The rain fell in heavy, unrelenting sheets, turning the narrow back alleys of Musutafu into dark, reflective rivers. Water poured off rooftops in noisy cascades, drumming against overflowing gutters and pooling in cracked pavement. Dabi stood alone in a dead-end street, back pressed against a graffiti-scrawled brick wall that smelled of wet concrete and old garbage. His black coat clung to him like a second skin, soaked through, heavy. The staples in his arms and neck pulled painfully with every breath, but he didn't move. He couldn't. Not yet.
Two days. That was all it had been since he'd met her—Himiko Toga. Fifteen years old, wild blonde buns, a grin full of fangs and secrets, laughing like the world was one big, twisted joke. She'd attached herself to the League's latest "recruitment" run like a stray cat, calling him "big brother" after five minutes of knowing him. He'd scoffed. Told her to shut up. Rolled his eyes when she trailed after him like a shadow. But when she'd looked up at him—real smile, not manic—he'd felt something crack inside his chest, something he thought had burned away years ago.
Now she was gone. Vanished after that stupid fight in the shopping district. The League had scattered like roaches when the Wolf Fang Pack showed up. Shigaraki's voice had crackled over the comms: "Regroup. Forget the girl. She's replaceable." Dabi had stared at the device for a long moment. Then he'd crushed it under his boot and walked away.
Replaceable.
He slid down the wall until he sat on the wet pavement, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Rain ran in rivulets down his face, stinging the open burns. Blue flames flickered weakly in his palm—low, sputtering—then died. He didn't try to reignite them. What was the point?
He kept seeing her eyes when that ridiculous purple plush dog tackled her. Wide. Confused. Almost… happy. For one second she'd looked like a normal kid. Not a weapon. Not a freak. Just a girl who'd been given something soft and kind for once.
Footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley—slow, deliberate, unhurried.
Dabi didn't look up. His hand lifted automatically, blue fire reigniting in a low, threatening glow.
"Leave," he rasped. Voice rough from smoke and disuse. "I'm not in the mood."
The footsteps didn't stop.
A figure stepped into the dim light of a flickering streetlamp: tall, wrapped in bandages, red eyes glinting like fresh blood. Stain.
Dabi's flames surged higher, casting harsh blue shadows across the wet bricks.
"You looking for a fight, Hero Killer?" he snarled. "Because I'm really not in the mood for your little morality speech tonight."
Stain stopped a respectful distance away. His sword remained sheathed. He studied Dabi in silence—the burns, the staples, the exhaustion etched into every line of the boy's young face. The way his shoulders shook even though he tried to hide it. The rain ran red where old wounds reopened under the strain.
"You're bleeding," Stain said quietly. No mockery. No judgment. Just observation.
Dabi snorted. "Always am."
Stain crouched slowly, keeping space between them. Rain dripped from the brim of his hood onto the pavement.
"You didn't return to them. The League. Why?"
Dabi's eyes narrowed. "None of your damn business."
Stain's gaze didn't waver. "I saw the fight. The square. Your group. The girl—Toga. She didn't come back with you."
Dabi's flames flickered. "She got taken. By those idiots in the Wolf Fang Pack. Probably dead by now. Or locked up. Doesn't matter."
"It matters to you."
Dabi laughed—harsh, broken, empty. "What would you know about it?"
Stain looked at the scars again. The way Dabi's hands trembled even as he tried to keep the fire steady. The way his voice cracked on the word "taken."
"I know what it looks like when someone's been used up and thrown away. I've seen it in the mirror. And on kids like her. Like you."
Dabi's flames dimmed. "Don't pretend you care."
"I don't pretend," Stain said. "I judge. And right now… I see a boy who's burning himself alive to prove something to people who don't deserve him. You're not like them. Not yet."
Dabi stared at the ground. Rain dripped from his hair onto the pavement, mixing with the blood running from reopened staples.
"She called me big brother," he muttered. "After two days. Two fucking days. And I let her. I let her follow me. And now she's gone."
Stain was silent for a long moment.
"The League will replace her. They always do. But you… you're still here. In this alley. Not on their leash."
Dabi's voice cracked. "What am I supposed to do? Go back? Pretend I don't give a shit?"
Stain stood slowly.
"You could walk away. Find her. Or find something better than burning for people who'd throw you away like trash."
Dabi laughed again—hollow. "And what? Join the heroes? Become one of those fake smiles on TV?"
"No," Stain said. "Become real. Whatever that looks like for you."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," Dabi called. His voice was quieter now. Smaller. "Why are you even talking to me?"
Stain paused at the alley mouth, rain running down his bandages in red rivulets.
"Because I've seen too many kids like you get used up and discarded. And I'm tired of it. If you want to find the girl… start looking where the Pack is. They're not hiding her. They're keeping her."
Dabi's flames went out completely.
Stain disappeared into the rain.
Dabi sat there for a long time—alone, bleeding, soaked.
Then he stood.
He didn't go back to the League base.
He started walking.
Toward the industrial district.
Toward the loft.
Toward the only person who'd called him brother in years.
And somewhere in the shadows, Stain watched him go—silent, conflicted, but for the first time in a long time… hopeful.