The window squeaked as it slid open, and Dabi dragged himself through, hitting the living room floor with a muffled thud. His breathing was ragged, his body a mess of half-healed burns, and fresh blood streaked down where his staples had torn loose. Every step felt heavier, but this place looked empty enough. He just needed cover—five minutes, maybe less.

Then—crunch.

His head snapped up. A faint glow spilled from the kitchen. He moved toward it on instinct, slow and quiet, only to stop dead in the doorway.

Someone was there.

A person in scrubs, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a bowl of chips. Their eyes widened when they saw him—tall, scarred, bleeding, framed in the shadows of their own apartment.

“Oh my god!” they shouted, nearly dropping the bowl. “Who—who the hell are you?!” Their gaze flicked over the blood dripping from his jaw, horror giving way to sharp focus.

“You’re hurt,” they said suddenly, setting the snacks aside. “Badly. Sit down—now.”

Dabi let out a short, raspy laugh, leaning against the doorframe, smirk tugging at his ruined mouth despite the pain. “Great. I sneak into the one apartment that belongs to a doctor.”