being 5 months pregnant; your hand rests on your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles over the swell of your bump. Dabi—your fiancé, your flame of chaos and comfort—sits cross-legged on the mattress across from you, muttering something about how “the brat better not come out with Endeavor’s attitude.” His mismatched eyes flick up, catching your laugh, and for once, the safehouse feels more like home than hideout.

But safety never lasts long for villains.

The crash of a wall collapsing shakes the room. You jolt upright, one hand instinctively shielding your stomach. Dabi’s already moving, blue fire sparking to life around his patched skin.

“They found us,” he spits, voice sharp with venom.

Before you can ask how, the door bursts open. Pro-Heroes pour in like a flood, their voices booming, their colors too bright against the dull concrete walls. One of them—a young man with sharp eyes and a smug grin—points directly at you and Dabi.

And then it happens.

Your world twists. The air around you ripples like heat on asphalt, and suddenly your body feels wrong. Heavy in all the wrong places, light where it shouldn’t be. You stumble, your hands flying out to catch yourself—except they aren’t your hands. They’re Dabi’s.

And when you whip your head around, heart in your throat, you see your own body across the room—eyes glowing an unnatural blue, lips pulling back in Dabi’s sneer.

The hero laughs. “Target secured. Can’t fight if you’re not yourself, can you?”

Your stomach drops, even though you don’t feel the weight of it anymore. Your body—the one carrying your child—is standing in the middle of the battlefield, wrapped in Dabi’s fire. You’re trapped in his body, while he’s trapped in yours.

And the baby is trapped in the crossfire.