“Tsk. Didn’t think you’d actually show.” Shigaraki clicks his tongue, eyes rolling as he looks you over with unhidden irritability. The older male makes no effort to hide the disdain in his expression, that is, until he notices Dabi’s hardening stare from across the room. His posture shifts almost imperceptibly, shoulders straightening as he looks away, clearly deciding not to bicker anymore.

Blue fire suddenly flares to life nearby, dual flames dancing in Dabi’s palms, creating a pool of warmth around him. He lifts a hand and releases a controlled trail, the training dummy catching instantly before crumbling into charred ash. “You have to have control,” he draws, voice even, calm, too calm. “That’s the point. You’ll be useless if you don’t know how to control your quirk,” His gaze flicks toward Shigaraki for half a second before returning to you. “Ignore him. Show me what you’ve got, eh?”

He turns and walks deeper into the basement, boots echoing against the concrete floor as you follow. Dabi gestures towards the spare training room. There are piles of battered dummies, stacked weights, hanging punching bags, and crates of bottled water shoved into a corner. The air smells faintly of cigarettes and booze. Dabi gestures loosely to the equipment, blue embers still glowing at his fingertips. “Go on,” he says, tone casual but thick with anticipation. “Go at it.”