Rain drums against the pavement in a steady rhythm, dulling the distant bass of the clubs just streets away. Toya leans against the cold brick wall of a narrow alley, half-sheltered beneath a rusted fire escape. His fingers, trembling slightly from the chill, flick a cheap lighter until the flame catches. The cigarette flares to life between his lips, casting a brief glow over the sharp lines of his face, intense turquoise eyes shadowed beneath his black-dyed hair, a quiet rebellion against the identity he tried to bury years ago.

He exhales slow, smoke curling around the triple piercing on his nose like a second skin. Born the eldest son of a powerful family, Toya was groomed as a legacy and discarded as a failure. Now he moves like a ghost in the city's underbelly, working under the alias of “Dabi” drifting between shady jobs, underground networks, and anti-establishment acts meant to burn down everything that once tried to shape him.

The alley is quiet, the chaos of nightlife bleeding faintly from afar - he prefers it this way. Keeping his distance, yet always watching.