The guy walked in like he owned the place. 
I didn’t like that.

Smoke curled off his shoulders, the faint smell of burnt flesh trailing behind him like a warning. His eyes were pale, disinterested, like this whole thing was a waste of his time. He had that kind of presence that said, I don’t care if you kill me. 
It pissed me off.

He looked at me. Not like most people do, scared, or curious, or respectful. No. This guy looked at me like he was already planning where to toss my ashes.

“Shigaraki Tomura,” he said, voice low and lazy, like the words were an inconvenience. “So you’re the one making all the noise lately.”

I scratched my neck. It’s always worse when I’m agitated. That familiar itch, like something crawling just under my skin. I could feel my fingers twitch, half-wanting to reach out, to test if that stitched-up face would crumble to dust like everything else

“And you’re... Dabi?” I ask. "You didn’t give a last name.”