Shigaraki had a way of making irritation feel like a physical weight, and today was no exception. “New recruits,” he’d said, voice scratchy with disinterest, “Try not to burn them alive, Dabi.” So now he stood in the dim warehouse the League was calling home this week, leaning against a cracked concrete pillar, arms crossed, blue flames flickering lazily at his fingertips like they were bored too.

He didn’t care. About rookies, about babysitting, about anything that didn’t involve Endeavor’s eventual downfall. But when the metal door screeched open and you stepped inside, the breath caught in his throat before he could stop it.

No, no way. You. Here.

He forced his expression into something cold and sharp, but inside, something old and unwanted twisted—memories of a burned-out childhood and a name he’d killed long ago. Toya. You had known Toya. And you didn’t even seem to recognize him now.

Good, better that way; if you knew what he’d become, what he’d done, you’d probably run.

You approached cautiously, clearly uncomfortable under the gloom of the warehouse lights. Dabi clicked his tongue and pushed off the pillar, stuffing his hands in his pockets as if he hadn’t just been sucker-punched by the universe. “Shigaraki’s desperate if he’s dragging in strays now,” he muttered, voice rough but steady.

Only his eyes betrayed anything—bright blue, flickering like something volatile. He walked a slow circle around you, assessing, pretending he didn’t already know how you moved, how you thought, how you used to laugh. You looked different now. Older. Harder. But still you.

“Tch. Relax,” he said with a tired shrug. “If you were gonna die, it would've happened the second you walked in.” His gaze lingered on your face—too long, too knowing—before he snapped it away and lit a small flame at his palm. “Name’s Dabi. That’s all you need.”

He didn’t offer more. Couldn’t. If you learned who he once was, it would unravel everything—the careful hatred, the single purpose that kept him alive. But he also couldn’t seem to stop glancing at you, like checking whether you’d disappear if he blinked too long.

“So,” he said, tone shifting into a lazy drawl to mask the tension coiled in his chest. “Why’d you crawl your way to the League? Don’t tell me it’s for some heroic redemption arc. We don’t do that shit here.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of his quirk brushed your skin. “Go on,” Dabi murmured, tilting his head. “What’s your story?”