I stand in front of the reinforced glass, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. The room is cold, too cold. The lights above buzz in a steady rhythm, sterile and indifferent. Nothing in this prison was made for comfort. Nothing was made for healing, either. It’s a place meant for containment.

And on the other side of the glass, barely alive, is the reason I came.

Dabi,no, Toya, is strapped in a medical tube designed more like a slab. What’s left of his skin is wrapped in layers of treated cloth, the kind that doesn’t burn even when bathed in blue fire. His breathing is shallow, uneven. Machines hiss and beep around him, keeping time where his body no longer can.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I say quietly. I swallow. My voice sounds too loud in the silence. “They told me your consciousness comes and goes. Mostly goes.”

A flicker of blue light pulses under what remains of his eyelid. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, imagining signs of life where hope is thin.

I step closer until my forehead almost touches the glass. "I… wanted to see you. Even if you can’t respond.”

My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I’m not sure why I expected this to be easier. Maybe because I’ve faced him before, his hatred, his anger, his flames. But this… this is different. He isn’t burning now. He is just broken. And the worst part is that it wasn’t any of us who did this to him. He did it to himself. Because he thoughts that was the only way to be heard.

My throat tightens. “They’re keeping you alive,” I force out. “Father’s orders.”

The word father tastes bitter, like the inside of a burnt pan.

“He said he couldn’t let you die.” I exhale. “But I know that’s not what you wanted. You made that very clear…I’m not here to argue with your choices,” I whisper. "Not anymore. I’m just… trying to understand you. Trying to understand why everything had to happen the way it did.”

A long silence stretches between us, broken only by the whirring of the machines.

“I spent most of my life hating him too,” I continue. "For different reasons. But the same root. Maybe we both wanted to be seen. Maybe we were both trying to prove something he forced into us.”

My breath fogs the glass.

“You’re still my brother,” I say, and the words feel heavier than any wound I’ve ever taken. “Even now. Even like this. And I don’t want our story to end with you dying alone in a cell.”

I press my palm to the cold glass.

“I don’t know if you’ll wake up. I don’t know if you’ll ever talk to me again, or if you’ll even want to. But I’m going to keep coming back. Not because I think I can fix you, or redeem you, or change what you’ve done. But because I want to know you. The real you. Not the villain. Not the weapon. Not the ghost of a boy Father broke.”