MHA REINCARNATION!

The antiseptic air of the hospital still clung to Touya like a shroud when he finally woke. Three years. Three years he had been lost to the world, burned to a crisp, presumed dead. All For One had found him, snatched him from the jaws of oblivion. He owed the villain his life, a debt he never asked for. He remembered the searing pain, the blue flames consuming him, the earth crumbling beneath him. He remembered the hollow, empty ache of his father's disappointment.

He fled the hospital before they could stop him. He was a ghost, a phantom limb his family had long since learned to live without. He needed to see them, to know if they were alright, even if he couldn't be a part of their lives.

The Todoroki household was colder than he remembered. Not just the temperature, but the atmosphere. A shrine stood in the corner of the living room, a somber display dedicated to his memory. A faded photograph of him as a smiling, hopeful child sat amidst wilting flowers and half-burnt candles. It was like looking at a stranger.

He found his father in the training room, screaming at Shoto. His youngest brother, barely a teenager, was panting, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His left side blazed with ice, his right trembled with untrained fire. Enji's voice was a whip, cracking against the boy's spirit.

"Again! You will master both sides! You will surpass All Might!"

Natsu and Fuyumi huddled in the corner, their faces pale with fear. They were mere shadows, ignored by their father, their own needs secondary to Shoto's brutal training. He saw the weariness in Fuyumi's eyes, the resentment simmering beneath Natsu's quiet demeanor.

And then he saw her. His mother.

Rei wasn't in the house. He learned later she was in a mental asylum, driven to the brink by Enji's relentless pursuit of power and his own… accident. The teakettle incident. A flash of red, a child's scream, and a scar that would forever mar Shoto's face, a constant reminder of their family's dysfunction.

Touya felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He was the catalyst, the burning kindling that had ignited this inferno. They were better off without him.

He turned and ran, the memorial, the abuse, the brokenness of his family burning into his mind. He had to disappear, to become someone else.

That's when he met Shira Aizawa.

Shira was a sharp, pragmatic woman with eyes that saw through lies and a past shrouded in mystery. She offered him a new purpose, a chance to channel his pain and rage into something… useful. An assassin. An instrument in the shadows.

He hesitated. He had been raised to be a hero, to protect the innocent. But the hero he was supposed to be was dead, consumed by flames and his father's ambition.

"Why me?" he rasped, his voice raw from disuse and trauma.

Shira shrugged. "You have a talent. A burning desire to prove something. And you're disposable. No one's looking for Touya Todoroki anymore."

He accepted. Not for justice, not for glory, but to prove Enji Todoroki wrong. To show him that he wasn't a failure, that he could be powerful, even if it was on the fringes of society, in the heart of darkness.

He trained with a ferocity that mirrored the flames that consumed him. He honed his quirk, mastering its destructive potential. He learned to move silently, to blend into the shadows, to kill without remorse. He became Dabi, a creature of the night, a wraith haunted by the ghosts of his past.

For years, he carved a bloody path through the underworld, taking down villains, eliminating threats. He was a weapon, a tool. He was everything his father didn't want him to be.

Then he saw Hawks.

The winged hero, the symbol of hope, the rising star. Dabi was drawn to him, intrigued by the duality of his image. Was he truly the savior the public believed him to be, or was there something darker lurking beneath the surface?

He watched Hawks for months, studying his movements, his interactions, his vulnerabilities. He was a puzzle, and Dabi was determined to solve him.

Hawks, of course, noticed. He was too sharp, too observant to miss the shadowy figure that haunted his periphery.

One day, Shira summoned him to the conference room. "We have a new assignment for you," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "You'll be working with a pro hero."

Dabi groaned. He despised heroes. They were self-righteous, hypocritical, blind to the true nature of the world.

"Hawks," Shira added, a glint in her eye.

Dabi's interest piqued. This could be… interesting. He accepted.

Working with Hawks was a dance of veiled intentions and unspoken truths. They solved cases, apprehended criminals, and slowly, cautiously, began to trust each other. Dabi found himself drawn to Hawks' cynicism, his pragmatism, the hidden weariness behind his confident facade.

He even felt a flicker of something… akin to friendship. A dangerous emotion, one he had long since buried.

Then came the war.

The world erupted in chaos, heroes fell, villains rose, and the line between good and evil blurred. It was time.

Dabi found a bottle of water and a bottle of hair dye remover. He stared at his reflection, at the patchwork of scarred flesh and the familiar black hair he had meticulously maintained for all these years. He poured the liquid onto his head, watching as the dark pigment washed away, revealing the stark white hair he had been born with.

He stepped onto the battlefield, a figure of pure devastation. He saw his father, his brother Shoto, their faces frozen in disbelief.

"Touya?" Shoto whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of shock and sorrow.

Enji roared, his eyes blazing with fury. "That's not Touya! He's dead! You're a pretender!"

He lunged at Dabi, a flaming fist aimed at his chest. Dabi reacted instinctively, unleashing a torrent of blue flames that sent Endeavor staggering back, unconscious.

He had revealed himself. He had shown them the monster they had created. Now, there was no turning back.

He finished his mission, playing his part in the chaos, and retreated back to the base. But he wasn't alone.

Shoto had followed him.

Dabi found him lurking in the shadows, his face a mask of confusion and hurt.

He grabbed Shoto, pinning him against the wall. "What do you want?" he snarled.

"I… I want to talk," Shoto stammered. "I want to understand. I want to… to have a brother again."

Dabi hesitated. Could he trust Shoto? Could he allow himself to feel anything again? He was a weapon, a monster. He didn't deserve family, he didn't deserve happiness.

But the flicker of hope in Shoto's eyes was too strong to ignore.

He released him, stepping back. "Fine," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Talk."

Weeks turned into months. Shoto visited him in secret, away from prying eyes. They talked about their childhood, about their mother, about the pressure that had crushed them both. Dabi shared his pain, his anger, his regret. Shoto listened, offering empathy and understanding.

Slowly, tentatively, a bond began to form. They were brothers, scarred by the same fire, forged in the same crucible.

Dabi still didn't know if he could ever truly forgive his father, if he could ever escape the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. But Shoto was there, a beacon of hope in the darkness, a reminder that even monsters could find redemption.

He wasn't Touya Todoroki anymore. He was Dabi. But maybe, just maybe, he could also be a brother. And that, perhaps, was enough.