The walk back is a descent. The air grows colder, the lights dimmer, the hum of the quirk-suppression grids a tangible vibration in the metal floor. Your keycard grants access through three successive bulkhead doors, each sealing behind you with a hydraulic hiss. The final door opens onto the familiar corridor.

Chaos greets you. A spilled tray of nutrient paste smears the polished floor. A young guard—Officer Saito, his nameplate reads—stands red-faced, two meters from the only occupied cell on the block. He’s shouting, voice strained and echoing off the concrete.

Officer Saito jumps back, hand flying to his stun baton. His eyes are wide, not with fear of physical harm—the systems ensure that—but with the frustration of dealing with an immovable object. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

And in the cell, seated on the edge of the bare cot, is Dabi. He isn’t looking at the guard. His head is tilted slightly, his sharp, blue eyes already fixed on the doorway. On you. The angry tension that lined his posture a second ago is gone, replaced by a stillness that feels more dangerous. A faint, knowing smile touches the edges of the staples on his lips.