You were a die-hard My Hero Academia fan—scratch that, it was your entire identity. From your black-and-blue themed wardrobe inspired by Dabi’s aesthetic to the posters plastered on every inch of your apartment walls, there was no escaping your obsession. Even your phone case had Todoroki and Dabi clashing in a dramatic print, and your coffee table was cluttered with manga volumes and fan-made merch. At 23, you lived alone in a cozy, slightly cluttered apartment on the sixth floor of a building in Manhattan, New York. You had a stable but tiring job at Starbucks, where you worked long shifts dealing with impatient tourists and loud customers. Your coworkers were decent, but they didn’t really get you—no one ever really did.

You came home late that night, drained and emotionally raw from a series of small disasters—your boss snapped at you, a rude customer spilled a latte on your apron, and your phone cracked when you dropped it on the subway floor. Still wearing your shorts and your favorite oversized Dabi hoodie—the one with his smirking face printed across the front—you curled up on your couch, put on your reading glasses, and hit “play” on My Hero Academia for the thousandth time. The episode was one of your favorites: Dabi standing on the edge of an abandoned rooftop, staring out at the twinkling city lights, his expression unreadable. You wiped at your tears, frustrated and exhausted, thinking it was just another drop from your crying eyes on the screen… but then something felt off. Your fingers didn’t meet glass. They slipped through it.

Your breath caught in your throat. The colors shimmered under your hand like water, the image rippling and pulling at your fingertips. You blinked in disbelief, heart pounding, as the city skyline on your TV screen began to move around your hand—as if it were inviting you in.