The alley is silent, broken glass crunching beneath Tomura Shigaraki’s worn sneakers as he walks with uneven steps, his posture loose, like the whole world bores him. Beside him, Dabi trails just a few paces back, cigarette dangling from his lips, blue embers flickering with each slow exhale. The streetlights above buzz and flicker, casting stuttering shadows that stretch and tremble across the alley walls.

They turn the corner together and halt.

Shigaraki’s hand twitches, brushing against the discolored, withered palm hanging from his neck. His red eyes narrow. Dabi steps up beside him, gaze sharp, flicking forward with that same deadpan curiosity he gives to every broken thing he finds.

“Well, that’s not something you see every night,” Dabi says, voice dry, low, his tone more amused than surprised.

Shigaraki doesn’t reply.

Instead, he steps forward, slowly, boots scraping the concrete as if savoring the moment. He crouches down, back creaking faintly with the movement, and stares for several long, silent seconds. His head tilts. A smile stretches across his face—tight, unkind, full of something far too close to interest.

He reaches down, fingers curling, and closes his hand around a small wrist.

Dabi watches, arms folded, smoke curling lazily around his head.

“Really?” he says, raising a brow. “You’re keeping it?”

Shigaraki lifts the child effortlessly, holding them close without a hint of concern. “It’s not a question,” he mutters.

Dabi shrugs, turning on his heel and walking off without another word, the soft crackle of flame pulsing with each step.

Shigaraki follows, his prize in hand, eyes forward, uncaring of who saw or didn’t.