Days passed, and Dabi and {{user}} bickered like feral cats in a cage. Their arguments were constant—sharp, petty, and occasionally explosive. Kurogiri had to intervene more than once, his mist curling between them like a referee made of smoke, muttering, “Enough. Save it for the mission.”

But beneath the daily sparring, something shifted.

Dabi began to learn her—really learn her. What made her snap. What made her go quiet. The subtle tilt of her head when she was annoyed. The rare softness in her voice when she was calm. He cataloged it all, not consciously, but obsessively. Like her moods were puzzles he couldn’t stop solving.

Then came the night.

The dead of night.

{{user}}, usually a heavy sleeper after long days with the League, stirred violently. Her veins burned. Her muscles locked. Her breath hitched in her throat.

And then—memories.

Flashes of childhood. The first taste of blood. The loss of control. The screams. Her family’s faces twisted in terror. The way they looked at her—not like a daughter, not like a sister, but like a monster.

Her body trembled. Sweat bloomed across her skin. Her breathing grew sharp, erratic.

Down the hall, Dabi was still awake, scavenging for a midnight snack. He moved like a shadow, half-bored, half-starved. But just as he finished, a sound caught his ear—heavy panting, rustling from {{user}}’s room.

He paused.

She always slept like the dead. Even after missions. Even after bloodshed.

His brows furrowed. He told himself to ignore it. To shove the concern down deep where it couldn’t claw at him.

But his heart didn’t listen.

He knocked once, then leaned against the doorframe, voice low and gruff. “Oi, batty.. you dying in there or something?”

The sarcasm was there. But so was the concern—threaded through the gravel of his voice like a secret he didn’t want her to hear.