Hey everyone! Writing this chapter felt like giving birth, lol. I spent the last two weeks wondering why I couldn't seem to finish writing and editing it, only to realize I'd written over 7k words—classic me! For better pacing, I decided to split it into two chapters. Hope you enjoy this one!

Dabi's POV

It was a shitty evening. Same as always. The kind where the night seemed to suck in every ounce of misery from the city, like maggots drawn to a bloated corpse. Tokyo's streets were in their typical state of disrepair, both figuratively and literally, and I was happy to contribute to the problem. A few petty crimes here, a brawl or two there, one charred corpse for flair, and a dash of arson to round things your average Tuesday.

Lurking near our hideout afterward, I figured I might as well swing by early—not something I usually bother with. Punctuality's never been my thing, and honestly, why should it be? Let people wait; that's their problem, not mine. But tonight, for whatever reason, I felt something vaguely resembling mercy for the sorry excuses for villains that made up the League. Call it charity.

The League of Villains—a motley crew of rejects who wore their dysfunctions like badges of honor. It wasn't a gathering of criminal masterminds, not by a long shot. More like rats banding together in the sewer, gnawing at scraps. A fitting circus for a bastard like Shigaraki… or'Dear Tomura,'as someone had recently started calling him. I snorted, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets as I kicked a can down the cracked pavement.'Dear Tomura,'I muttered, the words dripping with sarcasm. What a load of crap. It almost got a laugh out of me, but I wasn't about to start cackling on the street like some yet, anyway.

The nickname still tasted rotten, sticking in my head like a bad aftertaste. Stupid, sure, but it carried weight now—and all thanks to Rin. What the hell was her deal, anyway? She'd come out of nowhere and had the balls to pin Shigaraki to the bar like he was some helpless fly caught in her web of ghostly hands. I couldn't decide if it was hilarious or horrifying—or both... No, definitely both. But that kind of audacity?Rare.Almost enviable. Not many people could reduce Shigaraki to a toy in such a short time. I had to admit, it was entertaining—watching him squirm under her touch, his usual irritation cranked up to eleven while she treated him like some kid who'd scraped his knee. The whole thing reeked of something I couldn't quite put my finger on—a mix of control, disdain, and just enough tenderness to make it all the moretwisted.

I'd finally made it to the hideout—the bar. The light upstairs was already on, meaning someone had beaten me here. Hypocrite, whoever it was. Early arrivals were a rarity in this group, so either something important was going down, or someone was too damn eager to play villain tonight. I paused just outside, leaning against the rough brick wall, and slid a cigarette between my lips. A small blue flame flickered at my fingertip, igniting the end. The first drag was warm, the kind of comfort only nicotine could provide. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Not like the kind of comfort Rin seemed so eager to give. Man, Shigaraki didn't know how good he had it. He didn't deserve that kind of attention. Miserable bastard lucked into it anyway.

I exhaled, the smoke curling lazily into the night air. Yeah, Rin was something else. All sweetness and smooth words. Everything about her felt like it was designed to pull you in: the way she moved, the way she talked, the way she leaned just a little too close when patching you up. A trap, no doubt.
A tempting, sugar-coated trap.

Another drag, and my thoughts circled back to the previous evening. Her "innocent doctor" act hadn't convinced me for a second. Sure, she played the part well enough—maybe even too well. But I'd seen the cracks. That look she gave me the first time our eyes met? That wasn't the look of someone who genuinely wanted to help. No, it was the kind of look a predator gives before deciding whether or not to pounce. Yeah, she reminded me of one of those deranged doctors in horror movies—the kind that patch you up just to see how much they can cut you open later. Frankenstein worse.

So, naturally, I'd tested her. I pushed, got too close—close enough to make most people flinch. I wasn't subtle about it. She'd had every chance to show me her tells, to give herself away, but she didn't. Not even a flicker of discomfort. If anything, she thrived on it, soaking up the attention like she couldn't get enough. And then there was that skirt stunt. Yeah, no way that was an accident. She bent over just enough to toe the line between flirty and indecent. Hell, no. She wanted eyes on her—she knew exactly what she was doing, and I doubted she cared who noticed. I wasn't complaining though. Let's just say I don't get a view like that every day. But it confirmed what I already knew—this one was trouble...

The cigarette burned low, the ember bright against the dark as I took one last drag before tossing it to the ground. I crushed it under my boot, the satisfying crunch cutting through the night's silence. The warmth of the smoke lingered in my chest as I turned toward the bar, hand resting on the door handle. Whatever her game was, she played it well. And whatever her motives, she was good enough at her act to make it worth tolerating. Yeah, Rin was a strange one. And strange, I could handle.

I stepped into the building, greeted immediately by the familiar dysfunction of our so-called hideout. Of course, the hallway light wasn't working—again. Why would it? This place seemed to thrive on decay. I lit a small flame in my hand, the blue glow throwing jagged shadows on the walls as I made my way up the stairs. Each step creaked underfoot, grating on my nerves. Where the hell had Shigaraki even found Rin? She didn't belong here, that much was clear. Everything about her screamed that she came from another world entirely—a world of sleek bars, loud nightclubs, and dubious entanglements with Yakuza types. She didn't look like the sort of person who'd willingly associate with a group of degenerates like us.

Actually…wasn't there something about that?

Right. Giran had picked her up from the Yakuza. So my instincts weren't entirely off. A crazy little slut with questionable allegiances—perfect. Just what we needed.

When I finally reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the bar, it looked empty. Just the faint hum of the fluorescent lights, flickering like they were about to give out—same as always. But then I caught it. Soft, steady breathing from my left. I turned, and there she was. Rin. Sprawled out sideways on a sofa that definitely hadn't been there before. She lay there like she owned the place, hair spilling across her face, one arm dangling off the cushion. Peaceful, almost—if you didn't look too closely.

But there was something off about her. Something unsettling. Even asleep, her ghostly hands were there, floating around her like a protective cocoon. They wrapped her legs, her waist, her chest, cradling her like some eerie, fucked-up guardian angel. It was unnatural. Eerie. A warning to anyone stupid enough to try something.

I sighed. Letting her sleep would've been easier—hell, maybe even the smarter choice—but Shigaraki wouldn't have it if he walked in and saw her like this. He'd pitch one of his tantrums, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with his whining. Better to wake her now and save myself the headache. I crouched next to her, noticing the rolled-up sleeve of her top. A fresh bruise darkened her forearm, angry against her pale skin.

Huh. I should've felt something—pity, maybe curiosity—but it just struck me as inconvenient. She'd probably earned it anyway. Carefully, I placed a hand on her shoulder—not because I gave a shit, but because I wasn't entirely sure what would happen if I startled her. Those ghostly hands didn't look like they were just for show, and I wasn't about to risk losing a limb because she had bad reflexes. "Wake up," I muttered, shaking her lightly. She stirred with a soft groan, raising a hand to her face but still hiding beneath the curtain of her hair. She didn't seem fully conscious yet. What the hell was her deal? Was she drunk, or just the kind of person who sleeps like the dead? I sighed and grabbed her arm, tugging her upright with zero patience. Her hair still hung over her face, hiding it like some theatrical veil. "Stop making a fuss," I snapped, already regretting the decision to wake her.

Finally, she sighed—loud and exaggerated and brushed her hair out of her face. And there it was. That stupidly pretty face. The kind of face that should've been forgettable but wasn't.

It irritated the hell out of me.

I didn't want to admit it, but I found her attractive, and admitting that felt like choking on glass. I hated people like her. Too good-looking, too damn confident, like they'd been handed some special pass to act however the hell they wanted. In the end, they were the same as the ugly ones—both groups reeked of the same goddamn audacity. And Rin had that in spades.

You could see it in the way she acted so casually around Shigaraki—theShigaraki, of all people. That dirty, playful tone she used with him, like she got some twisted thrill out of making him squirm. Like it was all just a game to her. It wasn't cute; it was infuriating. And worst of all? She was good at it. Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe she actually liked him. Maybe all the teasing and touching had some semblance of genuine affection. But her? Liking someone like him? Yeah, no. That was a stretch. And those nicknames—"Dear Tomura,"or worse,"Beloved Dabi."My jaw clenched just thinking about it. She had to be playing us. Too comfortable. Too calculated. Nothing about her felt genuine.

I couldn't figure her out, and it was eating at me like a splinter under my skin. Rin was a trap disguised as a person, slotting herself into the League like she belonged here. Shigaraki was easy prey, though—wrapped around her finger with those syrupy nicknames and dumb little gestures he probably replayed in his head at night. Hell, the bastard even got her that sofa without a second thought. But I wasn't some desperate, touch-starved loser who'd roll over the second she showed me some skin. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

"It's you…beloved Dabi," she murmured, rubbing her head as she looked up at me. Her voice was a slow drawl, sweet enough to rot teeth. And just like that, I knew—this time, I was her target.

I braced myself.I could handle her game with me was the same harmless flirting and fiddling she pulled with Shigaraki, fine. I wasn't about to complain. Hell, what guy wouldn't want to be touched by someone like her? Especially someone like me. Half-burnt freaks like me don't exactly get people lining up to lay hands on them. Not that I cared. But if she wanted to play, I wasn't stopping her. Without a word, I dropped onto the seat next to her, sprawling out with just enough indifference to make it clear I didn't give a damn. Or at least, that's what I wanted her to think.

She noticed, of course. How could she not? People like her thrived on attention, and I wasn't stupid enough to think she'd ignore me. She leaned closer, deliberate as always, like she was testing how far she could push. Her shoulder brushed against mine, her warmth bleeding into my space. It should've pissed me off. Maybe it did. But instead of moving, I stayed where I was, letting her test her limits. Letting her see how much I'd let her get away with.

"Have you thought about my offer?" she asked, her voice soft but carrying that familiar edge of challenge.

"Yeah," I muttered, my tone flat. "Sounds appealing."

Her hand found mine before I could think to pull away. Her fingers slid between mine, slow and deliberate, her other palm pressing lightly against the scars on my arm. "That's good to hear," she said, her tone lilting. She ran her fingers over the rough skin, her eyes studying it like it held secrets only she could uncover. "We could start with just a small piece today."

And that's when it hit me. We were holding hands.What the hell?

It wasn't like I'd never been touched before—people got in my space all the time, usually with fists or knives or worse. But this? This wasn't violent or careless. Her grip wasn't meant to hurt, wasn't trying to overpower or punish. It was careful. Too soft.

And I wasn't used to that...

My burns were hard and jagged, the kind of grotesque mess that usually made people look away—or worse, wince. Hands like hers didn't belong anywhere near them. So what the hell was she doing? Her fingers moved over one of the deeper scars, brushing against the ruined edges of my skin like it didn't bother her. Like she didn't mind touching something broken.

It pissed me off.

But not enough to make me pull away.

If she didn't mind touching someone like me, who was I to stop her? My fingers pressed down against the back of her hand, pinning it there before I realized what I was doing. "Today? What's the rush, Doc?" I muttered, my voice sharp enough to cut. "Got somewhere to be?"

She laughed softly, a sound that prickled under my skin. "My favorite patients get treated immediately." Rin brought my hand to her cheek and resting it there, like it wasnormal."Besides, we've got time alone… until the others show up. Might as well make it productive."

The words sank in, too warm, too close. But there was something about the way she said it—casual, like this was just how she was—that made my brain stall for a second. Was she messing with me, or was this just really…her?A walking contradiction of softness and something sharper underneath.

"Can't work with an audience?" I asked, my tone dry and skeptical, trying to get a read on her.

She placed my hand on her thigh, her fingers tightening around mine in a way that felt deliberate, like she was anchoring me there."Maybe,"she admitted, her voice dipping slightly. For the first time, she hesitated. "When you were watching me the other day… well, it made me a little nervous."

Nervous?My first instinct was to call bullshit. Everything about her screamed control—the sly smiles, the casual touches, the way she always seemed to know what button to push. She didn't get nervous. She thrived on attention.

Right?

"And you didn't say anything?" My voice came out sharper than I intended, my grip on her hand tightening.

She glanced down at our hands, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she had me figured out. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself. How could I reject you?"

I laughed, short and bitter. "I made you uncomfortable, and you didn't say anything because… I was enjoying it?"

"No," she said lightly, brushing me off like it was nothing. "I just get fidgety when someone's watching my hands. That's all." Her answer was too smooth, too practiced. She knew exactly how to twist a moment like this.

"If that's all..." My thumb moved slowly against her palm, brushing over the soft skin as her fingers stayed locked in mine.

If she's letting me, why the hell wouldn't I take advantage of it?

Her skin was very smooth, warm and too... inviting. It didn't make sense. None of this did. My grip shifted, just slightly, enough to feel the way her pulse quickened. She didn't pull back, didn't tell me to stop. Her fingers stayed tangled in mine, and I didn't let go. It suddenly didn't matter anymore if her touch was dangerous... didn't matter if it was calculated or just another way for her to mess with me...

But then the fire came back but it wasn't warmth.

The flame roared to life inside me, fierce and consuming, devouring everything in its path. It wasn't gentle—it burned, turned everything to ash. That was the kind of fire I knew. The kind that reminded me why I was still breathing. Because I let it burn. Because I let it take everything else—every moment of softness, every piece of weakness—until all that was left were the parts I could control. These moments, these touches, these feelings... they were the reason I'd burned in the first place. And I couldn't afford to let them creep back in.

Not now. Not ever.

I pulled away, my fingers slipping from hers in a sharp, deliberate motion. The warmth of her hand vanished instantly, leaving behind that sick, empty burn. My palm still felt her touch, ghostlike, the way things you don't want to remember tend to stick with you.

I looked at her, and for a moment, the only thing I wanted was to leave. To get up, walk out, and let the fire take over further. But my body didn't move, and neither did hers. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, like she was waiting me out. Patient. Calm. She wasn't pressing me, but she didn't have to. The invitation was still there, hovering in the air between us.

Fine. If she wanted to help so badly, let her. I wasn't going to run like a coward.

"Alright," I said finally, my voice low and flat. Not a mutter, not a sigh—just a choice, cold and calculated. "Do your thing, Doc."

Her grin spread, bright and self-satisfied, like she'd won some unspoken battle. It was funny—watching her act like I was wrapped around her finger, like I couldn't see what she was trying to do. Cute, really. But that wasn't how this worked.

I wasn't weaker than Shigaraki. The bastard needed her ghost hands to pin him down, like some proof he'd at least tried to resist. Me? I didn't bother resisting. I didn't need to. If she wanted to play her little games, fine. Let her. If she wanted to touch me, patch me up, or throw around her dumb nicknames, who cared? I wasn't the one losing here. She could take whatever she thought she was getting, and I'd take what I wanted in return. That was the difference.

How often does someone like me—half-burned, half-dead—get this kind of attention, anyway? Not often enough to say no. She stood, clasping her hands together like she'd just won the goddamn lottery. "Of course!" Rin chirped, her voice as sugary as ever. She gestured to the sofa with a little flourish, still smiling. "Lie down."

No "please," huh?Cute.

"Whatever you say..." I drawled, throwing myself onto the sofa like I couldn't care less. My hands slid behind my head, my body sprawled out as I made myself comfortable. A ghostly hand materialized behind her, reaching for a black medical kit on the bar.

"Where are your burns exactly?" she asked, tying her hair back with quick, practiced movements before snapping open the kit.

"All over," I said, smirking just enough to let the meaning linger. "Wanna see?"

"Yes. Strip down."

I blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. If she had a fetish for this kind of thing, she was disturbingly bad at hiding it. "Wow, no hesitation," I muttered, mostly to myself.

"Do you want me to help or not?" she asked as she started disinfecting her hands.

"I do," I said, leaning back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "But what if the others walk in? Don't need Toga getting ideas—or Shigaraki, for that matter."

"You're right," she mused, her voice still frustratingly calm. "We need a curtain. Remind me to tell Tomura." She tugged on a pair of gloves and adjusted her mask. "In the meantime, at least tell me which areas you're less uncomfortable about."

"Face. Arms. Upper body, I guess."

"Got it," she said, and then, without warning, swung a leg over me and settled onto my lower body, her butt pressing against me. For a second, my brain froze.

What the fuck was happening?

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