SAME AS EVERY other station or square or anywhere people burst like worms out of earth, hanging above the exit doors of Hiro-o Station stood a banner of five meters long glory. Every child in Japan dreamt their faces on that overprized piece of fabric, to force others into worship of that status—without anyone finding out that this one smile of false sense of security had followed them from the first second out of womb to the last second on their deathbeds. It did not matter that these heroes were feeding off adulation and every one of those Machiavellian bootlickers suckled their narcissistic hunger for fame and money. And the ones that did matter to, were doomed. Because the only place this unimpugnable propaganda didn't penetrate their daily life was prison: perhaps the fairest trade one could ever hope for in this hellhole.

So, it was cosmic irony that stepping outside for the first time in five years on the afternoon of 17th of June when the air was so still—dust of the banner hung in front of the sunset like constellations—Enji Todoroki's face didn't greet his eldest son. Instead of the symbol of reign-of-fire and his fire-red hair, there was a face of boyish blue eyes and white hair on the banner, along with an egomaniacal grin as sharp as a two-edged sword. Dabi snorted, Murasaki was just like any other hero—a cheap act, through his squeaky clean, seemingly selfless face always jumped a corrupt stain of either fame or venomous ambition.

The sliding doors of the station opened to a crowd that reminded Dabi of Monday riots. Because no way the man who shouldered his way down the stairs had more rational reasoning than Dabi's cellmates throwing their mystery meat to the guards. Those Mondays had the edges of his fighting instinct blunted from being collided with threats of solitary confinement so many times; his feet, however, was still insistent to flee back to the library and check on the fireflies the old librarian had captured for the littlest bright yellow on ink blue days.

Dabi always wondered why those brainless beetles wouldn't fly off when he opened the jar's lid. They had been banging into the glass all day, surely if given the chance, they would return to their old life, right?

Wrong.

Now Dabi's lid was off. But all he wanted was the same as the fireflies: to return to prison and hide inside the labyrinth of shelves.

His body stopped at the crossway. The constant touching, the stream of people trying to pull him along their flow, the facsimile of that derisive smile on every passerby: acrid reminders that he stayed inside the jar long enough to not belong anywhere else. Dabi's breath hitched. Here, in Minato City, the only thing changing colors was the traffic light. He wiped his sweaty palms inside the pouch of his sweatshirt as yellow turned to green for the third time.

The heat of two bodies at each side was with unpleasant familiarity, making Dabi's flesh crawl. He had always found joy in reading into people's true nature by their body heats—but now, instead of the usual lukewarmth of the tall hero with the blankest face Dabi had ever seen, there was the deceptive coziness of hypothermia. And he couldn't joke about the other hero's feverous temper either—it made Dabi's hair stand on end as if he was picking at a pus-filled scab. Which were far from cracks of misjudgment.

"Dr. Amano's not gonna wait for you forever," said the lukewarm hero whose bullying Dabi had got use to over his four free days, but never the whiff of the hero's sugary breath. During the probation interviews, another hero had been chewing that same strawberry gum as he breathed down Dabi's neck. Unavoidably, the fruit now smelled as rotten as the hero system.

His heart ached from the rage. All from that it was disallowed to. And it had been a while, since this ache turned inside him like a knot that didn't end into a bow. Five years ago, ashes of no urns would be blown out where once heroes stood—but tyranny stayed even if tyrants were gone. No more mistaking that.

"Walk." The other hero pushed Dabi, her palm spread open and thorny on his back.

In this newfound movement, Dabi's limbs trembled and tangled, fingers desperately tugged his collar for a gasp of breath, which complicated his dance with the crowd: a scared porcupine's clumsy waltz.

Of course, after making a fool out of himself, the porcupine's shame would stop his lonely march. His body would not move, refused to move, because why should it? Everyone was watching him—without pity for the worse or the better.

Dabi's imagination neither was generous nor benign, it ran in circles, in lemniscates at best. Realism was the patron saint of whatever sanity he had got left. His mind had let go off any impracticality—glass castles, second-hand, power-hungry dreams, a finger poking at his ego's bruises, fear of rejection.

But in times like this?

It ran wild.

The countdown of traffic lights clashed with Dabi's heartbeat—which pulsated between his ears as if his whole body was a frantic heart—the glaring red, bickering of two heroes blurred by crescendo of horns, his body getting pushed and shoved like an old circus animal amidst the cruel crowd.

His blood boiled, and smoke escaped from the seams of his body. He touched his cheek, the bleeding puncture he stapled this morning, and pulled his mask over his nose.

Warmed-over sentiments of every place Dabi had ever felt comfortable ran through his body, luring him into an escapism he could not afford. Yes, he could turn back and hop on the other line, if he wanted to see the fireflies. It was the season, after all. Outside of Tokyo, fireflies danced until July.

Yet, keeping Dr. Amano waiting would be a self-inflicted wound.

It began without a hiss in the air, when the sky wasn't prepared for tar black. Then raindrops were trickling from his temples. Of course, the most straightforward method to put out fire. Divine intervention.

He should mimic the fireflies once again—since now it was impossible to choose watching them under the rain—should begin to learn how to stomach survival when he couldn't swallow around his resentment toward the hand that fed him. The path plotted for him was governed with contradictions. But so was he, for the first time Dabi was thankful for being handed over a cut-and-dried choice.

Then he walked: the walk of a content defeat, half-blind, choking, mellowed, yes—but still alive. Resilience wasn't inside of him anymore, what was one more defeat—if not another trick of misfortune? A man who was beaten once could not be beaten again—unless he tried. And Dabi would not try. He had been beaten and betrayed: life was leeching off his body.

The best he could do was to make a show of obedience like he had been doing for the last five years. Every step he took was in homage to the countless days he dreamt of winning his freedom back.

The protest brewing in the middle of the fourth district turned into quiet disquiet when Dabi set foot on the dead-end street. In the front of the group, a man jumped off from Iwazaru Clinic's gate, three police officers straightened up from the wall they had been leaning on, instinctually grasping the knob of their batons, crowd cracked their knuckles like a war cry, the hero behind Dabi cackled, they're gonna eat you alive—plenty of proof that whoever Dabi was and whoever he might become would just be a repugnant villain.

So, he didn't stop. Let the world decide if they were brave enough to throw the first punch. To disallow anyone to take hold of his freedom, Dabi would gladly turn his other cheek. If it carried him inside that clinic, this pavement could be the birthplace of his forgiveness.

Dabi entered the crowd. Because what would a Monday be without displeased men and misused power and vengeful strikes?