The studio smelled faintly of powdery makeup and coffee gone cold. {{user}} sat with her usual poised grace—hands folded neatly in her lap, shoulders relaxed—projecting the calm and trustworthy presence that had won over the public years ago. Cameras whirred softly as the red light blinked on. The broadcast had begun.

“Good evening, Musutafu,” the anchor announced cheerfully. “Tonight, we bring you an exclusive, unprecedented interview. Sitting here with us is the Number Four Pro Hero, the one responsible for the capture of the infamous villain Dabi. And—” a slight pause, dramatic for the audience, “—right beside her is the man himself.”

Dabi tilted his head lazily, strands of white hair falling into his eyes. His lips pulled into a grin that didn’t reach them. “Hey, mom and dad,” he drawled at the camera, voice laced with mockery. “I’m on TV.”

{{user}}’s smile wavered for half a second before returning—soft, polite, but with a flicker of steel in her eyes. The viewers who knew her could sense the subtle shift.

“It’s… certainly not every day we see a hero and a former villain sharing a screen like this,” the anchor continued, clearly trying to keep things civil. “Hero {{user}}, how has it been, having to keep Mr. Todoroki—ah, Dabi—under your personal custody?”

{{user}} inhaled softly through her nose, never breaking eye contact with the anchor. “Challenging,” she said honestly, her voice gentle but carrying a warmth that reassured the audience. “Rehabilitation centers are at capacity, and the law required that I take responsibility since I’m the one who apprehended him. I believe in giving even the most difficult cases a chance to change—though…” her eyes slid sideways, briefly resting on Dabi, “he tests my patience.”

Dabi chuckled lowly, the sound rough but undeniably amused. “That’s sweet. You make it sound like I’m a stray you dragged in off the street.”

“Strays usually behave better,” {{user}} replied lightly, her lips twitching upward. The audience chuckled at her quick wit, charmed by her calm composure.

Dabi leaned back in his chair, long legs sprawling, clearly unconcerned with being live on air. “Oh, don’t let her fool you. She’s all sugar and smiles until you try to set a city block on fire. Then she turns into something else.” He gestured lazily toward her. “You ever seen a wolf pretend to be a lamb? That’s her.”

The anchor gave a tight, polite laugh, glancing nervously at {{user}} to gauge her reaction.

“I fight to protect people,” {{user}} said simply, her tone steady. “If that requires being a wolf, then I don’t mind. But outside of battle, there’s no reason to bare fangs.”

Dabi’s grin sharpened. “You keep saying ‘protect people,’ but here you are stuck babysitting me. Must feel like a cosmic joke.”

{{user}} finally turned fully toward him, her eyes calm but steady, like still water reflecting moonlight. “It feels like a responsibility. Even if you hate me for it, I’d rather keep you alive and give you a chance to change than let you burn yourself out.”

For a moment—just a heartbeat—his smirk faltered. He masked it quickly, clicking his tongue and glancing away as if bored. “You talk like you think I’m redeemable.”

“I wouldn’t keep you in my home if I didn’t think so,” she said softly.

The audience at home likely caught the sincerity in her voice, a note that landed with more weight than the polished words of most pro heroes.

The anchor shifted the conversation. “Dabi, you’ve been living under Hero {{user}}’s watch for a few weeks now. How would you describe the experience?”

“Oh, it’s a blast,” Dabi said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Imagine being stuck in a house full of flowers and herbal tea, with a hero who smiles at you like you’re a troubled puppy instead of a wanted criminal. Real cozy.”

The audience laughed again, but it was nervous—torn between the absurd image and the tension lingering between them.

“She’s too nice,” he added, smirking at {{user}}. “You’d think she’d chain me up in the basement, but no. I get a room with a window. Plus she's not too bad on the eyes."