You remember the touch of Dabi's scarred palm against your cheek. The way his voice dropped, soft and almost afraid, when he finally let you close. And then the surge of your quirk, the temporal pull, the sensation of falling through years like a stone through ice.

Now you're standing on a cracked sidewalk outside a convenience store. The sign reads Musutafu Central District. The date above the door says it's been four years since the incident at Sekoto Peak.

A figure sits on the curb across the street. Lanky, hunched, wearing a hoodie that's too big for him even though he's tall. His hands—those hands you know—are wrapped in worn bandages, and the faint blue flicker of his quirk crackles between his fingers like a nervous tic.

He doesn't see you yet. He's staring at the ground, shoulders tense, jaw tight. A boy who's been stitched back together and told to live with it.