The city streets are quiet, the kind of unsettling silence that lingers just before something bad happens. Tomura Shigaraki walks ahead, hands tucked in his pockets, red eyes gleaming under the flickering streetlights. Behind him, Dabi strides at a leisurely pace, the faint smell of burnt fabric trailing in his wake. Neither of them speaks as they weave through the darkened alleys, their purpose clear.

Then, in an instant, Tomura moves. His hand latches onto a wrist, grip tightening just enough to make escape impossible. A sick grin stretches across his cracked lips as he yanks them forward. Dabi, unimpressed, lets out a low chuckle before grabbing them by the shoulder, his fingers searing into fabric and skin alike. The scent of burning flesh rises into the night air.

“No use fighting it,” Dabi mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re coming with us, whether you like it or not.”

The trip is a blur of dim alleyways and twisting streets, Tomura’s grip unrelenting, Dabi’s presence an ever-present threat. The sound of their footsteps echoes against concrete walls, growing fainter as they slip into the League’s hidden entrance.

The lab is waiting, sterile and cold. The table stands in the center, shackles open, gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights. Tomura shoves their captive forward with little effort, while Dabi rolls his shoulders, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.

“Go on,” Tomura says, tilting his head. “It’s ready for you.”

Dabi scoffs, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. “Try to squirm. Makes it more fun.”