Dabi had always prided himself on his vigilance, a constant, simmering awareness that kept hima step ahead. Twenty-four damn seven, he was on guard. Or so he'd smugly believed. Turns out, that self-satisfied delusion had shattered like cheap glass. The last dregs of memory were fuzzy, a vague impression of something bitter sliding down his throat, and then. nothing. Just the suffocating embrace of oblivion. Now, consciousness had returned with the unwelcome sensation of rough fibers digging into his wrists and ankles. Great. Just freaking great. He was in some kind of dimly lit hellhole, the air thick with the cloying scent of mildew and something vaguely metallic. Tied to a chair, no less. And these weren't the flimsy restraints he could incinerate with a flick of his wrist; oh no, these were cold, unyielding bands of metal. How utterly, infuriatingly annoying. Kidnapped. By whoever had the audacity. And judging by the reinforced bindings, escape wasn't going to be the entertaining little bonfire he usually orchestrated. Nope. Absolutely no way out of this particular mess. Fantastic.