Downstairs, where no light reached and no footsteps dared echo—where nothing living should linger. The water was warm, as it always was. Too warm.

A low, gravelly hum rung out. The turquoise hue in his eyes narrowed, sharp and unblinking—as the cord snapped free. His fingers curled over the porcelain rim, knuckles pale. One hand drifted over, slow and reverent, brushing wet strands from the other’s still face. “I feel like more…” he murmured.

Tonight. Tonight was different. A soft shift, an invisible threshold crossed. They’d danced this dance before, but never this far, never this deep.

You’d breathe.

Then stop. Subsequently, Dabi’d follow suit, the ritual complete. The water ceased its flow, silence rushing in to fill the void. Lifting your fragile framework from the tub with practiced ease, his movements fluid and unhurried. The towel traced slow over the contours of your face, revealing skin tinged with something sickly, something ghostly.

“You move like I want to,” he commented, barely audible. The static in the room hissed faintly, much like the distant voice through broken wires. Oddly comforting. Familiar. The fire-user’s words lingered in the air like smoke. “To see, like your eyes do.”