It was late afternoon in the Fukuoka district of Japan, the sky grey with overcast and a chill to the autumn air. Rain droplets soaked the sidewalks as Dabi’s boots splashed through muddy puddles. His hands clutched at his side.

His breathing was labored and vision blurry, sticky blood coating his palms of which he pressed harder against a deep gash. In an alleyway he collapsed against a brick wall, muttering a hoarse “shit” beneath his breath. This was it, this was surely how he would die.