Hey everyone,
I'm writing this fanfiction as a way to cope with (SPOILER) the loss of my favorite character. This story is primarily for my own healing, but I wanted to share it with anyone else who might be feeling the same way. Let's support each other through this.

I created a new original character (OC) specifically for this story to ensure a smoother narrative. I found it challenging to leave gaps for your own characters without disrupting the plot, so if you don't like the OC's appearance or quirk, feel free to imagine her differently. I'm also not a fan of quirkless characters because it often leads to an imbalance of power, and I prefer to avoid helpless characters. This isn't a "I can fix him" story; it's about two flawed individuals who help each other.
As you know, Dabi is mentally unstable, and so is this OC. Please be aware that this story contains dark themes including death, blood, verbal and physical abuse, self-harm, mental disorders, nsfw/explicit content (smut), insults, and other potentially triggering elements. It begins relatively mild but will grow darker as the story progresses.

Character description:

Aya Kogarashi (Crimson Blade) is a pro hero in the world of My Hero Academia, known for her diabolic quirk and enigmatic presence. At age 24, standing at 164 cm (5'4") with a slim, almost frail build, Aya's appearance is both striking and unsettling. She has long, wavy black hair that cascades down her back, contrasting with her pale skin and deep, dark eyes that turn a vivid red when her quirk is activated. Her slim face, adorned with dark under-eye circles, gives her a hauntingly attractive look that adds to her mystique.

Aya's quirk, „Cursed Blood", is as powerful as it is dangerous. It allows her to manifest her blood outside her body, shaping it into various forms of force or attack. More ominously, by mixing a drop of her blood with an opponent's, Aya can control up to seven people simultaneously for up to 23 minutes. This control is signaled by a single, strong heartbeat that her opponents feel when they fall under her influence. However, the quirk comes with significant risks—Aya must continuously mix her blood with her opponent's, leading to substantial blood loss for both parties. She cannot manipulate her opponent from within and must focus on managing the external effects, making each use of her quirk a taxing experience. Bla, bla, bla I know, she's a bit of an edgelord, but what can I say? I've got a soft spot for emo girls.

Enjoy!

Ayas POV

The night stretched endlessly, its shadowy tendrils wrapping around me like an unwelcome embrace. Perched on the edge of a skyscraper, I gazed down at the city's neon veins pulsing below in a chaotic symphony. Tokyo's streets were a grotesque patchwork of grime and despair, revealing the darker sides of humanity. For a moment, the monotony of existence nearly claimed me—my grip faltered, and the abyss below seemed to beckon with its insatiable hunger.

In this precarious moment, Best Jeanist arrived, his quirk manifesting with the precision of a maestro. Threads from my gray coat intertwined with his, weaving a complex tapestry of fate. As the fabric wrapped around us, so did our destinies, bound by the oppressive night. This connection was more than fabric; it was an unspoken pact, a reminder that our lives were as tangled as our garments, trapped in the dark currents of our world.

"Watch it. You're getting sloppy," he murmured, his voice a velvet knife, sliding into the quiet of the night. A gentle tug pulled me back from the edge, away from the yawning abyss that almost seemed to beckon. My legs wobbled beneath me, like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. That sensation—fragility—how it disgusted me.

"Your braid's a disaster again," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a disapproving parent. Best Jeanist, the ever-dignified Pro Hero, had a way of making even the smallest imperfection feel like a mortal sin. I could feel his eyes on me, a gaze that stripped away pretense and left only raw judgment. "Did no one ever teach you how to braid properly?"

"No," I replied, my voice flat, almost defiant. He took a step closer. His fingers, long and precise, reached for the loose braid, gathering it up with the kind of tenderness that didn't belong in this world of blood and shadows. It was almost absurd—this gentle touch from a man whose threads could immobilize villains and bend metal to his will. He was everything a hero should be.

"You could've mentioned it earlier," he mused, his voice carrying the faintest hint of exasperation as he began untangling the mess of my hair. Each motion was careful, as though he was repairing more than just a braid. "I always thought it was just another sign of your lack of discipline."

Before he could fully immerse himself in this absurd ritual of hair care, the earpiece crackled to life, its urgent buzz slicing through the intimacy of the moment. A report—clinical, to the point. Villain attack in Ginza. Of course, it would be me who had to deal with it. Ginza—the district of opulence, where even the air smelled of money and secrets. A place where beauty masked rot, and wealth covered decay. Best Jeanist's distaste was almost palpable, a slight tightening of his lips as the information sank in. He wasn't fond of the idea of me, a total mess, being in Ginza. I just didn't belong there.

"I suppose my hair can wait," I muttered.

"Even if you'll embarrass me to the bone, you're right—go!"

I sprang into action, the night becoming my canvas. Using droplets of my own blood, I propelled myself higher, each jump defying gravity and reason. Tokyo sprawled beneath me, a sea of lights shimmering like a galaxy. Tokyo, always alive, always buzzing, its streets glowing with a stubborn brilliance that mocked the lateness of the hour.

It didn't take long to find the villains. I discovered them wreaking havoc and assaulting civilians in the heart of the main street. The chaos unfolded against a backdrop of neon advertisements and towering skyscrapers, a grim contrast to the usually vibrant scene. Some onlookers remained frozen, their eyes wide with the desperate hope that a Pro Hero would appear to save the day and vanquish the villains. Others, driven by raw panic, scattered into the night, their screams swallowed by the din of destruction. Their choice to rampage here, in one of Tokyo's busiest streets, was a reckless display of audacity, a brutal reminder of the city's precarious balance between order and chaos. As if on cue, a news camera crew arrived, their lenses eager for blood. How did they always beat the Pro Heroes to the scene?

I descended from the sky, this time managing to land on my feet with a rare, fleeting grace. The reporter, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the drama, began her breathless proclamation: "Crimson Blade, the Phantom of the Night, the Beast from the Depths of the Underworld has emerged once again! Beware, Villains!"

I blinked, irritation bubbling at her exaggerated theatrics. "You're the next ones I'll shut up!" I shot back, my voice sharper than intended.

The crowd began to scream louder. Maybe Best Jeanist had a point—I needed to be more careful with my words.

"Crimson Blade, the Villainess among the Heros!" Brawn Breaker gasped, his voice a pitiful whine of disbelief. He was a failure of a villain, a nameless rat scurrying through the grimy depths of the Tokyo Catacombs. His Quirk was something about guzzling alcohol to become superhumanly strong for five minutes, or so the rumor went. A trash Quirk, barely worth the effort of categorizing. Next to him was Sausage Man, whose head, shaped like a sausage, was his entire claim to fame. That was his entire gimmick. If I had that Quirk, I'd probably be a Villain too. The longer I stared at Sausage Man, the more absurdity bloomed in my mind, but I shoved it aside. I wasn't here to unravel the mystery of how his skull had squeezed through the walls of his mother's womb, I was here to deliver justice.

"Who do you call a Villainess?" I snapped at the less ugly of the two. If there was one thing villains had in spades, it was audacity. Society's rejects always seemed to flaunt their arrogance without a hint of restraint "Have you even looked at yourself? You... you... with your skull mask and... and... and your sword" Sausage Man stammered, struggling to form coherent sentences through his disfigured visage. His speech impediment was almost as pitiful as his appearance. Some Quirks were less superpowers and more like disabilities, masked in a grotesque masquerade.

Before I could indulge in a moment of pity, I unsheathed my blade-less sword. Technically, it was just the hilt, but it served its purpose—looking intimidating. Activating my Quirk, "Cursed Blood," a blade of my own blood materialized, gleaming with a sinister edge. "Hey, she's pulled out her sword! Now it's getting serious!" Brawn Breaker called out, lifting a car and hurling it at me. I sliced the car in half with a practiced swipe, sending the halves crashing down and splattering my blood onto the villains.

The onlookers screamed again. "An extravagant move from Crimson Blade, one that gives you goosebumps!" the reporter yelled, her voice quivering with a mix of excitement and fear. "I've pissed myself!" the cameraman added, his panic evident. The reporter now pointed directly at me. "A wicked girl!"

I bit my fist, the dark leather rough against my teeth. The urge to hit this woman grew with each passing moment. But violence against her would only lead to more absurd labels, likely something along the lines of "Crimson Blade, the Sadomasochistic Crazy Lesbian." It was bad enough that despite all my efforts, I was continually compared to society's lowest. It gnawed at my pride and honor, scratching away at the thin veneer of respect I tried so hard to maintain.

Dabis POV

Another dreary evening draped over Tokyo, suffocating in its usual malaise. Villainy was in full swing: pathetic quirk abuse, minor injuries inflicted on the unfortunate, yelps from drunken losers and overambitious thugs, and a few clumsy assassination attempts by failures whose names would soon be forgotten. After Stain's grand declaration, was this really all the villains had to offer? Probably so, as long as sanctimonious figures like All Might and Endeavour persisted in their hypocrisy. Shigaraki's bitter complaints about them seemed more accurate than ever; as long as All Might breathed, people like us would remain dismissed as irrelevant.

Dragging my weary body to the Villain Café, exhaustion weighed down on me like a leaden shroud. Sleep had become a distant dream, unreachable for years now; my burning hatred demanded vengeance, and only that could extinguish its flame. Tossing and turning in bed, like a pig awaiting slaughter in a stall, just didn't feel right. At least here, I could surround myself with those who, in their own twisted way, understood. They weren't a family, not by any stretch. It wasn't love or camaraderie I was getting. It wasn't even genuine attention. But they were here, broken souls like myself, discarded by a world that had turned its back on them. They were the forgotten, the unremarkable, their deaths likely to go unnoticed and their graves unmarked. But at least they were present.

I trudged into the dimly lit café, a hive of discontent. The usual suspects were present: Shigaraki, Mr. Compress, Spinner, Twice, Kurogiri, and Toga. The scene resembled more of a bizarre carnival than a place of solace. I slumped onto a stool at the bar, eyes on the TV mounted high on the wall. The news was on—an annoyance I usually avoided. But since meeting Shigaraki, it had become something of an involuntary spectacle. His rage when a Pro Hero was featured live was almost comedic. His neck twitched and his rage festered, his eyes bulging as if about to pop. His reactions were more exaggerated than my own, which was saying something. All Might's appearances drove him nearly to madness. I stifled a laugh at the thought; there was a part of me that felt sorry for him.

Tonight's broadcast was from Ginza, where two major criminals had been causing chaos—well, one was truly dangerous, and the other was just an eyesore. We wondered which so-called hero would come to the rescue this time. And then she appeared—a supposed angel of death.

"She's new, isn't she?" Spinner asked, his tone reflecting a mix of curiosity and unease. Shigaraki's anger was almost palpable, his neck twitching as usual. "That bitch! I hate her!" he spat, his fury as evident as ever. Toga giggled, her voice carrying an odd note of amusement. "Well, I think she's kind of cute."

Kurogiri sighed. "No, she's not new, but her fame has surged since Stain. Since then, she's gained significant attention."

"Why?" I asked, my gaze locked on the screen where "Crimson Blade" flashed in bold letters. The name clicked as she unsheathed her blood-sword and cleaved a car in half. "She bears a strange resemblance to Stain style-wise…" Kurogiri continued. "She's the perfect propaganda tool. A heroine who resembles one of the most popular villains in both quirk and manner. They're using her as a counter to Stain's influence, appealing to the younger generation. It's a clever trick by the entertainment industry."

It made sense why Shigaraki loathed her so much. I rested my chin on my hand and continued to watch the unfolding drama. "So, the Pro Heroes are already this desperate," I murmured, my tone tinged with a dark amusement.

Crimson Blade, with her silver skull mask, dark cloak, and blood sword, seemed almost like a grotesque reflection of our table's collective sense of chaos. Her presence radiated aggression and malevolence. Nothing about her was typical of a hero. Her attacks were devastating, her Quirk diabolical. The sheer force of her blood attacks shattered chunks of asphalt, deliberately missing her targets to avoid unnecessary collateral damage. Even half of one of those attacks would have been fatal.

"You disgusting pests," she declared with unsettling calmness, stepping into the dust cloud that swallowed the villains' screams. "You scream for your lives now, but when you struck down the innocent, it was righteousness in your eyes, wasn't it? Is suffering only justified when it spills from those who have already bled? ," she continued, her voice cutting through the dust like a blade. I was riveted; it was a bizarre sight— A Pro Hero attacking fallen villains.

"She's not going to kill them now, is she?" Spinner shouted in alarm.

"Shut up and listen!" Shigaraki hissed, his frustration boiling over.

The dust cloud obscured the scene, but Crimson Blade's voice cut through the haze. "Tell me, is your excuse to taint others with your pain because someone else wounded you first?" she asked, emerging from the cloud with one severely injured villain on each side. She dragged them into the illuminated street and threw them before the camera, leaving the usually loud reporter struck dumb with fear.

"Whatever the reason might be—I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to end this madness," Crimson Blade declared, lifting her sword once more. She looked directly at the camera, her blood-red eyes piercing through the lens.

"And with that, I bid you all a very good night."

The broadcast cut off before we could see the final outcome. I leaned back, my mind swirling with the implications of her actions. So, this was the state of the Pro Heroes now—a desperate, cynical display meant to captivate and manipulate.

"What a broadcast... completely off the rails!" Twice muttered, his tone a mix of amusement and something darker. His personality shifted rapidly—one moment a jester mocking the absurdity of it all, the next a brooding figure on the edge of madness. "And they call us the villains. Look at her, so righteous, playing the hero while she slaughters those who are already broken. Hypocrite. How many more will she cut down in the name of justice? They think their pain justifies their actions, but they're no different from the 'pests' they crush underfoot," Shigaraki sneered, his voice low and venomous.

"She's so cool! I want to be her friend!" Toga chimed in, bouncing around like a manic marionette, her eyes gleaming with admiration. "And she's pretty too," she added with a giggle, pressing her fingers to her lips. Crimson Blade certainly had a certain charm—a dangerous allure that seemed to resonate with the darkest corners of society. She was terrifying, yes, but in the eyes of this pathetic world, she was also seen as just.

"Hmm. I think I like her," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, sinking further into the bar as the words left my lips.

"What? Have you both lost your minds?" Shigaraki exploded, his frustration spilling over as he flailed his arms in exasperation. "She's made a mockery of the complex motives behind what we do. She didn't just beat those two idiots—she exposed them, questioned their reasons, and then discarded them like trash. She didn't hesitate. She killed them," he snarled, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression a storm of anger and something else—something that looked an awful lot like fear.

"Doesn't that make her one of us?" I asked, my tone deliberately casual, aiming to stir the pot. Shigaraki hadn't had his daily dose of frustration yet, and it was starting to feel almost... abnormal.

He shot me a sharp look, eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher my intent. "What are you trying to say, Dabi?" The counter-question hung in the air, more loaded than I'd anticipated.

I shrugged, the corners of my mouth curling into a half-smirk. "If you're already thinking about recruiting more from the other side, then why not her? She's got the kind of bloodlust we could use."

A dark, twisted satisfaction stirred within me at the thought. Having a monster like her on our side? That would be something. "They're not so different, this Bakugo and her," I continued, the words rolling off my tongue with a certain inevitability. "Both cruel in their own way. Both walking that thin line between hero and villain."

"It's a thought worth considering," Kurogiri interjected smoothly, his voice a low murmur as he polished a glass with tender care.

Shigaraki let out a weary sigh, his fingers twitching with restrained annoyance. "Didn't you hear her?" He turned to me, his voice laced with something close to exasperation. "Bakugo's still a kid. We can twist him, mold him. But her? She's already too far gone, buried under that mountain of self-righteous garbage she calls morality."

"But she doesn't exactly strike one as the picture of mental stability, does she?," Mr. Compress said with a detached air, his mask giving nothing away. "People like that are ripe for manipulation. We can show her what it's like to be among her own kind. I'd wager she's lacking in solid friendships or genuine relationships." he added.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Toga said, plopping down on a bar stool with the enthusiasm of a child discovering a new toy.

Shigaraki hesitated, his fingers drumming impatiently on the bar's surface. "Hey, Dabi," he said, his voice laced with a rare thread of curiosity. "Your Quirk should be able to counter hers, right?"

I considered the question, letting my thoughts sift through the possibilities. Fire, after all, was a primal force that could vaporize liquids, including blood. But if her blood attacks were dense enough, or if she used the right intensity, she could potentially smother my flames. "Possibly," I said, igniting a small, blue flame in the palm of my hand, letting its eerie light flicker across my face. "But in the worst-case scenario, her Quirk might counter mine." I let the flame crackle, a quiet show of confidence. "But that's not going to happen. I trust my fire to burn through anything," I added with a smirk, letting the flame waver and then die out.

Shigaraki's gaze sharpened. "Then you'll bring her over to us," he decided, his voice final.
The corners of my mouth curved into a wider grin. The thought of dealing with this twisted little tempest was almost tantalizing. Yes, it would be a pleasure to get my hands on this sweet little monster.

to be continued...