sophieops

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 10: What Doesn’t Get Said Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

Spring comes slowly.

Sakura petals scatter across the courtyard, dusting the benches where you used to sit with your friends. The school shifts into its ending rhythm — goodbyes written into uniforms, notebooks traded for signatures, future plans folded into graduation pamphlets.

Oikawa Tooru becomes another piece of that rhythm.

You see him sometimes — from a distance. Laughing with Iwaizumi, tossing his volleyball bag over his shoulder like it’s nothing. He doesn’t look at you. Not anymore.

You don’t look for him. But you feel him. Everywhere.

—

You’re walking through the hallway one afternoon when you hear someone call his name. The sound still makes your chest tighten, but you don’t turn.

You’re getting good at that now — not turning.

You keep your eyes ahead, hands in your pockets, feet moving forward. That’s what everyone says to do, right?

Keep moving forward.

And you are. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

There was a boy who looked at you like he saw something no one else bothered to. There was a girl who almost let him in.

But timing is a cruel thing. And maybe that’s all this ever was — A story told in the wrong order.

—

The next time you pass each other, it’s outside the school gates.

He’s alone. So are you.

Your eyes meet — just once.

No smile. No wave. No final words.

Just a glance heavy with everything you never said. And maybe, just maybe — that was the truest part of it all.

Because some stories don’t end. They just fade. And some people don’t leave. They just stop showing up.

You breathe in. Keep walking.

And behind you, Oikawa Tooru does the same.

🕯️ end.

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 9: Close Enough to Hurt Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

You knew this would happen.

You just didn’t know when.

Maybe it’s the pressure — finals approaching, your voice hoarse from a late-night study session, a performance competition looming. You’ve been stretched thin for weeks now, and the space between your thoughts is shrinking.

You haven’t seen him in three days. You hadn’t noticed the ache until day four.

When you do see him — in the hallway, surrounded by teammates and laughter and girls clinging to his every word — it hits you. Harder than expected. He hasn’t even looked your way.

That night, you're at the library, alone. You’ve circled the same paragraph six times without absorbing a single word. And then — he appears.

Oikawa, in a hoodie this time, hair still damp from a shower. Less like the golden boy. More like a boy who’s tired and trying.

He sits across from you without asking.

You don’t say hello.

He watches you for a moment before speaking. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You exhale, sharp. “You haven’t exactly been chasing me.”

A beat of silence. Then — “So this is what we’re doing now? Keeping score?”

You glare. “I’m not keeping score, Oikawa. I just stopped showing up where I wasn’t being seen.”

That hits harder than you intended. He flinches — just barely. But enough.

“I see you,” he says, quietly. “More than I should.”

You snap your book shut. “Then why does it always feel like I’m just… an afterthought?”

He doesn’t answer. And that’s the problem.

Because if he had said it — if he had just admitted it was all a game, that he liked the attention, that he was never going to choose anything outside volleyball — at least then it would’ve made sense.

But instead, he just looks at you like he hates that you’re hurting and doesn’t know how to stop being the reason why.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he says finally, voice like a fracture. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I never asked for anything.”

And you hadn’t. That was the truth.

You’d given him a quiet place to land. He never asked to stay.

You leave first.

He lets you go.

And that — that — is the part that hurts the most.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 8: Everyone Else Sees It First Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

It starts with your friends.

They don’t ask, not directly. But the looks are louder than the questions they don’t voice.

“Are you… okay?” one of them asks casually, watching you pack your bag slower than usual. “You’ve been spacing out lately.”

You shrug. “Just tired.”

But you know what she means. She means You don’t glare when his name comes up anymore. She means You’ve been humming that song you heard him play with his team last week. She means You sat two rows behind him during the lecture and didn’t move when there were open seats elsewhere.

She doesn’t say any of that out loud.

But it’s there.

—

Then it’s Iwaizumi.

You pass him in the hallway one afternoon, just as Oikawa is trailing a few steps behind. He nods politely at you, but his eyes flick toward Oikawa with a subtle warning. Not harsh. Just… knowing.

Oikawa rolls his eyes when they’re out of earshot. “Iwa-chan thinks he’s my moral compass.”

You don’t reply, but you catch the tone in his voice — the one that doesn’t quite reach humor. The one that holds guilt in the back pocket.

He adds, quieter this time, “He doesn’t like it when I get distracted.”

You glance over. “And am I a distraction?”

He meets your eyes.

And for once, Oikawa Tooru doesn’t know what to say.

—

Later that week, you’re walking through the courtyard when you hear it.

Whispers.

“They’ve been talking more lately, haven’t they?” “I didn’t think she was his type.” “Do you think it’s real?”

You stop for half a second. Just enough to let it sting. Just enough to realize that people are beginning to see you in relation to him.

Not you, the topper. Not you, the music room girl. Just you, the one he might be paying attention to.

And you hate how it flusters you. You hate how it matters.

You find him outside the gym that evening. He's sitting on the bench, head tilted back, eyes closed, hair still damp from practice.

“People are talking,” you say.

He opens one eye lazily. “Let them.”

You stand there for a beat longer. “Do you even care?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, eyes still fixed on the fading sky:

“I care if it makes you walk away.”

Your heart doesn’t race. It sinks — slow and heavy.

Because you don’t know what you were expecting. But it wasn’t that.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 7: Things You Don’t Say Out Loud Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

It’s raining.

Not dramatically — just a dull, persistent drizzle that turns the sky silver and coats the pavement with tiny reflections.

You’re stuck under the overhang near the gym, waiting for the rain to lighten, watching drops hit the toe of your shoe. Your friends left early. You told them you’d be fine.

Then you hear it — the faint thud of sneakers on the gym floor, the low echo of a volleyball bouncing and being caught.

You should leave.

But you don’t.

He walks out a minute later, towel over his shoulder, hair damp from sweat, not rain. He pauses when he sees you. Like he didn’t expect you to still be here. Like maybe he didn’t mind the idea.

Oikawa Tooru doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands next to you. Close. Warm. Not asking permission. Not apologizing for it either.

You don’t speak until he sighs, staring out at the water.

“I hate the sound of rain,” he mutters. “Too much quiet. Makes me think too loud.”

You glance at him, surprised. “People like you don’t say things like that.”

He huffs a tired breath. “Yeah. Well. People like me don’t always want to be people like me.”

It’s the first thing he’s said to you that doesn’t sound polished. Doesn’t sound rehearsed. Just real — and a little bit tired.

You want to ask what he means. You don’t. Instead, you offer him something small.

“...I like the rain,” you say softly. “It’s the only time the world minds its business.”

There’s a beat. Then he laughs, and it’s not pretty — it’s real. A little rough at the edges.

“You’re weird,” he says, smiling slightly.

“You’re nosy.”

And then comes the pause — the kind that means more than silence.

He turns to you. Not teasing. Not charming. Just honest, for once.

“You make it hard to stop thinking.”

The words drop between you like a match in dry grass — not a fire yet, but the warning of one.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Because for the first time, neither of you knows what to do with the space between words.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 6: You Don't Look Away First This Time Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

You were doing so well.

Staying out of reach. Keeping to your routine. Pretending like the hallway conversations, the glances across rooms, the library run-ins meant nothing.

You were so good at pretending that you almost believed it.

Until now.

Until you catch him watching you across the courtyard — again — and he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t try to charm his way out of it.

He just… watches.

And you hold his gaze.

You don’t look away first.

Something about that feels dangerous. Like a silent agreement you didn’t mean to make.

Your friend nudges you beside the vending machine. “He’s doing it again.”

“Doing what?” you ask, even though you already know.

“Looking like he’s not supposed to be looking at you.”

You scoff, turning back to your drink. “He’s just bored.”

But you feel it.

The weight of his eyes. Not playful, not curious — intentional.

Like he’s trying to memorize the parts of you that you never let anyone see.

And worse — like he’s starting to understand them.

—

Later that day, you walk into the music room during your free period — expecting it to be empty.

It isn’t.

Oikawa’s sitting at the edge of the piano bench. Spinning a volleyball slowly between his fingers, not doing anything with it — just holding it like it’s a part of him he doesn’t want to let go.

He doesn’t see you at first.

You almost leave.

But then—

“You know,” he says without turning, “you’re not as cold as you act.”

You pause. “And you’re not as oblivious as you pretend.”

He glances back at you, lips twitching upward — but not into a full smile. Not this time.

“Maybe we’re both pretending a little,” he says quietly.

You sit two seats away. Close enough to hear him breathe. Far enough not to admit that it’s the closest you’ve ever been to something like tension.

And for a moment — just a moment — neither of you pretends anything at all.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 5: You’re Not As Aloof As You Pretend To Be Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

It’s late. You stayed behind after class to finish a lab report. The halls are empty, quiet in a way that feels almost sacred. You like this part of the day — the stillness, the way the school sheds its noise and chaos and becomes yours.

You're on your way down the stairs when you see him.

Oikawa Tooru. Still in his jersey. Earphones looped around his neck. Bag half-zipped like he left in a rush but didn’t really want to go. Leaning against the vending machine like he owns the hallway.

You consider walking past him. And you would have. If he didn’t speak first.

“Is this on purpose?” he asks, looking at you — not through you, not above you, but at you.

You blink. “Is what?”

He pushes off the machine with one shoulder. “Avoiding me. Pretending like I’m just another guy in the hall.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Oikawa smiles. But it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s new. Most people at least pretend to be impressed.”

“I’m not ‘most people.’”

He laughs — surprised, not offended. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the way you don’t shrink, don’t play along, don’t need to.

“And that bothers you?” you ask, tilting your head.

“No,” he says, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It interests me.”

You glance toward the exit. You could leave. You should leave.

But something about the way he’s watching you — not like you’re something to win, but something to understand — keeps your feet still.

“You don’t really care what people think,” he says softly. “Do you?”

You shrug. “Not unless they’re on my scholarship committee.”

He laughs again, softer this time. “And here I thought I was good at reading people.”

“You probably are,” you say, stepping past him, slow. “Just not me.”

He watches you go, eyes following like he’s cataloging something — a mystery he didn’t plan on finding. And you don’t look back.

But you feel it — the shift.

Something has started. And neither of you is ready for it.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 4: Quiet Doesn’t Mean Invisible Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

It happens gradually. Like all things that matter.

He starts noticing things. Small things. Stupid things.

The way you hum under your breath when you're reading — barely audible, just enough to reveal the song stuck in your head.

The way you press your thumb against your pen when you're deep in thought, like you're grounding yourself to this world before it slips away.

The way your two best friends always give you the outside seat when you walk into class — like they know you’d rather have an escape route than a view.

Oikawa Tooru has never paid this much attention to someone who didn’t fawn over him first.

It’s… weird.

Because you’re not trying. You don’t look at him twice in the halls. You don’t laugh at his perfectly-timed jokes. You don’t shrink under the weight of his smile — the one he’s used to getting what he wants with.

You're just there. In the background. Untouched by his orbit.

And it bothers him more than he’ll admit.

“She’s pretty, you know,” Matsukawa says one day, casually watching you from across the courtyard.

“Iwa-chan said she ranked second in the entire school,” Hanamaki adds, crunching on chips. “She also apparently sings like a Disney princess.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond. Just watches you laugh at something your friend whispers, eyes scrunching in that rare, unfiltered way that people only show to those they trust.

You don’t look like someone who wants to be seen. But he’s seeing you anyway.

And maybe that’s the beginning of the problem.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 3: Patterns, Interrupted Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

You don’t see him for a few days.

Which is good. Great, actually. You don’t need that kind of attention in your life — the loud kind, the golden-boy kind, the kind that pulls others into orbit and spits them out when he’s bored again.

You’re a grounded kind of girl. Quiet. Stable. Predictable. You like things to follow their place: hallway → class → rooftop lunch → study → walk home. No deviations.

But then he shows up again.

This time, at the library.

And you hate how it surprises you — like he doesn’t belong here, in the echo of pages turning and the scratch of pens across paper. But there he is, pretending to browse the sports psychology section, looking so deeply out of place you’re convinced it has to be intentional.

And sure enough—

“Hey,” he says, spotting you. “Didn’t know you came here.”

You don’t look up from your notes. “This is the library. People come here.”

He laughs softly, like you’ve said something endearing instead of dismissive. You refuse to take the bait.

“Right,” he says, stepping closer, voice low like he’s suddenly aware of where you are — and how quiet it is. “I just… thought I’d say hi.”

You glance up this time. His hands are in his pockets. He’s fidgeting. He looks strangely unsure.

And for the first time, you realize:

He’s not here because he wants to be in the library. He’s here because you are.

You don’t say anything. But your pen slows. Just a little.

He notices.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 2: Accidents and Interference Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

You almost don’t touch it.

The bottle on the piano bench has a cracked lid and a half-peeled sticker of an alien holding a volleyball. It screams boy who thinks he’s funny, and it’s not your problem. You have a music elective to finish, a presentation to rewrite, and two friends already texting you about skipped lunch.

But you pick it up anyway. Read the black sharpie scrawl on the bottom. “Oikawa // property of a volleyball god”

You roll your eyes. Typical.

You place the bottle on the front desk before leaving, brush the dust from your skirt, and forget about it by the time your friend launches into a rant about pop quizzes.

But he doesn’t forget.

—

The next day, he finds you at your lunch spot.

You hear the commotion before you see him — the shift in energy, the sharp hush of voices as his shadow stretches over your table. You glance up once, irritated.

And there he is. Oikawa Tooru. All tall smirk and tan skin and unfair cheekbones, looking at you like he already knows what you’ll say.

“Did you find my water bottle?” he asks, all innocent charm.

You blink. “…And?”

He leans in slightly, like your indifference is a challenge. “It’s the alien sticker, right? Looks like me if you squint.”

Your friends are whispering beside you. You are so unimpressed.

“I didn’t look at it that long,” you reply, turning back to your book. “It had your name on it. I gave it to the front office.”

You don’t ask why he came looking for you. You don’t ask how he knew it was you.

You don’t ask because you can feel the shift already. The quiet kind. The one that ruins routines.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

"something like almost"

Part 1: The One Who Didn’t Look Twice Pairing: Oikawa Tooru × Reader

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You’re not one of the girls who hangs around the gym. You’ve never even been near the volleyball courts except when forced. You’re the type who eats lunch with the same two best friends every day, tucked in a quiet corner of the courtyard with headphones in and your textbooks spread around you like armor.

You know of Oikawa Tooru, obviously.

He’s everywhere. In the hallway glances. In the laughter from third-years. In the notes passed between classes with little hearts drawn around his name.

But to you, he’s just noise.

You don’t look twice when he passes. You don’t drop your gaze when he smirks. You don’t act impressed when he wins a game. You don’t even follow the scores.

To Oikawa, that makes you fascinating.

To you, he’s just another boy who thinks the world owes him its attention.

Until he forgets his water bottle in the music room. And you’re the one who finds it.

🕯️ to be continued

[sophieops]

Inviting digital art submissions

Hey, All those who are interested in submitting digital arts (cover pages and designs), are invited to collaborate. I was on a long hiatus but I have returned with great stories that I am sure, you'll love to stop by and read. I wish to invite some creators for these stories to bring life out of my characters. Feel free to slide into the DMs.

[sophieops]

If you like reading, this one's for you

Do check it out!

Genre - Historical fiction, romance, drama, thriller, mystery

Writer - @sophieops

[sophieops]

Chapter 2: He Bleeds Too

"Heroes save lives. But no one ever taught her what to do when the life belonged to a villain."

He hadn’t moved since speaking. Not even to breathe, as far as she could tell. The only sign of life was the slow drip of blood from his fingertips, leaving a quiet crimson trail in the dust beneath him.

Mira crouched a few feet away, close enough to see the burns better now. They weren't just surface level — they were deep, gnarled, and raw. Old scars overlapped fresh damage. Some of the wounds looked self-inflicted. Others… were clearly not.

“Why are you still alive?” she murmured.

Dabi coughed — dry, hoarse, almost a laugh.

“Been wondering that myself.”

It wasn’t the answer of a man who feared death. It was the answer of someone annoyed he hadn’t earned it.

Her mind kept racing: This is Dabi. This is Toya Todoroki. Arsonist. Murderer. Traitor to hero society. She’d watched video feeds of him torching hero teams like kindling. She’d read reports of what was left behind. She’d memorized his face during sidekick training.

And now she was standing in front of him, in the middle of a dead zone, with no one watching.

One flick of her comm and she could call it in. One flick of her quirk and she could blind him long enough to run.

Instead… she opened the small medpack clipped to her belt.

“What are you doing?” he rasped.

“I don’t know.”

But she kept working. Pulled out a roll of gauze, gloves, disinfectant. Her hands moved like they were someone else's. She wasn’t thinking. If she thought too hard, she’d start questioning why she wasn’t leaving him here to rot.

She pressed a soaked pad against a gash on his side. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re going to get arrested,” he muttered.

“You’re going to die.”

“Wouldn’t that be better?”

She stopped. Met his eyes for the first time.

They weren’t wild. They weren’t angry. They were just… tired.

"You think if you bleed enough, it’ll make the fire stop?” she asked.

“Maybe it’ll make the past burn out,” he whispered.

Silence.

She didn’t know what to say to that. Because maybe — just maybe — she understood it more than she wanted to admit.

Her mind returned to 48 hours ago.

To the moment her team entered a burning block and didn’t come out. To the sounds of screaming through comms, cut short in mid-sentence. To her mentor’s voice — Burnout’s — yelling for her to fall back.

She did. They didn’t.

She'd spent the past two days digging through rubble for any trace of them. All she found was melted armor, crushed IDs, and a stray glove with blood on it.

She didn’t even have bodies to mourn.

And now, the man who lit the match sat broken before her, ribs visible under cracked skin, coughing up smoke like the fire never left him.

“I should hate you,” she said aloud.

Dabi said nothing.

“I want to.”

Still nothing.

“But I look at you, and all I see is… ash.”

That got a twitch. Maybe a smirk. Maybe pain.

She wrapped the last bandage around his side, tight enough to stop the bleeding. Crude work. Temporary at best.

“You’re not saving me,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“You think I’ll change?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

She stood.

“I guess I want to know what a monster looks like when it’s not being watched.”

Dabi let out a weak chuckle, but it cracked halfway and turned into a cough.

“Brave girl.”

“No. Just lost.”

She turned to leave, her hand finally brushing the comm on her belt.

She hesitated again.

She could report this. She should.

But the truth felt more dangerous than the lie.

She stared at the cracked ceiling, at the sliver of fading daylight bleeding through a hole in the roof.

Tomorrow, she told herself.

Tomorrow, she’d decide.

For now, she left Dabi in the shadows, bandaged and burning inside, and walked back into the smoke.

Some monsters don’t hide in the dark. They sit in it, hoping it’ll finish what the world started.

[End of Chapter 2]

Check out the rest of the chapters :

[sophieops]

"Letters Never Sent" : Letter Six

[Date: Unknown. Folded differently from the others. Torn at the corner, smudged like it had been held too long before being tucked away.]

To: You (but you’ll never read it)

I’m writing this because if I try to say it out loud, I’ll break.

And I’ve broken enough times for you already.

There’s no drama in that. No bitterness. Just… a tired kind of honesty. The kind that settles in your chest when you stop trying to outrun the silence.

It’s funny — how you always acted like I was the fragile one. Like I needed saving, or soft words, or warning signs before getting too close to the fire. But you were the one who flinched when anything started to feel real. You were the one who stayed quiet when it mattered most.

I would’ve forgiven you a thousand times, Hayato. For your silence. For your distance. For your refusal to say what I know you felt but wouldn’t let yourself admit.

I never needed you to be perfect. I just needed you to meet me halfway.

I waited.

You didn’t come.

And I kept waiting.

Sometimes I think you wanted to. That maybe there were nights you almost did — when the street was too quiet, or your fists ached, or the weight of your own detachment finally pressed too hard on your ribs. I think you thought about it. And maybe you thought that was enough.

But I needed more than almost.

I needed you to fight for me the way you fight for everything else — with blood in your teeth and something wild in your eyes. But when it came to me, you looked the other way. Not because I didn’t matter — but because I did.

And that’s what hurts most, I think. Knowing that you felt it. But not enough to try.

You never let me love you out loud.

And now, I don’t know what to do with everything I never got to give.

I still remember the way your voice softened when you didn’t realize I was listening. I remember how your eyes flicked toward me when someone else said my name. I remember the way your hand twitched once, like you were going to reach for mine — and then didn’t.

You were always on the edge of something.

So was I.

But you never jumped.

And now here we are — both on opposite sides of a silence we helped build.

I’m not writing this so you’ll feel guilty. I’m not even writing it so you’ll come back.

I’m writing it because I need you to know that I would’ve stayed.

Even through the silence. Even through the cold.

I would’ve stayed if you had just given me something to hold onto. Anything. But you didn’t. And now I don’t know how to—

(the letter stops here. The rest of the page is blank. Ink smudged at the bottom where it looks like she pressed the pen too hard, then didn’t finish. It was folded, but not sealed. As if she meant to tuck it away… or give it to him… and never decided.)

Check out all the other links :

[sophieops]

"Letters Never Sent" : Letter Five

To: Suo Hayato

From: Her

(Written over the course of months)

[Date: Weeks into emotional distance]

You’ve gone quiet again.

Not the usual quiet. Not the thoughtful, distant kind. This is colder. Blunt. Final. Like you’re building a wall and daring me to try and knock it down.

I’m tired, Suo.

Not of you. Of this. Of wanting something you won’t even look in the eye. Of giving you warmth and watching you hold it like it burns.

Maybe I should stop. Maybe I will.

Maybe I won’t.

Check out all the other links :

[sophieops]

"Letters Never Sent" : Letter Four

To: Suo Hayato

From: Her (Written over the course of months)

[Date: The night after he held her hand for the first time]

You didn’t even notice, did you?

Your hand brushed mine, and for the first time, you didn’t pull away. You just… let it happen. And I know it was nothing. I know you’ll pretend it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe you were just tired.

But I stayed up all night thinking about it.

Thinking maybe there’s something in you that wants to be reached — even if you’ll never admit it.

Even if I’m not the one meant to reach it.

Check out all the other links :

[sophieops]

Chapter 1: Smoldering Ground

“This isn’t victory,” she thinks, staring at the wreckage. “It’s just the part where the screaming stopped.”

Smoke still hung low in the ruins of Sector K-17, clinging to the bones of broken buildings like a ghost too stubborn to leave.

Mira Nakatomi had never seen war — not until this week. And now, standing in the crater of what used to be a pro hero command post, she wished she could unsee all of it.

The ground was still warm under her boots.

Chunks of concrete jutted from the soil like jagged teeth. Twisted lampposts. Shattered goggles. The discarded shell of what used to be a hero's drone — crushed, melted, and left to rust in hours.

She stepped over the wreckage carefully, like walking through a battlefield museum where every piece was sacred. Reverent. Haunted.

She shouldn’t be here alone.

She wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

But the main patrol had moved on — assuming no survivors, no villains. They had bigger fires to put out now, literal and otherwise. Mira, junior sidekick under Flame Hero: Burnout, was left behind for “cleanup and tagging.” Glorified corpse duty. She’d said yes because she couldn’t bear the silence of the base, not after watching half of her team disappear in blue fire just 48 hours ago.

A noise.

Crunch. Behind her. Too heavy to be a bird. Too slow to be wind.

She froze.

Another crunch.

She turned fast, instinctively raising her arm, fingers already sparking weak volts — her quirk, Flashspike, wasn’t built for offense. It was meant to disorient, to mark. She could light up shadows, blind attackers for two seconds. That's it.

Not enough for a real fight.

“Who's there?” she called out, voice sharper than she felt.

No answer.

But something was here.

She edged toward a collapsed building — an old training facility, long abandoned. One wing had completely fallen in, but the other still stood, barely. She stepped inside. The air was stale, but not untouched. There were recent footprints in the ash — heavy, erratic.

She followed them.

Turned a corner.

And stopped.

There, slumped against the wall, was a man.

Or what used to be one.

Burned.

Badly.

Charred flesh clung to his frame like paper on coal. His skin was cracked, bleeding beneath scorched layers. One arm looked dislocated, the other half-covered in dried blood. But what caught her more than the wounds was the smell — smoke, old flame, and something raw. Something human.

His face was hidden under soot and streaks of dried red. But that hair — black singed into white — and that eerie stillness despite the pain...

Recognition clawed at the edges of her mind.

This wasn’t just any man.

Her knees almost buckled.

Dabi.

She should have run.

She should have screamed for backup, called HQ, reported the monster sitting barely breathing ten feet away from her.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t even look up.

And for a moment — just one — Mira saw something that confused her more than fear.

He looked empty.

Not like a villain hiding in the shadows.

But like someone who hadn’t decided if he wanted to keep living.

Her hand hovered near her comm.

Report him. Tag the location. Walk away.

That was protocol.

But her thumb hesitated.

She looked at the damage — the burn pattern around him, long cooled. The blood trail that ended here. No footsteps leaving. No signs of an escape plan.

He was dying. Slowly. Quietly.

And yet, something about it felt wrong.

Not his survival — but the silence around it. Dabi wasn’t the kind to go down without spectacle. He would’ve burned his own bones to ash if it meant making a statement.

This wasn’t strategy. This was surrender.

And she didn’t know what to do with that.

"Are you here to kill me, little flashlight?" His voice rasped like wind dragging metal across gravel.

Mira jolted. He hadn’t moved. His head was still down. But his lips — barely — had shaped those words.

She swallowed. Hard.

“No,” she said. “Not today.”

A pause. Then a faint, humorless chuckle.

“Then you’re wasting your time.”

[End of Chapter 1]

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