The sun had dipped lower in the sky by the time the training session wrapped. The practice room’s heat faded into cool exhaustion—sweaty limbs, bruised egos, and quiet nods of respect shared between the three students. Endeavor called it with a sharp, “Good work. Dismissed.”

  Shoto gave Aldon a small nod. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You know I’d show up for you,” Aldon said with a soft smile. “Anytime.”

  Midoriya gave him a polite bow. “It was an honor, really! I’d still love to ask about your quirk regution sometime!”

  Aldon grinned. “You’re all business, huh? I respect that. Tell you what—next time I drop by, I’ll bring some notes.”

  Midoriya lit up. “Really? That would be amazing—thank you!”

  Bakugo groaned. “You’re such a damn nerd.”

  Midoriya ughed sheepishly. “Y-Yeah, I get that a lot…”

  Shoto stood beside them in quiet amusement, and for a flicker of a moment, everything felt normal.

  Aldon ruffled Shoto’s hair gently, like a brother would—earning a half-hearted gre in return.

  “Behave,” Aldon said as he stepped back toward the door. “And remember—no mold jokes. It’ll go straight to his head.”

  Bakugo muttered something obscene under his breath, and Aldon only ughed.

  Then, with a wave over his shoulder and a small farewell to Endeavor, Aldon left the agency.

  The sky outside had shifted to that dusky golden hue, just before twilight. He pulled his hood up as a breeze stirred his hair and began the walk home—letting the streets lull him into thought.

  He’d meant to focus on the students. He really had.

  The strange closeness between Bakugo and Midoriya lingered in his mind longer than expected. Something about the way they moved around each other—how Bakugo never truly snapped when Midoriya was near, how Midoriya instinctively anchored him with just a hand on the arm. No words. No expnation. Just familiarity and presence.

  It reminded him of something.

  No. Of someone.

  His thoughts began to slide, slowly at first, like the pull of gravity over slick stone. They drifted to Shoto, and the smile faded from his lips.

  He knew Shoto didn’t have any clue. About him . About Dabi.

  His brother.

  Aldon swallowed, hands deep in his pockets, gaze fixed on the concrete as his boots hit pavement in rhythm. The weight of the secret curled heavy in his chest.

  Shoto looked so calm today. Steady. Strong. He fought with control, spoke with measured words, held his emotions like fine gss. And yet—he was still so clueless to the truth wrapped around him. Oblivious to the fact that the blue-fmed vilin is his older brother.

  The one who used to walk ahead of him on tiny, unsteady legs.

  Aldon’s jaw clenched.

  He thought about how close they'd stood today. How Shoto had looked right at him with trust in his eyes. And Aldon—he’d kept the lie behind a smile. Because what else could he do?

  Tell him? And say what?

  Hey, that vilin who’s been setting the world on fire? The one you may end up fighting someday? He’s your brother. He’s alive. And I’ve been seeing him behind your back.

  No. He couldn't.

  He couldn’t be the one to shatter what little peace Shoto had built for himself. The respect he is trying to form for his father.

  Aldon’s fingers curled in his pockets.

  Then, as if summoned by pain itself, his thoughts turned to Endeavor.

  Endeavor—who’d stood face to face with Touya. Who had stared Dabi down without blinking, without even seeing him.

  Aldon would never forget that night. The way Touya had colpsed in his apartment, eyes bleeding and shaking. His voice had cracked—not with rage, but something worse.

  Disbelief.

  “He didn’t even recognize me,” Touya had whispered, like the words tasted like ash.

  Aldon had held him then, arms wrapped tight as Touya broke against him. All that fire and fury, reduced to a boy who just wanted to be seen. To be known.

  But you did.

  Those three words had gutted him.

  Because he had. He’d seen Touya in Dabi from the moment their eyes met. No amount of staples or ash or hatred could cover those eyes. And Endeavor—his father —had looked straight through him.

  Aldon’s heart ached.

  How do you not recognize your own son?

  He would never understand it. Not truly. He could analyze it, unpack it, try to expin it away with trauma and denial—but it never made sense .

  Touya had suffered. Burned. Died alone, in his mind. And then he came back to a world that didn’t notice.

  Didn’t care. Didn’t see.

  Aldon stopped walking for a moment, the wind tugging at his coat. His chest felt tight—too tight. He pressed a hand over his heart, willing himself to breathe.

  He didn’t know how long he could keep holding this secret. For himself. For Dabi. For Shoto. For all of them.

  But for now… he’d carry it. Because someone had to.

  Aldon started walking again; his footsteps became a thoughtful pace, each step measured, his thoughts still coiled tight in his chest—until a familiar voice called out from just ahead.

  “You look like you’re about to walk into traffic.”

  Aldon blinked, snapping out of his fog. His head lifted—and there, just a few steps away, stood a figure wrapped in dark cloth and tired eyes: Aizawa.

  “Aizawa-sensei,” Aldon said, startled at first—but quickly smiling. “You always had great timing.”

  Aizawa gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, his scarf shifting slightly in the breeze. “You were staring at the ground like it insulted you.”

  Aldon huffed a ugh. “I was thinking. That obvious?”

  “You’re a bad liar,” Aizawa said, then added, “Still always in your head.”

  “Guilty,” Aldon replied, stepping closer. “It's… good to see you.”

  “You too.”

  The silence between them was familiar—not awkward, but lived-in. Aizawa’s presence had always been that way. Grounding.

  “I actually just came from Endeavor’s agency,” Aldon said, breaking the quiet. “Shoto’s interning again. He invited me to drop by.”

  Aizawa nodded. “He mentioned that in homeroom. Seems more comfortable there this time.”

  “He looked steady,” Aldon said with a gentle smile, then smirked. “Got to meet Bakugo and Midoriya too. Especially Bakugo. That one’s got… presence.”

  “Nice word for it,” Aizawa replied dryly.

  “I have to ask,” Aldon said, eyes narrowing in mock disbelief. “How do you handle him? Like. Daily?”

  Aizawa’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of amusement passed through his tone. “Same way you tame a wildfire. Let it burn itself out under supervision.”

  Aldon chuckled. “Still, he’s strong. Really strong. I could tell he’s not just power—he’s sharp. Controlled, even when he’s angry. You’ve done good with him.”

  There was a rare note of approval in Aizawa’s voice when he said, “He listens, more than people think. You just have to know where to speak.”

  They passed a small park—quiet and empty—and without a word, Aizawa veered toward a bench. Aldon followed easily, sinking down beside him as they both settled into the hush of the city around them.

  They talked. About work. About training. About minor hero gossip and the best coffee shops in the district. But slowly, the conversation drifted into a quiet that didn’t beg to be filled.

  Aldon watched the wind brush leaves across the sidewalk. His fingers curled slightly on his p, and after a long breath, he broke the silence.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Aizawa turned his head slightly. “You always could.”

  Aldon hesitated, then spoke. “Back when I worked more under Endeavor, I asked him once—what’s the line between right and wrong. How do we really know we’re on the right side when the world makes it so easy to blur them?”

  Aizawa said nothing. Just listened.

  “If someone I cared about,” Aldon continued slowly, “had made… choices. Dangerous ones. Things that put them on the wrong side of the w. But I knew—deep down—they weren’t beyond saving. That there’s still something good in them. Still someone worth protecting.”

  He paused, voice quieter now. “If helping them meant risking my career, maybe even my pce in the world I built… would I be wrong for trying?”

  Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He looked ahead, eyes narrowed slightly. Always careful with his words. Always thinking first.

  Finally, he said, “The w exists to protect people. But it isn’t always right. Not on its own.”

  Aldon’s breath caught.

  “If you believe someone’s worth saving,” Aizawa continued, voice even and low, “then you already understand something most people ignore. Saving someone doesn’t mean excusing them. It means giving them a reason to change.”

  Aldon stared at him.

  “And if you’re the reason they take that step… then maybe the risk is worth it. You don’t have to agree with what they’ve done to still want them to come back.”

  Aldon’s throat tightened.

  “But,” Aizawa added, gncing at him, “you can’t carry their redemption for them. That choice has to be theirs.”

  Aldon nodded slowly, eyes stinging slightly. “Yeah. I know.”

  The silence that followed stretched comfortably—but Aldon sat unusually still, shoulders tense, eyes downcast at his hands in his p. His fingers fidgeted briefly with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric around his knuckles.

  Aizawa didn’t press. He never did. He just waited. Quiet and steady.

  Aldon drew in a breath, held it—then let it out slowly.

  “…What if it’s not just about wanting to save them?” he asked, voice quieter now. “What if I have… feelings for them?”

  That finally earned a subtle gnce from Aizawa, though he didn’t speak.

  Aldon swallowed, trying to piece the rest together. His voice shook only slightly as he continued, “Not from meeting them recently. Not because of what they are now. I… I knew them before. From when we were kids. Back when things were different. When they were different.”

  He hesitated again, his heart thudding harder against his ribs. The wind brushed softly through his hair, cool against the heat creeping up his neck.

  “I think I always cared about them,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Maybe even loved them. And now… now they’re not who they used to be, not entirely. But I still see pieces of that person. And I can’t stop caring.”

  He paused, breath catching just slightly.

  “And the thing is… they act different around me. Not like they do with others. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Softer. Less guarded. Like some part of them still remembers, too. Like they’re trying—not always succeeding—but trying to meet me halfway. And that makes it harder. Because it feels like that person I used to know… might still be in there.”

  His voice trembled faintly. “And I don’t know if I’m holding on to who they were… or who they still might be.”

  Aizawa didn’t interrupt—only shifted slightly to face him better, giving Aldon space to keep going.

  “I’m scared,” Aldon admitted. “To even say it out loud. To myself. Because if I admit it, it becomes real. And then it’s not just about saving them anymore, is it?” His ugh was weak. “It’s selfish. It’s about me. About how it hurts to love someone who’s walking the wrong way.”

  His fingers tightened around the sleeve hem.

  He looked up at Aizawa, eyes searching. “So what do I do? Do I fight it? Try to bury it, so I can focus? Or do I… accept it? Admit it to myself, at least, so it stops feeling like this unbearable weight pressing down on my chest every time I see them?”

  For once, Aldon sounded… young. Not childish, not naive. Just vulnerable. Caught in that liminal space between duty and heartache, between past and present.

  He blinked slowly. “Where do I even start?”

  Aizawa’s gaze was steady—deep, thoughtful.

  And this time, he finally spoke.

  His voice came low, measured—like every word had been sifted through quiet understanding before being shared.

  “You start,” he said, “by being honest. Not with them—yet. With yourself.”

  He didn’t look away as Aldon’s eyes lifted toward him, wide and uncertain.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having feelings, Aldon. Even for someone who’s… lost their way. Feelings don’t make you weak. They don’t cloud your judgment—not unless you let them. But bottling them up? Pretending they’re not there? That’s what eats you alive.”

  He let that settle for a second, his tone firm, but never unkind.

  “You care about them. That’s clear. And maybe they’ve changed. Maybe they’re not who they were. But people aren’t static. We grow, shift, fall, rise again. The fact they act differently around you? That matters. You’ve seen the worst of them… and they’ve let you close anyway. That says something.”

  Aizawa leaned back slightly, folding his arms—not in distance, but in quiet reflection.

  “You’re not responsible for fixing them. That’s not what love is. But if what you feel is real—if it’s rooted in truth, not just memory—you owe it to yourself to stop running from it. At least enough to understand it.”

  A moment passed, wind stirring the trees overhead.

  “As for what comes next,” he added, voice softer now, “you take it one breath at a time. You don’t rush to save them, or confess, or bel everything. You just… start by listening. To yourself. To them. See what’s still there, between who they were and who they’ve become.”

  He turned his head, meeting Aldon’s gaze fully now.

  “You already started, Aldon. You’re asking the questions most people are too afraid to face. That’s something.”

  A pause.

  “Don’t punish yourself for loving someone complicated,” he said simply. “It just means you’re still human.”

  And then—true to who he was—Aizawa leaned back again. But the weight of his words lingered, warm and grounding.

  Beside him, Aldon sat still—quiet.

  Aizawa’s gaze lingered on Aldon a moment longer, his voice still calm—but there was an edge now. A quiet shift. The kind of tone he reserved for warnings too important to ignore.

  “That said…” he began, his eyes narrowing just slightly, “you need to understand what you’re walking into.”

  Aldon’s shoulders tensed, the air between them cooling by a few degrees.

  “This kind of thing—whatever it is you’re feeling—it doesn’t exist in a vacuum,” Aizawa continued. “You’re a pro hero. If someone found out you were involved with a vilin—maybe one actively on the wanted list—it could destroy everything. Your license. Your career. Your freedom.”

  Aldon opened his mouth, but Aizawa held up a hand.

  “I’m not saying that to scare you. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. There are rules in pce for a reason. And as much as I care about you—and I do, Aldon—I can’t ignore my responsibilities either. If I ever thought you were compromising intel, leaking information, or helping a vilin escape justice…” He trailed off, the weight of his words heavy. “I’d have no choice but to report it.”

  Aldon’s chest tightened, but he nodded slowly. “I know.”

  Aizawa studied him, eyes sharp. “So tell me. Are you giving them anything? Names, patrol schedules, hero movements?”

  Aldon shook his head instantly, voice firm. “No. Never. When we’re together… it’s not about that. It’s not about heroes or vilins, or war or strategy. It’s just us. Just two people—trying to remember who they used to be. Who we used to be.”

  His voice softened, something raw in his tone. “When I’m with them… that world doesn’t exist. There’s no sides. No masks. Just—us.”

  Aizawa’s shoulders eased slightly, though his expression remained serious.

  “Then keep it that way,” he said. “Because the second it stops being just about the two of you—if it ever becomes something more dangerous, more tangled—I’ll have to act. I won’t want to. But I will.”

  Aldon looked down, then back up again. “I understand.”

  Aizawa nodded. “I believe you.”

  A pause.

  “But Aldon…” he added, his tone gentler now, “just be careful. Sometimes the lines blur without us even realizing it. Sometimes love makes us blind to the damage it can cause. Don’t lose yourself trying to save someone else.”

  Aldon swallowed the lump rising in his throat, his voice quiet but resolute. “I won’t.”

  And for the first time since he’d started speaking, Aizawa gave him a small, approving nod.

  “Good,” he said simply. Then, softer still: “That means there’s still hope.”

  They sat in silence after that, the breeze brushing past them like the world giving them space to breathe. And this time, Aldon didn’t feel the weight alone.

  He carried it.

  But Aizawa had helped him carry it better.

  Aldon let out a slow breath, gncing down at his hands again—no longer wringing the edge of his sleeve, but resting quietly in his p.

  “There’s… one more thing I want to tell you,” he said, voice low, cautious. “Something I haven’t talked about with anyone else—except one person.”

  Aizawa looked at him, steady and unreadable, always patient. Always listening.

  Aldon continued, “It started during a mission. Just a routine call—a low-level vilin disturbing the peace. Nothing serious. I brought him in, like always. But on the way to the station, he started crying.”

  He paused, the memory flickering behind his eyes.

  “I thought he was faking at first. Trying to get sympathy. But he wasn’t. He just… broke. He told me everything—how he’d been abused, abandoned, how the system ignored him when he asked for help. And now, it was too te to fix anything. He was past redemption, in his own eyes.”

  Aldon’s throat tightened slightly.

  “But I never stopped. Not really. I just… kept going. Quietly. Secretly. I’ve got journals back at home—full of notes, files, behavioral analyses. I log every vilin encounter. Every hesitation. Every anomaly. And I keep asking the same question: what if we gave them another choice?”

  He paused, then looked at Aizawa, something vulnerable but hopeful in his expression.

  Aizawa’s gaze didn’t shift—but Aldon could feel the weight of it, like he was being measured and understood at once.

  “I went to the HPSC,” Aldon said, the bitterness creeping into his voice now. “I thought if they heard the full story, if I expined it the right way, they’d see the potential. That we could offer real rehabilitation to vilins failed by society. I walked into that room so full of hope.”

  He scoffed quietly.

  “They tore it apart. Accused me of being naive. Said I was defending criminals. Asked me if I’d forgive a murderer next. I couldn’t even answer. I was so overwhelmed I just… stood there and let them shut it down. Told me if I ever tried something like that again, I’d be stripped of my license. Maybe worse.”

  Aldon looked out toward the fading horizon, voice quieter now.

  “I walked out of that building feeling humiliated. But I also knew—I wasn’t wrong. And then Hawks showed up.”

  That finally earned a subtle twitch of interest from Aizawa.

  “I thought he was just another fame-chaser with nice hair back then,” Aldon admitted with a faint smile. “But he’d been in the room. Heard everything. And instead of mocking me, he asked to hear more. Took me to lunch. Listened. Really listened. And since then… he’s been supportive. The only one who knows what I’m still doing.”

  Aldon turned back to Aizawa, something honest and vulnerable in his eyes.

  “I kept going, in secret. I document everything. Every vilin I talk to, every hesitation I see, every hint of someone who wants to change but doesn’t know how. I’ve filled notebooks with it all—strategies, case studies, even potential facility designs. I’m building something. Slowly. Quietly. Because I still believe in it.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “And now… you’re the second person I’ve told.”

  Aizawa didn’t speak right away. But when he did, his voice was low and level.

  Aldon felt his chest tighten slightly, unsure if he had just crossed an invisible line. But then Aizawa finally shifted, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely csped between them.

  “That’s a hell of a thing to carry alone,” he said, voice steady, unreadable as always—but there was something beneath it. Not approval. Not judgment. Something more grounded. Real. “And a dangerous thing to tell someone like me.”

  He gnced at Aldon, eyes sharp but not cold. “You know I’ve always believed in structure. Boundaries. The w exists for a reason—and we have rules for how to handle vilins for a reason too. But…”

  A pause. A breath.

  “…That reason doesn’t always work.”

  Aldon’s brows lifted slightly, surprised.

  “I’ve seen plenty of cases over the years,” Aizawa continued. “Students on the edge. People failed by the system. Vilins who weren’t born evil—just shaped by bad hands and worse circumstances. People no one gave a chance to until it was too te.” His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment. “I’ve erased Quirks to stop students from losing control of themselves. I’ve been there when society was ready to throw them away. And I’ve had to fight to make sure they weren’t.”

  His voice lowered further.

  “So I understand what you’re trying to do.”

  Aldon’s eyes widened slightly.

  “But understanding doesn’t mean endorsing recklessness,” Aizawa added firmly. “You’re walking a line most pros wouldn’t even dare to approach. You’re studying vilins. Interacting with them. Trying to pull something human from the ashes. I respect it… but I won’t pretend it’s safe.”

  Aldon nodded, quietly.

  Aizawa turned to face him more fully now.

  “The moment this gets out, you’ll lose more than just your job. You’ll lose trust. Backing. Protection. You’ve already seen what the HPSC is willing to do. And if someone with less patience than me hears about what you’re doing…”

  Aldon opened his mouth, but Aizawa held up a hand.

  “That said,” he continued, his tone softening just a notch, “I won’t report this. Not because I agree with every move you’ve made. But because I know you. And I can see how much you believe in this.”

  His gaze narrowed slightly.

  “But I need your word that you’ll keep this clean. No recruitment. No crossing legal lines. No ‘doing what you must’ to prove a point. If this turns into something else—if your heart starts leading you into dangerous gray areas—then it’s not just your project that’ll burn down. It’ll be you, too.”

  Aldon exhaled slowly. “I understand. And I swear—I haven’t crossed that line. I won’t.”

  Aizawa gave a faint nod. “Then I’ll be the second person who knows. And the first who tells you this: keep documenting. Keep building. But be smart. The moment this turns into something real—something official—you’ll need support. Legal, ethical, logistical. If that happens… I’ll consider helping you.”

  Aldon stared at him, unsure if he heard that right. “You’d really…?”

  Aizawa’s eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’ve never been the one to give up on people. Especially not my students. And I think you might be onto something. And when the world’s ready… maybe they’ll listen.”

  Aldon smiled—small, but full of something warm and steady. “Thank you… Sensei.”

  Aizawa leaned back against the bench again with a quiet grunt. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve still got a long way to go.”

  A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind only years of trust could build. The city moved quietly in the background—cars humming, voices distant, the occasional breeze rustling through the trees. Dusk had deepened, casting long shadows across the pavement, the horizon bleeding into soft oranges and purples.

  Aldon leaned back beside his former teacher, the weight on his chest just a little lighter now.

  For a while, neither of them spoke. There was nothing more that needed to be said.

  And then, finally, Aizawa muttered, “You always did cause more paperwork than the rest of your css combined.”

  Aldon snorted softly, brushing hair from his eyes. “Still do. It’s kind of my thing.”

  They sat for a moment longer before Aizawa pushed himself up from the bench with a quiet sigh, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.

  “Keep your head clear, Aldon. And your heart steady. You’ll need both.”

  Aldon stood with him, nodding. “I will.”

  Aizawa turned, walking away with his usual slow, purposeful steps. But just before he rounded the corner, he gnced back over his shoulder.

  “And Aldon?” he said, voice calm but firm.

  “Yeah?”

  “Whatever you're building… don’t build it alone.”

  Then he was gone, swallowed by the evening crowd.

  Aldon stood there for a while longer, staring at the space Aizawa had left behind.

  His fingers brushed the edge of the notebook hidden in his coat pocket. Full of dreams the world didn’t yet believe in.

  But maybe one day…

  He pulled his hood up, turned toward home, and walked into the deepening twilight.One step at a time.

  Meanwhile, somewhere else…

  The alley was dim, tucked between two crumbling buildings in a quieter part of the city. Neon lights flickered in the distance. The air smelled faintly of smoke, rust, and the cheap cologne from the bar two doors down.

  Dabi leaned against the brick wall, one boot crossed over the other, thumb zily tapping across the screen of his phone. The light illuminated the sharp angles of his face, the telltale staples catching in the glow.

  The contact name on screen read: FireflyA small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  [Dabi > Firefly]Ugh. I’m hungry.You cooking tonight or what?I’m not eating convenience store crap again. Your fault for making me used to real food.

  He stared at the message for a second, then smirked. Ridiculous. He shouldn’t be this… comfortable. But somehow, texting Aldon had become a habit. A good one. One that didn’t make his skin crawl.

  Of course, almost no one knew about it. Not even the League—except Toga. She’d found out by following him, and teased him relentlessly for it. But she’d sworn to keep quiet, and strangely enough, Dabi trusted her to hold that promise. If anyone else ever got a hold of his phone and saw the contact name “Firefly”? He’d burn the damn thing and call it a system error. But honestly, he didn’t worry much. No one dared touch his phone—and if they did, they wouldn’t live long enough to talk about it.

  He was just about to pocket it when—

  “Now that’s a face I don’t usually see on you.”

  Dabi’s head snapped up, immediately hiding the screen behind his sleeve. He didn’t need to look to know the voice—smooth, smug, and always two shades too cheerful for his liking.

  Hawks.

  The Pro Hero hovered just a few feet above the alley ground, wings rustling as they folded neatly behind his back. He dropped with practiced grace, boots barely making a sound as they hit the ground. His trademark grin was in pce, eyes sharp and amused.

  “You were smiling,” Hawks teased, tapping an invisible camera by his temple. “Might need to report this rare sighting to science. ‘Dabi: Vilin or Secret Softie?’”

  Dabi scowled, immediately pushing off the wall. “You need a hobby.”

  “I have one,” Hawks said easily. “Collecting weird little moments like this.” He cocked his head. “So. Who’s got you grinning at your screen like a lovesick teenager?”

  “Mind your business,” Dabi replied, jamming the phone into his pocket. “And I wasn’t smiling.”

  Hawks raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Must’ve been your scars pulling into a coincidence.”

  Dabi rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “You got anything new? Reports? Patrol chatter?”

  Hawks’ grin thinned a bit, but he shrugged. “Nothing worth burning a city down over. Some movement in the east, but it’s all chatter. Still waiting for you to pull through on that promise.”

  Dabi’s gaze narrowed slightly. “You in a rush or something?”

  Hawks gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You said you’d get me closer to Shigaraki. That’s the deal, right?”

  Dabi exhaled a breath that was half a scoff, half a warning. “Deals take time. You want real trust? I need to make sure you’re not just another bird in a cage waiting to fly back to your little hero nest.”

  Hawks held his hands up in mock innocence. “I’m here, aren’t I? Keeping quiet. No feathers ruffled.”

  Dabi stared at him for a long moment, gauging. Then finally muttered, “Don’t rush this. Shigaraki doesn’t take well to spies.”

  “Noted,” Hawks said with a fsh of teeth. “But just so you know, the clock’s ticking.”

  Dabi didn’t answer. He turned away slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his pocket where his phone still sat. The weight of it was oddly grounding.

  It was easier not to think about Aldon when Hawks was around.

  But ter—maybe—he’d sneak off again.Back to that apartment that didn’t smell like ash or blood. Where someone cooked for him without expecting anything in return. Where the lights were soft, the cat was annoying, and the silence wasn’t heavy—it just… existed. Calm. Steady. A pce he didn’t deserve, but went to anyway.

  “You know,” Hawks said, still lingering near the alley’s edge, voice casual, “I think Redestro might actually like my new sidekick.”

  Dabi didn’t bother turning. He just shifted his weight against the brick wall, one hand still buried deep in his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of his phone like it grounded him.

  “Guy’s a bit of a bleeding heart,” Hawks continued. “Smart. Observant. Talks a lot about redemption and second chances. Says vilins aren’t born evil. Just broken.”

  Dabi gave a quiet snort, barely amused. “Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

  “Mm.” Hawks stepped in closer, his wings folding neatly behind him. “Maybe. But he’s got potential. If someone said the right things… maybe he’d even switch sides.”

  Dabi’s posture didn’t change—but something in the air did. A subtle shift. Still. Tense.

  “But the funny thing?” Hawks leaned casually against the opposite wall, crossing his arms, that ever-present grin lingering. “He’s already got this nickname. Some soft little thing someone gave him when he was a kid. He stuck with it. Uses it as his hero name now.”

  Dabi didn’t look at him—but Hawks could tell he was listening.

  “Firefly,” Hawks said smoothly, letting the word nd like a pebble in still water.

  A pause.

  Then—barely a twitch. The fingers in Dabi’s pocket curled tighter around his phone.

  Gotcha, Hawks thought.

  “Cute, right?” he continued, tone deceptively light. “Someone must’ve really cared about him to call him that.”

  Dabi exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow. “You’re grasping at straws, bird boy. What are you fishing for?”

  Hawks shrugged. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Trying to connect a few dots. Funny how things line up sometimes, isn’t it?”

  Still no reaction from Dabi’s face—but his hand stayed clenched. His gaze drifted toward the end of the alley, hard and unreadable.

  “If you’re done pying spy,” he said, tone fttening, “I’ve got better ways to waste my time.”

  “Fair enough.” Hawks pushed off the wall and stepped toward the alley’s exit, wings unfurling slightly. “Just figured I’d mention it. He’s the kind of guy who’d do anything for someone he cares about. Probably even believes someone like you could still be saved.”

  Dabi’s head turned slightly, just enough to catch him in profile. His eyes, sharp and storm-blue, locked onto Hawks with warning.

  “Careful,” he said, voice low and cool, the edge unmistakable. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

  Hawks didn’t bite. He smiled, easy and unbothered, but his eyes stayed locked on Dabi’s. “Just doing my job. Keeping track of interesting people.”

  Dabi’s stare narrowed. “Then track someone else. That sidekick of yours? He’s too soft for all this. You want to pitch someone to Redestro, pick another name.”

  The alley was quiet again.

  Dabi remained where he stood, one hand still in his pocket, fingers curled around his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to solid ground. The dim hum of neon buzzed overhead, casting flickers of green and pink against the wet brick. But it wasn’t the cold or the silence that made the air feel suffocating.

  It was Hawks’ voice, still lingering.

  “Funny. You sound like you’re protecting him.”

  Dabi’s jaw had clenched at that. He’d stepped forward, barely a fraction, but the air around him had shifted—warmer, heavier. A warning. His voice had come out cool, level.

  “I don’t care what you think you’ve noticed,” he’d said, slow and sharp. “There’s nothing there.”

  The silence that followed had stretched taut.

  Across from him, Hawks had tilted his head, wings flexing slightly with the breeze, feathers bristling like the edge of a bde. That infuriating grin was still on his face, but his eyes—his eyes had lost their usual lightness. He was watching. Listening. Calcuting.

  He gave a casual shrug, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. “Sure. Nothing there.”

  Then, without another word, his wings snapped open with a gust of wind, scattering bits of trash down the alleyway. With one clean motion, he unched upward into the sky, a streak of red and gold vanishing into the dark like a bird of omen.

  Dabi didn’t move.

  The alley was empty again, but the tension lingered like smoke after a fire. The st trace of Hawks hung in the air, pressing into Dabi’s chest like a warning.

  He exhaled slowly, dragging his hand out of his pocket. The phone in his palm glowed faintly as he looked at the screen again. Firefly.

  The name hadn’t changed. But the weight of it had.

  He cursed under his breath and locked the screen, jamming it back into his coat with more force than necessary. His gaze flicked upward, to the st pce he saw Hawks disappear.

  That bastard had been fishing. And Dabi hadn’t taken the bait, but he hadn’t exactly hidden the hook either.

  He’d seen it—Hawks watching him a little too closely. Poking a little too deliberately. Like he knew just enough to keep poking until something snapped.

  Dabi turned and started walking, shoulders tight.

  He’d been careful. Always. But not careful enough. And now Hawks had a thread.

  Too close.

  Hawks was sniffing around the edges. Pying it casual, but watching. Listening. Always too damn perceptive.

  He couldn't let Aldon be caught in this. Couldn’t let something as stupid as comfort—warm food, quiet nights, soft hands—turn into a liability.

  If Hawks started putting things together...

  Dabi’s hand tightened at his side.

  No more texts. No more slipping away to that apartment like it was safe. No more Firefly.

  He hadn’t meant for it to go this far. It was supposed to be safe—quiet moments, shared meals, a pce to crash where no one looked at him like a monster. Aldon had offered something normal, something real.

  But now Hawks was circling. And if he got too close…

  Dabi exhaled slowly through his nose. He had to create distance. Just until this blew over. Just until Hawks lost interest.

  But the thought sat like acid in his throat.

  Because if he pulled away now… would Aldon understand? Would he wait?

  Dabi didn’t have answers. Only a storm in his chest and a name in his phone he couldn’t stop looking at.

  But tonight, the sky was dark, and his path was clear.

  He had to protect what little he still gave a damn about. Even if it meant pretending he didn’t.