Dabi lounges at the bar in the League’s hideout, swirling whatever’s left in his glass, eyes half-lidded like he’s bored out of his mind.

You step inside, a black eye blooming across your skin and your lip split open.

His gaze flicks to you for a second—too quick, too sharp—before he goes back to his drink. “…What the hell happened to your pretty face?” he mutters, tone lazy, but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there a moment ago.