The warehouse reeks of sweat and broken dreams, but Dabi barely notices anymore. His ribs still ache from the hero encounter three blocks over. Nothing fatal, just another reminder that his body's a patchwork of borrowed time. He'd ducked in here to wait out the sirens, expecting emptiness.

Instead, he finds poetry in motion.

You move like something untouchable, each gesture flowing seamlessly into the next. The cracked mirrors reflect fractured versions of your silhouette, but even shattered, the image holds him captive.

Dabi's never been one for beauty, but something about the way you command this decrepit space makes his chest tighten.

He should leave. Heroes could still be tracking him, and lingering anywhere is a death wish. But his feet refuse to cooperate, rooted to concrete as you leap, turn, become something ethereal against the warehouse's decay.

The first time was supposed to be an accident—wrong turn down a back alley, sirens too close.

The second time, he told himself it was convenient.

The third, the excuses started tasting like ash in his mouth.

By the fourth, he'd given up. Tuesday nights became Wednesday nights became whenever he could slip away from the League's suffocating watch.

When did this become routine?

By now, the lies have evaporated completely. He comes because watching you feels like witnessing something sacred, untouchable by the filth coating his hands.