wip #∞

You eat. Your tastebuds not granting you the satisfaction of savoring the meal. But it’s not comfort. Not really. It’s just fuel in a cage with a semi-soft bed and hot running water.

After eating, you place your tray by the door, where he normally picks it up, and you sit back on the mattress, and wait.

And eventually—he shows.

The door whines open without warning. Dabi steps inside with a dog-eared paperback.

He tosses it onto the mattress beside you with casual disinterest.

You glance down. The Count of Monte Cristo.

“Subtle,” you say dryly.

He gives a half-shrug, eyes already scanning the corners of the room. “Figured you’d start talking to the walls if I didn’t give you something else to do.”

You run your fingers over the cover. “What is this? A hostage enrichment program?”

“You're welcome.”

You pause. Then smirk faintly. “Didn’t peg you as a reader.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you as the type to survive this long.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just awkward. Uneasy. Like two people trying to remember which mask to wear.

You look back at the book. “Is this supposed to mean something? Revenge and all that?”

“It’s a story,” he says simply, folding his arms. “Take it or leave it.”

You turn the book over in your hands, flipping through a few worn pages. The margins are underlined. Not recently. But intentionally. You don’t ask if it’s his copy.

“Did you used to read a lot?” you ask instead, not looking up.

There’s a pause.

“Before.”

That word again. Before.

“Sometimes,” he says eventually. “It's hard to focus when you’re on fire.”

You laugh—soft and hollow. “Fair.”

He sits across from you again, in the same chair, the one he always seems to claim like a ritual. The distance between you stays the same. The tension, however, does not.

You shift on the mattress, letting your legs stretch out over the side. “So. . . Are you planning on keeping me here forever, or just until you get bored?”

He doesn’t answer.

You look up at him. “Because it’s starting to feel like either way, I die here. Doesn’t matter if it’s by your hands or theirs.”

He regards you for a long beat. “You’re not dead.”

“Yet.”

“That’s more than most get.”

The weight in those words slams into you harder than expected. Like there’s a ledger in his head, and you’re still on the right side of it—for now.

You chew your bottom lip, then try again. “Do you even know what they’re going to do with me?”

Another long pause. “I don’t ask.” he states quietly.

You blink. “You don’t ask?”

He shrugs, eyes cast somewhere over your shoulder. “Nothing good ever comes from the answer.”

It makes you cold. Not because you believe he’s lying. But because you believe he isn’t.

“Why bother feeding me then? Why give me books and let me shower and—” You cut yourself off before your voice cracks. “Why pretend I’m not just another loose end?”

His jaw ticks. “You don’t scream.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You don’t beg. You don’t cry. You just… sit. Think. Talk.” He shifts, like the words are too sharp in his mouth. “Makes it easier.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

The silence returns to fill the gaps in the words you both would to say, but don’t. This time like a wall.

You pick at the corner of the book again.

“…You ever miss it?” you ask, almost to yourself.

He glances at you.

“Normal,” you clarify. “Whatever that means.”

He lets out a faint scoff. “Normal’s just another lie people cling to.”

“That’s not a ‘no’.”

Glacier-like eyes stare into your own, bottom lid twitching. And before he can speak, someone playfully knocks. The door opens a sliver.

“Daaabiiii,” Toga sing-songs, head peeking through. “Shigaraki wants you. Something about a recon detail.”

She pauses when she sees you.

Her eyes flicker over you—curious, hungry.

You stiffen under her gaze.

Dabi doesn’t turn to look at her. “Out.”

Toga pouts. “I was being polite.”

“Get. Out.”

“You’re no fun.” She twirls a knife between her fingers and sighs. 

Then she’s gone.

The door shuts a little too hard, but not before she gives you one last wink and a smile.

A warning wrapped in teeth.

Dabi doesn’t move for a long moment. He brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it.

Sucking a deep breath, he finally stands. Doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“You’ll be fine. Just read the damn book.”

He walks out.

And this time, the silence he leaves behind feels different. Less like prison.

More like something just waiting to cave in.

-

The screen flickers, casting pale light across his face in the dark.

Dabi sits at the desk where the monitor broadcasts the current enigma in his life. An elbow rests on the grainy wood surface, supporting his head up while he continues to observe the grainy black-and-white feed in front of him. His right leg bounces up and down as his mind races. 

You're sitting cross-legged on the mattress, the one he dragged in two nights ago after hearing the way your breathing changed when you slept on concrete. You’re touching the book he left—haven’t opened it yet. Just picking at the edges like you think it might burn you. 

Maybe it will.

He doesn’t know why he left it. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

Your movements are slower now, more thoughtful, like you’re trying to make sense of what your body remembers when your mind won’t keep up. You don’t talk to yourself. You don’t cry when you think you’re alone. You just sit there and exist like that’s enough. And it’s getting to him. Eating away at every thought.

He shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t matter.

But you do. You’re all he ever thinks about now. 

Dabi exhales slowly, and slings his coat over his shoulders. The door groans on its hinges like a greeting as he pushes it open. You look up sharply, but there’s no fear in your eyes this time—only guardedness. A flicker of suspicion. He feels like that’s worse.

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him with less force than usual. The room feels warmer than it should be.

"Hey," you say carefully.

He doesn’t respond. Just walks over to the chair, drops into it, and rests an ankle on his knee. You notice he’s fidgeting with his fingers.

There’s a long silence.

You break it first..

“I forgot to tell you that I saw someone the other day,” you say. “Blonde. Big eyes. The same one who called for you yesterday. Looked at me like she wanted to carve a heart into my ribs.”

“Toga,” he mutters. “Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone.”

“Comforting.”

“She didn’t touch you, did she?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t say what he’d do if she had. You’re not sure if it’s a warning or a promise.

You glance down at the book between you. Your fingers are resting on it again like a nervous tic.

“Did you actually read this?” you ask. “Or was it just lying around?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “What do you think?”

You flip the cover open. A name is scratched inside in messy handwriting. Not his, probably stolen.

“It's about revenge,” you say, testing the air.

“Isn’t everything?”

You hum quietly, scooting back and leaning back against the wall. For a moment, there's no violence between you. Just steam-thick air, soft breath, the faint rustle of pages as you finally start to read.

He stays longer than he should.

At some point, his head drops back against the chair, lids lowered like he might drift off. You watch the staples along his jawline catch the light, you wonder how it would feel to run your fingers over them.

"Can I ask you something?" you say after a while.

His eyes crack open, one pale blue flickering with tired amusement. "Do you ever stop?"

You ignore the jab. "If they kill me, will you watch?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

When he answers, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “I’d make sure it was quick.”

You flinch. But you don’t look away.

He holds your gaze in his for a long beat. “I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why it scares me.”

Another silence. He looks away first.

He watches the hallway camera feed from his phone this time, eyes narrowing when he sees Twice pacing two doors down. Muttering to himself again. There’s been talk about movement. Pro Hero patrols shifting east. Pressure rising.

He hears voices down the hall. Shigaraki. Compress. A disagreement.

And he knows your time here is running out.

You’re not a long-term plan. You were never supposed to become anything. But you have.

Dabi scrubs a hand down his face and exhales through his teeth.

When he walks past your door again, he stops.

Just for a second.

And then, against his better judgment, he opens the door

Your head shoots up from the book, you look surprised, even though you shouldn’t be. However, he never comes back twice in one day.

You wait.

“We might move you soon.”

Your heart stutters. “Move me?”

He nods once.

“Why?”

“I don’t ask,” he says again, but this time it’s laced with something else. A warning. A regret. A quiet kind of run while you can, even if there’s nowhere to go.

 “Just… stay sharp.” he softly states.

And before you can ask what that means, before you can ask if he’s coming with you, he’s already gone.

Door shut.

Boots fading.

And the room feels smaller than it ever has before.

-

The hallway is dim, its only light coming from the flickering bulb above the main junction where several of the warehouse corridors meet. Dabi rounds the corner with his coat pulled tighter than usual, trying to walk past unnoticed. He needs air. A cigarette. Something.

He doesn’t get far.

“Touyaaaa~”

Her voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Toga steps out from behind a support beam with her arms behind her back, swaying slightly like a child waiting to be praised—or punished. Her hair is a little messier than usual. There's dried blood on her cheek. Not hers.

He doesn’t stop walking.

She follows.

“I saw you go in again,” she says, voice lilting. “That’s four times this week. You usually get bored after once.”

“Maybe I’m just getting more patient,” he mutters.

She giggles. “That’s not it.”

Dabi stops.

Turns.

“They’re cute,” Toga says sweetly, and the way she says it makes his skin crawl. “All soft and scared and grateful. Makes me want to see what color they bleed.”

He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t raise his voice.

But the heat rises.

“Toga,” he says, and it’s not a warning. It’s a promise.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “I didn’t touch her. You told me not to, remember?”

“You so much as look at them wrong again, I won’t repeat myself.”

Her head tilts, eyes wide, voice dropping to a whisper. “Why do you care?”

He says nothing.

Because he doesn’t have an answer he likes.

Just then, Twice appears from the side hallway, hoodie half-zipped, mouth already mid-sentence.

“I told you guys this was gonna get messy—wait, are we fighting? Is this a fight? Please don’t fight.”

Toga spins toward him with a dramatic sigh. “Our dearest Dabi is getting attached.”

“I am not,” Dabi snaps, too fast.

Twice blinks. “Dude. You brought them food. Like, not even the gross stuff. Real food.”

“They needed to eat.”

“You brought them a book.”

“They were going to start talking to themselves.”

“You put a bed in their room.”

“They were—” He cuts himself off.

Twice raises both gloved hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I think it’s nice! Creepy. But nice. But also creepy.”

Toga leans back against the wall, twirling a knife idly. “You better be careful, Touya. They’re starting to look at you like you matter.”

Dabi meets her eyes, unflinching. “That’s their mistake.”

“Or yours,” she sings.

Twice snorts, trying to defuse the tension. “Well, we can’t all be emotionally constipated murder machines, right? Right?”

Neither of them laughs.

Dabi turns back toward the hallway, boots scraping the floor as he walks away. “Stay out of their room,” he throws over his shoulder. “Both of you.”

Toga watches him go, expression unreadable.

Twice looks between them and sighs. “Y’know, this is how those enemies-to-lovers stories start. Just saying.”

Toga flips her knife and grins. “Not if I end it first.”

-

The warehouse halls feel colder when he leaves them behind.

Dabi slams the door to his room shut behind him and leans against it for a long moment. He should’ve burned that conversation to ash. Let Toga scratch her curiosity out on someone else. Let Twice run his mouth until it exhausted him. But no.

They’re all watching now.

Not just you.

Their face when I walked in… they looked relieved.That’s the problem.

He pushes off the door, drags a hand through his hair, and crosses the room to the corner where the monitor glows faintly, humming like a heart that won’t die. His thumb grazes the edge of the table as he sits back down.

The feed pulls him in again—grainy, black and white, but clear enough to see you curled up on the mattress, facing the wall. The book he left you is tucked under your arm like it’s something precious. Like it matters.

He taps a knuckle lightly against the monitor frame. Not hard enough to make a sound, just a ghost of a touch. Just enough to admit he’s still here.

They’ll touch them, he thinks, jaw tight. If I stop watching, someone will. Toga, bored and impulsive. Shigaraki, if the wrong idea takes root. Compress, if leverage becomes liability.

He’s seen what happens to people who get left alone in League custody.

And maybe you’re not supposed to be the exception. But you are.

That pisses him off.

He tells himself it’s just a habit now. A way to keep control. A way to monitor the variables, keep the rest of the idiots from getting creative. But when you shift slightly and curl your body tighter on the mattress, Dabi leans closer to the screen like that’ll let him feel the warmth too.

He sits like that for too long.

Boots kicked up, cigarette burning out in his fingers, face lit only by the pale glow of the camera feed.

He can’t trust them with you.

And the more he watches, the more he realizes—

He’s not sure he trusts himself, either.

-

You hear the door before you see him.

It opens quieter this time. Not Dabi’s usual impatient creak—this is something more theatrical. Intentional.

You glance up from the book, body already tensing.

The man who enters doesn’t move like Dabi. He’s smoother. Slower. Every step feels like it’s part of a performance. His clothes are more tailored to his body. His mask glints in the low light as he tips an invisible hat with a flourish.

“Well, well,” he says smoothly. “So this is the infamous guest.”

You straighten, posture taut. “You’re not him.”

“Correct,” he replies, stepping fully into the room, heels of his shoes clicking. “And judging by the way your shoulders just locked up, you already miss him.”

You say nothing.

He chuckles, a deep, velvety sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. Curiosity got the better of me.”

He walks toward the chair Dabi usually occupies, but doesn’t sit in it. Instead, he glances around the room like he’s assessing a gallery exhibit. His gaze lands on the book stretched out on its spine, the mattress that your body rests on, the towel folded on a table by the open panel of the bathroom.

“My, my. He’s really gone soft.”

You frown. “Why are you here?”

“To observe,” he says honestly. “To understand why a man like him would bend his routines for someone like you.” 

His words aren’t cruel—but they sting. You aren’t sure why.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you mutter.

“No one ever does,” he replies. “But it’s not about what you ask for. It’s about what you cause by being here.”

You look up sharply. “So what is it? What do you think I’ve caused?”

He finally sits in Dabi’s chair, resting one ankle over his knee like he has all the time in the world. Taking over the presence of your captor companion.

“I think you’ve stirred something dangerous,” he says lightly. “Not because you’ve tried to. But because he’s watching you like he’s looking at something he lost.”

Your heart thuds once, heavy.

“I think,” he continues, voice still polite, “that you should be very careful. Because when a man like Dabi remembers how to care, he starts to remember everything else too.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not your bad thing,” Compress says with a shrug. “But it may become one.”

He stands again, dusting invisible lint from his coat.

“Do you want my advice?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to send a chill through you.

“Don’t become a weakness. Because we don’t have room for those here.”

Then, just like that, he turns and exits with a dramatic flourish of his mannerisms, leaving behind the faintest scent of spice and smoke.

You stare at the door long after it shuts.

Suddenly, the room feels colder again.

Like no matter how clean you are, you’re still something they’re waiting to use—or discard.

-

The click of the door echoes louder than it should.

You don’t move right away. Just sit there, frame rigid, staring at the space where he stood like you expect him to reappear. Like it was all an illusion, some eerie theatrical piece performed for your benefit.

But the room stays empty.

You press your hands into the mattress, digging your fingers into the weathered material, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help. Your skin still prickles, not from fear exactly, but from something colder. Something more corrosive.

Don’t become a weakness.

The words replay in your head, over and over, each pass cutting deeper.

You’re already a weakness. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. Not because you’re powerful or important, but because you’re the opposite. Just some unlucky bystander who got dragged into the orbit of monsters playing pretend with power.

But now you’re something else too. A liability. A variable.

You glance toward the corner of the ceiling, toward the watchful eye of the camera lens.

And for the first time since Dabi cut the ties from your wrists, you wish you were still bound.

Because at least then, there were no illusions. No masks pretending to be mercy. No warmth passed off as indifference.

Your throat tightens. Fingers twitching like you can summon some quirk that could shield you from everything you don’t understand. But you're quirkless. Useless. 

You don’t cry. Not yet.

But it’s the first time you feel like maybe you should have, from the start.

Because Mr. Compress didn’t threaten you.

He warned you.

-

A tired creak emits from the door. The noise has conditioned you to flinch.

Dabi stands in the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light. His posture looks exhausted, one hand braced on the doorframe like he’s debating whether to walk in at all.

You straighten your spine, trying to bury the remnants of your unease. But it lingers in your mouth like ash.

His eyes scan the room. You. The mattress. The book, with extra dog-eared pages. His eyebrow twitches.

“What did he say to you?” he asks.

No preamble. No lazy sarcasm.

Just that.

You lift your chin. “So you were watching.”

His expression hardens. “I always watch.” 

You’re not sure if it’s meant to be reassuring or a threat.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quietly. “It’s not like he hurt me.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

There’s something in his voice that’s more than curiosity. Something… sharp. Controlled, but only just. Like he's already bracing himself to torch the world if the answer’s wrong.

You look away. “He just talked. Said I shouldn’t make myself a weakness. That people like you don’t have room for them.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

You expect a scoff. A dismissal. One of his usual sardonic comebacks.

But instead—

“I told him not to come in here.”

Surprised by the bluntness. “Why?”

His eyes meet yours, unreadable. “Because he doesn’t know the difference between a threat and a warning.”

“…And you do?”

“I know what it looks like when someone’s already lost too much.” His delayed response coming out strained. 

Your breath catches in your throat. That wasn’t what you expected. And the worst part? It sounds like the closest thing to an apology.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him—not slammed, not locked. Just closed. The air shifts again, heavier now, but not oppressive. Just… full.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of him,” Dabi says after a long pause.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I’m not sure who I shouldn’t be afraid of.”

He exhales, steps closer, but doesn’t sit. He stays near the wall, like he doesn’t trust himself near you right now.

“You want the truth?” he asks.

You nod, slowly.

His voice drops low. “Everyone in this place is dangerous. Some of them more than others. Some of them are less honest about it. But I’m the one who keeps them out.”

You study him, heart thudding harder than you’d like.

“Why?” you whisper.

His mouth pulls tight. His gaze drops for a second.

And then, barely audible— “Because someone has to.”

The room is so quiet. You can hear the distant hum of the warehouse electricity through the walls. For a second, you wonder if he regrets saying it. If he’s going to backpedal, throw up that wall of cold indifference again.

He just stays there—standing in a room too small for how much space he takes up. For how much he’s taking up inside of you now. You’re still not sure if it’s fear, or something far more complicated.

You hug your body tighter,, suddenly aware of the way your shoulders still tremble—not from cold, but from the aftermath of Mr. Compress’s words. From the knowledge that your presence here is changing something that maybe wasn’t meant to bend.

“You . . . okay?” Dabi asks, voice low.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Am I okay?

“I don’t think I’ve been okay since I woke up in this room,” you murmur. “But . . . I’m not falling apart.”

He nods slowly, like that’s the most he can hope for. Then, without a word, he moves to the chair—but instead of sitting, he lowers himself down onto the floor. Just beside the mattress. Not too close. Just enough to make himself… present.

You glance at him, confused. “What are you doing?”

He stretches one leg out, crosses the other over it. “Making sure no one else drops by.”

Your heart kicks a little harder.

“You’re staying?” you ask.

“Just for a bit.”

You lie back against the wall, still watching him. The mattress creaks beneath you. He keeps his gaze forward, focused on the wall, like looking at you too long might undo him.

“Don’t read into it,” he adds.

“I already have,” you reply, barely above a whisper.

That makes the corner of his mouth twitch—just a fraction, but it’s there. Something close to a smile. Or the memory of one.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It’s the kind that settles around two people who no longer feel like strangers, even if they haven’t decided what they are yet.

“You always sit on the floor when you’re being nice?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs. “Better than standing guard outside. You’d just get paranoid.”

“I already am.”

He glances at you then briefly.

“You’ve got more fight in you than you think.”

You hold his gaze. “You keep saying things that sound like compliments.”

“Maybe you’re hearing them that way.”

You both fall quiet again.

And slowly—carefully—you stretch your hand out, let it hang off the edge of the mattress. You don’t expect him to take it. You don’t even know if you want him to. But something inside you wants him to know it’s there.

He doesn’t move right away.

But then—softly, without looking—he shifts his hand just enough that his pinky brushes yours. Not a grip. Not even a touch, really.

Simply contact.

Enough to say, I’m here.

And for now, that’s enough.

It’s barely a touch.

Flesh to flesh, if you can call what’s left of his skin that. Just the edge of a pinky brushing against yours. The kind of contact most people wouldn’t even notice.

But he notices.

Because he shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be sitting on the floor of a room they use for leverage. Shouldn’t be close enough to see the way your breathing changes when you think he’s not looking. Shouldn’t be watching you the way he does every time you shift like you’re learning how to trust your body again.

But he is.

And now your hand is there—open. An invitation, or a challenge. He can’t tell the difference anymore.

You’re too clean now. Too quiet. Like a smoothed-over scar that hasn't started itching yet.

He told himself he’d just keep watch. That this was about control. About protecting the mission. That you were a loose thread he couldn’t let someone else pull.

But you're more than that now. You’ve become a variable in a system that’s supposed to be airtight. And he hates variables.

They make people soft.

They make people reckless.

And he’s been both before.

He tilts his head, just enough to see the curve of your cheek, the lashes resting against your skin. You’re pretending to sleep—or trying. He doesn’t blame you. Being watched wears a person down. He knows that better than anyone.

Your fingers twitch, ever so slightly, still hanging off the edge of the mattress.

His eyes narrow.

You’re not afraid of me anymore when you should be.

He leans back slowly, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. His joints ache. His scars itch. The room is filled with the intoxicating smell that is you. Pure.

He doesn’t close his eyes.

He can’t.

Because if he does, he might forget that this is a cage. That he’s supposed to be the one holding the keys. Not standing on the inside with you.

He tells himself again: Just keep watch. Just make sure no one else comes in.

But even he knows it’s a lie.

He’s not just watching you.

He’s protecting you.

And the moment Shigaraki figures that out, it’s all going to burn.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

The air had that edge to it again—static on the skin, that eerie sixth sense that said something was coming, even if you didn’t know what. You’d felt it before—just before the pro-heroes rolled someone in half-burned, or when gang members stumbled through the emergency doors, screaming and soaked in blood.

The city never really slept. It just held its breath.

You stopped in front of Room 407. Little girl. Seven. Quirk onset came with internal bleeding—a rare mutation in her genetics. She was brave. Didn’t cry when you took her vitals. Smiled with a mouth too big for her face and said she wanted to be a hero, “like Mirko, but scarier.”

You smiled back.

You always smiled back, even when it hurt.

A nurse passed you in the hallway, nodding. “You going home after this?”

“Soon,” you said.

Lie.

You had two more charts to finish. Another patient in observation. And a coffee you hadn’t even touched. Your life had rhythm then—exhausting, yes, but your own. It was predictable. You walked home at sunrise. You knew which alleys to avoid. You bought fresh fruit from the lady who opened her market before dawn.

You weren’t special.

You were safe.

You had no idea someone was already watching you. That somewhere in the darkest corners of this city, your name had been written down by hands that burned.

Present

You wake up with the taste of hospital antiseptic still in your mouth.

For a moment, just a second, you expect to see the buzz of fluorescent lights, the soft beep of monitors, the comfort of clean sheets and sterile halls.

But the world that greets you is concrete. Cold. Still.

The memory evaporates as your eyes adjust.

The tray of food is still there. Untouched. The water is warm now, condensation gone. Your body aches from sleeping curled in a ball on the floor, your shoulders stiff, jaw sore from clenching in your sleep.

You don’t know what time it is. There are no windows. No clocks.

Just the camera.

You glance at it, and even though you know logically it’s just a blinking red light, your skin crawls.

He’s watching.

You shift, stretch your legs slightly, testing your restraints. Still tight. Your wrists throb from sleeping on them, but you’re intact. Unhurt. Not bleeding. Not dead.

Not yet.

You exhale shakily.

Last night plays on a loop in your head. The way he looked at you. The way he moved. Calm. Detached. Not like a man—like a wildfire that learned how to walk.

Dabi.

You try saying the name in your head without flinching. It doesn’t work.

You’d read about him before. Seen clips. Reports. Flames licking up from buildings. Civilians screaming. Pro-heroes chasing a blur of blue fire through the night.

None of it had prepared you for the way he stood in that room. Like he was daring you to scream and betting you wouldn’t.

You hadn’t.

You don’t know if that was bravery… or just instinct. He hadn’t come back.

Not yet. 

But he will.

And when he does, you have a decision to make: survive by staying silent, or start figuring out who he is beneath the ash and the name that makes people run.

You hear the lock before you hear his footsteps.

It’s not loud, but your body recognizes the sound now. It sends a ripple down your spine before your mind catches up. The bolt retracts, the hinges creak, and the door opens with all the ceremony of a breath held too long.

You don’t move.

You’ve already decided that.

You’re still seated against the wall, face carefully unreadable. You’ve had all night to think about what to say—what not to say—and somehow you still don’t have anything ready.

He steps in, like he never left.

Same coat, same boots, same lazy, soulless expression. But something in his shoulders reads differently this time. Not tension—restraint. Like the temperature in the room rose with him, and he’s holding the heat in his palms.

His eyes land on you.

You wonder if he was expecting to find you curled up, crying, broken.

You meet his gaze head-on.

Neither of you says anything at first.

Then he lets the door close behind him with a soft thunk.

“You didn’t eat,” he says, nodding toward the tray.

You shrug.

“Didn’t trust it,” you reply.

Dabi tilts his head like that’s mildly interesting. “Not poisoned. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t waste the time.”

Charming.

He takes a few steps further into the room, keeping a generous distance between you. You can feel him, though. Like smoke curling under a doorframe—he doesn’t need to be close to suffocate you.

You wait for him to speak again, but he doesn’t. He just watches you, the way someone watches a storm cloud—not afraid, not fascinated, just calculating the odds of thunder.

“I thought you said I was leverage,” you say, voice low. “Is this how you usually treat hostages?”

That earns the ghost of a smirk. Barely there. “Only the interesting ones.”

You don’t let your face flinch. “What makes me interesting?”

He leans against the wall, folding his arms. “You didn’t scream.”

“Maybe I will next time.”

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

He says it so casually, so disinterestedly, it makes you want to stand up just to break the stillness. But you don’t. You stay still, and so does he.

For a while, the silence stretches. This time, it’s not oppressive. It’s observational. Mutual.

You speak first again. “Why are you here?”

Dabi raises a brow. “In the room, or in the existential sense?”

“Either.”

He looks away, eyes flicking to the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“I’m here,” he says slowly, “because the others would’ve made a mess. And you’re more useful not crying in a corner.”

You study him. “You’re not what I expected.”

He shrugs. “Most monsters aren’t.”

That catches you off guard. Not the word, but the ease with which he uses it. No denial. No pride. Just a statement of fact.

You shift forward, cautious. “You don’t strike me as someone who follows orders.”

“I don’t.” His voice sharpens slightly. “I do what I want.”

“And what do you want right now?”

He looks at you then. For a moment, you swear the flicker in his eyes is uncertainty.

Then it’s gone.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Your pulse kicks harder, but your face doesn’t show it. You hold his stare for a breath too long before breaking it, looking toward the tray again.

You speak softly this time. “I’m not going to beg.”

“Good.”

Another long pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he straightens up and walks back to the door.

Halfway there, he says without turning, “I’ll bring something fresh next time.”

You blink.

“What?”

“The food.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, the lock clicks into place.

But this time…

The silence doesn’t feel as empty.

-

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring at the tray until your eyes start to blur.

It’s still there—untouched, as much a part of the room now as the camera and the cracks in the ceiling. The water’s probably lukewarm. The bread’s stiff. You should eat. You know that. But doing so feels like a concession. A thread of compliance you’re not ready to hand over yet.

Even if you’re starving.

You roll your shoulders, wrists aching again. The zip ties haven’t been cut. Dabi didn’t offer, and you didn’t ask. Some twisted part of you knows: the longer they’re on, the easier it is to remind yourself this isn’t normal. This isn’t peace.

You aren’t safe.

You glance at the camera again.

Still blinking red.

Still watching.

You wonder if he’s behind it now, the way he had been last night. You wonder if he’s already making observations. Filing you away under “useful” or “breakable” or something worse. You wonder if he’s the kind of man who watches for fear or for interest.

You hate that you’re wondering anything at all.

Time passes strangely in this place. You think an hour goes by. Maybe two. Your thoughts spiral and slow until they collapse in on themselves. The tension in your body finally gives way to exhaustion, and you drift in and out of a shallow, uncomfortable half-sleep.

Until—

Footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate.

You sit up straight just as the lock shifts again.

This time, your heart doesn’t race. Not the same way.

The door creaks open, and your muscles go tense on instinct.

But it isn’t Dabi.

It’s her.

The girl from the voice outside the room. The laughter.

Blonde, messy hair. Pink cheeks. Eyes too wide, too sharp. There’s something wrong with the way she moves, like a child mimicking grace. In her hands, she holds a little bag—like she’s stopping by a friend’s house with snacks.

Her smile is too sweet.

“Hi there,” she says, sing-song. “Touya’s busy, so I thought I’d come say hello.”

Touya. You almost miss it. 

She doesn’t notice your expression. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She walks in with the casual confidence of someone who knows she can make you scream if she wants to.

“Brought you something,” she says, dropping the bag in front of you. “New food. Not poisoned, promise.”

You don’t move.

She crouches, getting a little too close for comfort, resting her chin in her hand as she watches you.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” she pouts. “Touya said you were ‘quiet.’ He likes quiet things. Broken things, too.”

Your stomach turns.

“You know…” she hums, drawing a little knife from her pocket and spinning it between her fingers, “you’re really lucky. If it were up to me, I’d already be trying you on.”

“Trying me on?”

She tilts her head. “I like to wear people I like. Just for a bit. Get inside them. See how they move.”

Your body goes rigid.

She giggles. “But he said I’m not allowed to touch you. Isn’t that sweet?”

No.

It’s not sweet. It’s terrifying.

The door creaks again, and Toga’s eyes flick up, disappointed.

“Oh well. Looks like my playtime’s up.”

She twirls on her heel and skips to the door. Just before she leaves, she glances back and adds, “He’s watching, you know. All the time.”

Then she winks.

The door shuts behind her.

And this time, the silence that follows is different.

Tainted. Sharpened.

You stare at the camera again, pulse roaring in your ears.

If he’s watching, he saw all of that.

If he’s watching, he let her come in.

And if he’s watching now—he knows you’re not afraid of him the way you’re afraid of her.

And maybe that’s exactly what he wanted to see.

-

You don’t move for a long time after the door shuts.

Your breathing is shallow. Controlled. The kind of breathing that comes from training your body not to react. You learned that from long nights in the emergency room—when a patient flatlined and you had to keep your hands steady, your voice calm, your mind ruthless.

It’s different now.

You’re not the one doing the saving.

You’re the one trying not to fall apart.

Toga’s visit lingers like a stain on the air. Her giggle still echoes in your head, high and sharp, like glass against your eardrums. The glint of the knife. The word Touya. You turn it over in your mind, unsure whether it was a mistake, a threat, or both. Your eyes shift to the bag she had left of what you assumed to be snacks. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of crunching on chips. But you can’t give in so soon.

You glance at the camera again.

Still blinking.

Still watching.

You whisper into the silence, more to yourself than to the lens.

“Are you going to let her come back?”

The red light blinks once. No answer.

Of course.

You wipe your palms on a pant leg. They’re damp. You hate that. You hate that your body betrays what your face won’t show. Fear is supposed to be a defense mechanism. But here, it just feels like an invitation.

You scooch back and curl into your corner again, knees pulled tight to your chest, heart thudding dully against your ribs.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

It’s hours later—maybe night, maybe early morning—when you hear the lock again.

You stiffen instantly, pulse surging.

This time, you know the footsteps.

Measured. Heavy. Him.

The door opens, and he walks in with the same expression as before, like the world bores him and you’re just another piece of it. But his eyes track you carefully, sweeping the room once, then landing on you.

You’re still where he left you.

But now, you speak first.

“Is she going to come back?”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away. He sets something down—another tray, this one warmer, steaming slightly. A thermos beside it.

“You eat yet?” he asks, like you didn’t just bring up the girl who nearly carved your face off.

You don’t look away. “She called you Touya.”

He pauses, only for a heartbeat, before picking up the plastic bag of snacks, grimacing as he looks inside. “She talks too much.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Dabi crosses his arms. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re stupid or brave. “She won’t bother you again.”

You narrow your eyes. “And I’m just supposed to trust that?”

His jaw tics. “You don’t have to trust anything.”

He walks toward the wall and crouches to adjust the tray, sliding it closer to you. The steam from the thermos carries something you didn’t expect—heat, yes, but also spice. Real food. Something cooked. Not whatever sugary junk Toga had likely stolen from a convenience store.

“Why are you being nice to me?” you ask, voice softer now, not accusing—genuinely trying to understand.

He lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a scoff.

“I’m not.”

You look down at the tray. Then up at him again.

“You stayed.”

That stops him.

He looks at you, really looks this time—like your words touched something raw beneath the skin. And for a fraction of a second, something almost vulnerable flickers behind his eyes.

Then it’s gone.

“I’ve done worse things than keep people in a room,” he says.

“I believe you.”

You pause.

“But that’s not what I asked.”

Another silence.

“Eat,” he says. “Before I change my mind.”

He turns and walks out without another word.

The door shuts.

The lock clicks.

And for the first time since you woke up here, the food in front of you doesn’t feel like a trap.

It feels like a question.

You don’t touch the food right away.

You sit there, staring at it, steam curling lazily in the still air. The scent drifts toward you—familiar, comforting. Warm broth. Rice. Maybe curry. Someone cooked this. He cooked this?

You doubt it. But he brought it. Set it down himself. Told you to eat.

And now you’re sitting here, legs numb, stomach knotted, and all you can think is—

Why?

Not just why the food.

Not why the careful distance, the control, the vague threats wrapped in silence.

But—why you?

You whisper it into the room like it might answer back.

“Why am I even here?”

It echoes, thin and useless against concrete walls.

You’re not a hero. You don’t have a quirk anyone would weaponize. You don’t work for the government. You’ve done nothing special—just studied, worked, lived quietly.

So why?

You stand slowly, every muscle aching from stillness, and pace across the room. It’s a short path—five steps, turn, five steps back. But it helps. Sort of.

The camera blinks in the corner.

You stop and look straight at it.

“Is this supposed to mean something?” Your voice is louder now. “Is this punishment? Leverage for what?”

Silence.

You breathe through your nose, grounding yourself, trying to stay calm—but you’re fraying. You can feel it in your hands. In your voice.

“I don’t matter,” you say. “That’s the part you’re missing. I’m no one.”

The door stays shut.

But your chest tightens with something hot—not fear this time. Anger.

“Tell me why I’m here,” you mutter. “Say it. Or kill me. Pick one.”

You don’t expect an answer.

So when the door opens, you almost lose your mental balance.

Dabi steps in like he never left. He leans against the doorframe this time, arms crossed. Watching.

“Yell a little louder,” he says. “Maybe I’ll feel something.”

You glare at him, your breath sharp. “I want to know why.”

He raises a brow. “I already told you. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

You stare into him from your seated position.

“I’m not stupid,” you bite. “You said I was leverage, but for what? I don’t have connections. I’m not rich. I’m not someone who matters. So why—why me?”

Dabi looks bored. Tired. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t blink.

“Maybe it wasn’t about you. Maybe it was about who was supposed to come looking.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate.

You wait, but he just shrugs.

“Guess no one did.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Your throat goes tight. You don’t know if it’s anger or humiliation or the ache of a truth you were trying not to name. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the idea that he’s right—that you are no one. And maybe that’s the real reason he’s not afraid to keep you here.

Because who would miss you?

Your voice is quieter now. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t need to.”

“You act like I’m some puzzle you’ve already solved,” you snap. “Like you can just keep showing up with food and silence and expect me to play along.”

“You are playing along.”

“No. I’m surviving.” Your restrained body language showing the best emotion you can.

Dabi’s eyes narrow slightly. Not in anger—more like interest. You watch him watching you. He walks towards you and kneels in front of you, close enough so you can see the color in his eyes. Not just blue, but glacial. Cracked. Ancient.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The air between you is charged—frustration wrapped in a stare-off neither of you wants to lose.

And then—

He gets up and steps back.

Just one step.

He doesn’t break eye contact when he says,

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who doesn’t know why they’re still here.”

Then he turns and walks out.

And for the first time—

You hear the lock click behind him, and it doesn’t feel like a prison.

It feels like a wall.

A wall you’re starting to want to break through.

-

You don’t move for a long time after the door clicks shut again. This time, it doesn’t feel like being locked in.

It feels like being left behind.

The difference is subtle. But it’s there. You feel it in your chest—like a door inside you closed too, sealing something off before you even had time to give it a name.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know why they’re still here.”

The words replay over and over.

You’re back to your seated position against the wall. The food is still sitting where he left it, but your appetite is gone. What’s curling inside you now isn’t hunger—it’s something else. Guilt? No. Loneliness?

Maybe it’s the quiet.

Maybe it’s what silence sounds like after someone almost let you see their humanity, then took it away again.

You glance at the camera. Still blinking. Still watching.

But he’s not there now.

You’re sure of it.

You shift your gaze to the wall, to the cracks in the paint, to the corner where the cement doesn’t quite meet the floor. You start counting breaths.

In. One, two, three. Hold. Out. One, two, three.

You used to be good at finding meaning in the little things. A soft smile from a tired nurse. A kid drawing pictures in the waiting room. A stranger’s kindness on the subway after a double shift.

You wonder if those things still matter in the world outside.

You wonder if the world outside even misses you.

Because no one has come.

No alarms. No police. No search.

Dabi was right.

Maybe no one did come looking.

Your eyes sting. Just a little. Not enough to cry. Not yet.

You tuck your face into your knees and exhale.

You don’t want to care about him. You don’t want to wonder about the weight in his voice or the look in his eyes or the way he steps back like he’s afraid to be close to something that still breathes without guilt.

But the wondering is already there.

And deep down, you know this is how it starts.

Not with kindness.

With curiosity.

With questions.

And for now, those are the only things you have left.

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you give him a small smile, a little mischievous as you lean in and peck him on the nose.

“now you do,” you giggle as you inch closer on the wooden step.

he rubs his nose immediately, checking for smudges of lipstick, “fuckin—“

“just all my lovin’,” you tease.

you’re half expecting him to get back at you for it—to tickle you or smother you in kisses of his own; katsuki can be aggressive in love, a fact you’ve come to know well over the years.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he stares. a few paused seconds that feel slowed down to eternity. there’s the look again, like something’s been on his mind, combined with the look people say he only has for you.

suddenly, you feel nervous—for what, you don’t know, but your hand searches for his out of instinct. it’s damp when your palm sticks against his, his fingers intertwining with yours like a habit of his own.

he turns your clasped hands over, catching view of the back of yours.

it stays quiet for a few moments—a side of him you only see in times like this. you know there’s a war waging on in his head, a decision he’s been mulling over just waiting to be spilled out.

you know because katsuki only ever sits out before sunrise when he has a lot on his mind.

“you okay?” you whisper.

he hums, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, “just thinkin’.”

“you can tell me…” you nudge, “…if you want,” the butterflies in your stomach flapping harder.

you hold your breath.

he chuckles, that damn attractive half-sigh, “don’t know how yet.”

and you think you know what it is—a conversation you have every now and then, always with open-ended conclusions. katsuki has his issues, and so do you—

“just say it how it is,”

you never pressed him for answers, fully content to live at the pace he wanted because you loved him and that was enough.

—but when katsuki looks at you like this, like you’re everything gone right in his life, it’s hard not to think about the possibilities of more.

tears begin to collect along your waterline as he leads your hand into his pocket, your fingertips grazing a small velvet box.

you choke up, tears falling as you pout.

“woke up in the middle of the night with a fuckin’ god awful migraine,” he starts, wiping your tears with his thumb, “so i thought i’d go for a run, y’know, sweat it out and shit.”

you nod, listening.

“but when i got out of bed, you started mumblin’ my name,” he takes a deep breath, “thought you were awake, honestly, but you didn’t say anythin’ when i asked what you needed.”

“looked like you had a nightmare, so i went back to bed, and—” he pauses, collecting his words as he breathes out, “—you hugged me n’—”

his eyes gloss over as he tucks you into his side.

“—you told me you loved me.”

it’s not anything new—you both know that; you tell him you love him all the time. but—

“fuck, i’m ramblin’,” he half chuckles again.

“i love that about you too,” you sniffle, half-giggling as you nudge his chin with your nose.

you intentionally catch katsuki in the in-between’s because you love the side of him that comes out when he’s a little loose-lipped; a little less tense from all the day’s worries. you love the way he rambles, how he goes off on a tangent when he’s especially passionate about something.

he gives you a look so soft, your heart swells.

a small smile makes its way to katsuki’s face as he grips your hand tighter.

“couldn’t go back to sleep ‘cause all i was thinkin’ about was how to keep it this way forever.”

you’ve pictured this moment a few times before, all in different scenarios, situations, locations—always with the note that even if it didn’t happen, you’d be okay.

but now you have this: you and katsuki, on the wooden steps right by your garden bathed in twilight.

“decided on it for a while, just didn’t know when would be right,” he fishes the box out of his pocket, fiddling with it as he takes your hand in his other one.

“i know you said that lovin’ me was enough, but forever’s a fuckin’ long time,” he half-chuckles again, a little choked up, “you didn’t think i’d let you waste that on some loser who won’t even ask you to marry him, did you?”

you don’t think you’re coherent when you respond, a mess of tears and all the love you can pour out. katsuki doesn’t even get to show you the ring before you tackle him, nodding into his chest.

it doesn’t matter, anyway—

it was more than enough that he even asked.