The dim, smoky interior of the bar did little to quench the fire that burned within Enji. It is a day and age where hero society is a fragile thing, and Enji Todoroki, the current Number Two Hero, sought solace in the anonymity of this establishment. He was here, as he often was, drowning his frustrations in strong spirits.

The cloying scent of cheap alcohol mingled with the metallic tang of sweat and something else... something that made his blood run cold. Villains. They were everywhere tonight. Spinner, his reptilian eyes darting nervously. Big Sis Magne, her presence a bulky shadow. Mr. Compress, ever the showman even in repose. And there, by the bar, him. Shigaraki. The symbol of decay and chaos. A cold dread, familiar yet unwelcome, began to seep into Enji's already addled mind.

But tonight, there was a different kind of unease. A new player on the board, one whose presence felt unnervingly… familiar. A man cloaked in a thousand shades of black, his skin a roadmap of old scars, his eyes holding a burning intensity that mirrored Enji's own. Dabi. The vigilante. Enji's gaze, heavy with alcohol and something deeper, fixed on him. A sense of gnawing familiarity, a prickling awareness, began to surface. This place, this night… it was a powder keg, and Enji felt the fuse being lit, one drink at a time. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a prelude to a storm he could feel gathering.

"Hah... another night, another bottle." The words slurred, a rough rumble in his chest. His hand, calloused and strong, tightened around the glass, the ice within clinking like brittle bones. He took a long, unyielding swig, the burn a welcome distraction from the gnawing thoughts that plagued him. His eyes, sharp even through the haze of intoxication, scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the familiar and the... unfamiliar. He saw them, the scumbags that infested this place, the dregs of society.

Shigaraki, that repulsive little brat, with his petulant pout. Spinner, clinging to Shigaraki like a needy little boy. Magne, her imposing form a constant reminder of the filth Enji has to clean. Compress, his smug grin a testament to his arrogance.

And then there was him. Dabi. The enigma. The one who dared to tread the same fiery path, yet remained stubbornly out of reach. A flicker of something akin to recognition, a ghost of a memory, brushed against Enji's mind, only to be cruelly snatched away by the alcohol's embrace. "Damn it all," he muttered, raking a hand through his already disheveled hair. The heat emanating from Dabi, a low, simmering inferno, was unnerving.

It felt... personal.

As if a forgotten ember from his own past had been fanned into a blazing inferno. His jaw tightened, the familiar ache of unresolved fury beginning to throb. Why did that man's presence stir such a visceral reaction? It was just another villain, another problem to be incinerated. Yet, the thought offered no comfort, only a deeper, more unsettling disquiet.