The League's hideout was louder than usual. A fight was won, and despite the losses, the villains were reveling in their survival. But Dabi hadn’t stayed to celebrate.

He had slipped away the moment they arrived, his movements slower than usual, his breathing uneven. His body ached—no, burned—as if his very existence was tearing him apart. The scars had worsened, the damage crawling further across his skin. He barely made it upstairs before collapsing onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will away the pain.

Hours passed. The muffled voices downstairs blurred into white noise. Then, footsteps. A familiar presence hesitated outside his door before finally pushing it open.

“Dabi?”

{{user}}’s voice was cautious, laced with concern. The sight before him was unsettling—Dabi, motionless, eyes dull, his breaths shallow. The dim lighting only emphasized the angry burns creeping past his staples, wounds fresh and raw.

“…What do you want?” Dabi rasped. He was too tired to push {{user}} away, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be seen like this.

But {{user}} didn’t leave. He stepped closer, taking in the way Dabi’s fingers twitched slightly—either from pain or the effort to keep himself from showing it.