Diego knew that he wasn't the most well off.

As he meandered through the slums of Musutafu, the poorest district within the province that was overlooked by most heroes, he couldn't help but lament as to how he got to where he was.

His past... wasn't the cleanest. His parents, from what he was told by his past caretakers, were forced to give him up upon birth since they had no way to purchase what they needed to take care of themselves AND a baby. His father came from America, some place called Virginia, and his mother from Mexico. Where specifically, he didn't know.

From there, he was transferred to an orphanage, but his lack of speaking prowess led him to be an easy target for bullies. After all, why not let out your aggression on someone who couldn't tattle since they didn't utter a word? He was also discriminated against for a part of his body that came from his genetics, his angel-like wings - he was always the odd one out, no matter how hard he tried to fit in.

He picked up a hobby to try and distract himself, and when his quirk came in, the ability to form projectiles with a divine light, he knew that the best choice for him would be archery. It just matched with him naturally, like the sun to the sky, and it fit him well enough - he had read Robin Hood quite a lot in his off time, and found himself growing a certain fondness for the wooden weapon. Of course, he barely had the money to buy a bow, so he put it on his wish list for his following birthday and began to do odd jobs around the neighborhood for cash. The older folk seemed to like it.

Finally, he got enough to buy a simple wooden bow, and fall in love with it he did. He would practice in the nearby woods daily, refining his quirk to bounds he never even knew existed, along with his skill in the craft. He learned how to fletch his own arrows, string and destring his wooden weapon, and even built his own quiver out of bramble and cloth.

He was finally, truly happy.

But that all changed on one fateful night, when he was coming home from his daily shooting session. He was immediately shocked, aghast, utterly horrified when he found out that the orphanage, his home, was shrouded top to bottom with burning flames. Smoke curled at the air like the talons of a greedy dragon, fire licked at the air, and all over heroes and firefighters were shouting at eachother, coordinating a rescue. Traumatized, Diego did the only thing his mind told him to do - run away.

There was a few reasons he did this, besides his fearful state of mind. He didn't want to be sent to another orphanage and be isolated again. He didn't want to be away from his favorite training spot. He didn't want to be taunted by his peers.

And of course, the most sensible solution to the mind of an 8 year old was to be homeless.

Looking back on it now, it wasn't one of his brightest moments, but it was the life he chose and the life he stuck to, including to this day. He made a home within one of Musutafu's many alleyways, coursing through the city like veins. He stole pretty much all of his essentials. He went from place to place, but no matter where he loitered, he always stuck close to his favorite strip of woodland. He grew thinner and thinner as the weeks ticked by, yet somehow he still maintained the strength to draw his string.

Living in the streets taught him a lot of things. For example, if you got in a fight, you had to fight DIRTY. Villain battles were glorified in the world of heroics, stretched out for popularity, for glitz, for media attention. People wanted to see flashy powers, dramatic fights, but those weren't realistic. But against people who have lived in the dark?

One would be lucky to even make it out alive, filled with insouciant, belligerent people.

Diego was agile. He prided himself on his lithe movements, his ability to hop from rooftop to rooftop, his prowess of squeezing through tight holes, and of course, his speed and accuracy with his weapon of choice. He could conjure and nock an arrow, draw his string, aim, and let loose quicker than the average archer, which helped him in terse fights. His aim was borderline deadly; in the midst of rapid movement, he could aim for the head, heart, or joints of choice with ease. It just came naturally to him.

The only real weakness he had, besides being easily breakable - one bad hit was enough to cripple him, or hinder his movement at the minimum - was his wings.

His wings were highly sensitive. If they're so much as touched, he seizes up, leaving him open for a nasty blow. If they're hurt, he crumples to the ground like a sack of potatoes, delirious with agony.

He didn't even know how to fly, for goodness sake. He just uses them to help for balance. They hindered more than they helped.

"You look lost, little boy." A voice from aside rasped, snapping Diego from his thoughts. Slowly, he turned, and came face to face with a hooded figure wearing ragged clothing, leaned against a wall that was right about to turn into an alleyway.

A lone pale eye snapped to him from the darkness shrouding the man's face, which slightly unnerved the boy of light. However, he stood still and nodded his head, a pensive frown spread across his expression.

"I think I can help you. Us people...the heroes never bother to help us. Why come here if you won't get any fame for it, eh?" He continued, before gesturing towards the entrance beside him. "If you need money, down there is the place to go. You can rake up all kinds of cash if you play your cards right."

Diego glanced down the alley, blinking owlishly. Then, he turned to the man, nodded gratefully, and scurried off at a brisk pace.

He never did see that man again.

Diego's venture had led him towards a part of town that was somehow more shady than the area he was already residing in, but it more specifically took him to a run down bar. When he approached the interior, he was perplexed to find that there was actually no one at the front counter - rather, all signs pointed to the stairs that led towards the basement, where sounds akin to cheers and shouts rang out from below.

While underground clubs were not an aberration from Diego's usual sightings, the level of enthusiasm displayed was somewhat jarring. Wearily, he made his way down the steps, the cheering growing louder by the second.

When he got down to the main floor, the exuberant energy was so potent it was nearly tangible. People were screaming their heads off, all facing towards some kind of cage - inside being two people who were duking it out as if their lives depended on it, covered in bruises, scrapes, and blood. The area itself wasn't anything special, just a large, open room with walls made of brittle wood and a cement floor. In one corner, there was a bar, while in another, a group of people were huddled around a table, placing bets. Diego's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when he noticed just how much money was being thrown around.

Was this...was this a fighting club?

Diego looked around at the various people hanging around, and noticed that many of them didn't seem to have the battle-ready physique that was expected for people of a ring like this. Not to say they were fat, but they weren't muscular either. However, the two people in the cage were definitely more on the beefier side, duking it out as if it were a deathmatch.

Diego watch with morbid fascination as the fight continued, and idly, he couldn't help but wonder - is this what the man from earlier was talking about? He wanted Diego to join a fight club? Not to doubt that it wasn't an exorbitant about of money that could be gained from such an endeavor, but…

"Hey."

Diego yelped and jumped nearly a whole foot in the air when a voice sounded to him from behind, and he whirled around immediately to face the source. Staring back at him, eyes filled with mild mirth, was a tall man with spiked yet fluffy black hair, turquoise eyes, and patches of gnarled, wrinkled, purple skin that was attached to him by staples. It covered the bottom half of his face, neck, and what was exposed of his arms. He wore a dark blue jacket with a high, ripped collar, matching pants cut off above his ankles, and a pair of dark dress shoes. He also has a plain pale gray, scoop-neck shirt, below which a gray belt with a circular pattern wraps around his waist.

"You seem to be new here. If you want cash, you're in the right place," the man said tantalizingly, as if he already knew that Diego stood no chance against these men.

Diego knew it too. He averted his gaze and sunk lower to the floor, already attempting to leave.

But, before he could, the man's arm seized his own, locking them together. "Come on now, you weren't just going to up and leave, were ya?" He asked, smiling coyly. "Why not have a little chat, you and me? It couldn't hurt, could it?"

Diego had no choice but to oblige. Wearily, he padded forward, falling into step with the other male as they maneuvered through the bustling crowds, eventually finding a parted area near the bar. With tandem motions, the two took their seats side by side; the man gestured for the bartender, a man made of mist, making a specific motion that seemed to be recognized instantly.

"So," the man said, turning to face Diego minutely, "I guess you have your questions. You can call me Dabi. What's a little boy like you doing here with the big, bad wolves?"

The winged boy was silent, playing with his fingers shyly. His cheeks were flushed, and his wings occasionally fluttered with discomfort. He was very, very uncomfortable, and wanted to get out of this as quickly as possible.

"Not a talker, eh? That's fine. Not like I have much to say anyways. Trust me, a person like you in here ain't going to do you shit." Dabi said, narrowing his eyes slightly. He then sighed and grabbed his now present drink, downing it quickly and dispersing the mild rasp that conjured within his throat. "Have you ever heard of Stain?"

Diego shook his head.

"He is a vigilante who kills false heroes. Those who pretend to want to help others, but instead focus on the glory, the limelight, the money, the fame. People who hide behind personas, and are truly evil, manipulative bastards who fight for no one but themselves." He hissed, gripping the glass tightly. He then relaxed, smirked, and leaned forward, hunched over against the table.

"I'm not a good guy. I did my fair share of fucking terrible things. And I don't regret them. I want to purge people like Endeavor, and rid society of heroes. They only serve to get in the way." Dabi chuckled, his teeth glinting underneath the artificial light. "No one has come to help you, have they? Typical."

Diego, as usual, said nothing.

"I take it you're one of those hero hopefuls too, eh? Brats like them make me sick." Dabi said nonchalantly, picking at one of his scabs with his index finger. "You should turn to the darker side. You'd be much more suited for that, seeing as you're built like a twig. But you wanna know something about twigs? They're easy to snap.

"...you better fly, little birdie." Dabi grinned, grabbing one of Diego's wings and holding up his other hand. Immediately, it burst into flame - it was just an iota of his true power, yes, but still enough to be a threat.

"Or else you won't have wings to carry you around."

It was a clear sign that Dabi was done with this conversation. Diego took the chance eagerly, leaping off of his seat and shoving his way through the crowd. He didn't stop until he reached the back stairwell, barrelling up there as if his life depended on it.

Return he did not, for he never would bestow such a location even upon his worst enemy. It rubbed him the complete wrong way, and he vowed to stay away from that sector as well as he could.