Chapter 4: Education
The stale air of the alley behind Inferno tasted like old garbage and ozone, a harsh contrast to the expensive, cloying scents inside. Dabi leaned against the brick wall, the rough surface scraping against his leather jacket as he took a deep drag from his cigarette. The nicotine did little to settle the restless energy humming under his skin, a leftover tremor from... earlier. From the possessive fury in Dante's voice, the brutal claiming that had left him sore and strangely euphoric, only to be flung back into the chaotic orbit of his usual crowd.
He crushed the butt under his heel and pushed back through the heavy service door. The club's sound hit him like a physical blow – a deep, relentless bass thumping through the floor, the shriek of synth, the roar of a hundred conversations fighting to be heard. Smoke hung thick in the dim, neon-strobed air. He navigated the packed dance floor, a current of bodies pressing close, anonymous in the pulsing darkness.
The VIP section was a relative oasis. Plush leather booths formed shadowed alcoves, guarded by impassive bouncers who knew better than to card Dabi. He slid into the curved seat opposite Shigaraki, who was meticulously peeling the label off a beer bottle with a long, chipped fingernail. Toga perched beside him, swinging her legs, sipping something violently pink through a tiny straw. Across the low table, Hawks sprawled with predatory ease, his sharp gold eyes missing nothing. Beside him, Deku sat slightly stiffly, nursing a soda, while Bakugo glowered next to him, arms crossed, radiating impatience.
"Took you long enough," Bakugo snapped, crimson eyes narrowing. "We were about to send out a fucking search party."
"Got held up," Dabi muttered, slumping back. The leather felt cool against his heated skin. He avoided direct eye contact, focusing instead on the condensation dripping down a bottle of water someone had pushed towards him.
Hawks leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His grin was sharp, knowing. "Held up, huh? Or just... unwound?" He tilted his head, gaze sweeping over Dabi with unnerving precision. "You've got a weird fucking vibe tonight, Dabs. Loose. Almost... perky. Which," he drawled, taking a slow sip of his whiskey, "only ever means two things with your grumpy ass. Either you're higher than Endeavor's ego, or..."
Dabi stiffened. "Or what, birdbrain? Spit it out."
"...Or you're getting some seriously good dick," Hawks finished, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. His eyes gleamed. "So, which is it? Chemical enhancement, or did you finally let someone crack that icy exterior?"
Dabi's jaw clenched. "Fuck off, Hawks. Not my scene." He reached for the water bottle, trying to project indifference, but a faint heat prickled up his neck. The bruises Dante had left felt suddenly visible, glowing beneath his shirt.
Toga giggled, a high, tinkling sound. She pointed a slender finger towards the railing overlooking the main floor. Her gaze was fixed on the exclusive, elevated lounge nestled in the darkest corner. It was shrouded in near-darkness, but one figure was partially illuminated by the shifting neon glow reflecting off the bottles behind the private bar. Dante Morningstar. He lounged in a high-backed chair like a king surveying his domain, a crystal tumbler held loosely in one hand. His gaze wasn't on the club below, but directly at their booth. At Dabi.
"That pretty boy up there?" Toga chirped, her head tilting. "He was your new bestie earlier, wasn't he, Dabi? Took you somewhere real private for a long time." She winked, slow and deliberate.
"Shut the fuck up, Toga," Dabi snapped, the words sharp enough to cut glass. He didn’t raise his voice, but the venom in his tone made Deku flinch. Bakugo’s glower deepened, a silent what’s your damage? Hawks’ easy grin vanished, replaced by genuine bafflement. He tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing as they flickered between Dabi’s rigid posture and the distant, shadowed figure of Dante.
"Whoa, easy," Hawks said, his voice losing its teasing lilt, turning low and cautious. He leaned across the table, the neon lights catching the sharp angles of his face. "Serious question, Dabi. Do you even know who that is?" He jerked his chin towards Dante’s lounge. Dabi met his gaze with practiced boredom, a wall of indifference. "What?" he drawled, feigning disinterest.
"Like, who that fucking is," Hawks pressed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow cut through the club’s thumping bass. "Dante Morningstar." The name hung heavy in the smoky air. Dabi’s bored facade didn’t crack. Morningstar. Why did that ping something deep, a half-remembered echo from childhood whispers or drunken rants? It tugged at the edge of his awareness, unsettling.
Hawks saw the flicker of recognition, however faint. He took a slow sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving Dabi’s. "Alright, history lesson," he began, his tone grim, devoid of its usual playful edge. "Dante Morningstar. Firstborn son of Lucifer himself. Not some metaphor. The actual Devil. Ran Hell’s torture chambers, the slaughter pits – Lucifer’s right hand butcher for millennia." He paused, letting the weight sink in. "One day, Dante finally grew a conscience. Told Daddy Dearest the whole eternal torment gig felt… wrong. Said he wouldn’t do it anymore."
Dabi stared, the club noise fading to a dull roar in his ears. "Lucifer smiled," Hawks continued, the words clipped. "Said it was fine. It wasn’t fucking fine. Lucifer, with Dante’s brothers Damien and Belial, beat Dante into paste. Tortured him for days. Then… they found Azazel." Hawks’ knuckles whitened on his glass. "Dante’s lover. Centuries together. An angel. Lucifer despised that." A muscle ticked in Dabi’s jaw. "They dragged Azazel down to where Dante was chained. Made Dante watch as they tortured him. Slowly. Brutally. Tore him apart until he died screaming in Dante’s arms."
The air in the booth turned thick, suffocating. Shigaraki had stopped picking at his label. Toga’s playful smirk was long gone. Deku looked horrified. Bakugo just watched, crimson eyes narrowed. "But they weren’t done," Hawks rasped. "Fucking psychopaths. After killing Azazel, they brought in Dante’s kids. Four of them." He counted them off like a grim roll call. "Lilith, the eldest daughter. Veyra, second born. Zephaniel, third son. Seraphine… the baby. Just a child."
Dabi felt a cold dread slither down his spine. Morningstar. Lucifer’s son. "Lucifer went for Seraphine first," Hawks said, his voice flat, dead. "The kid. Zephaniel… he jumped in front of the blow. Took it for his little brother. Died instantly. Dante watched. Then Seraphine… poor fucking kid… he panicked. His wings burst out. Tried to fly away." Hawks swallowed hard. "They threw an angelic spear. Caught him mid-air. Impaled him. Just… hung there. Bleeding out. Dying while Dante screamed."
Silence slammed down, heavier than the bass. The pulsing lights felt garish, obscene against the horror Hawks painted. "That broke him," Hawks whispered. "Shattered whatever was left. Something… monstrous woke up inside Dante. Power no one knew he had. One of his demon forms. He tore Belial apart. Damien and Lucifer ran like the cowards they are." He took a shaky breath. "Dante tried… fuck, he tried for centuries to bring them back. Azazel. His sons. Failed. Got his girls, Lilith and Veyra, safe with their mother, Astrella. Then… he vanished."
Hawks leaned back, drained. "Centuries, Dabi. He disappeared into the dark. Became the very nightmare he tried to escape. Slaughtered his way across realms. A beast. Until his other siblings – KJ, Sapphire, Xavier, Vincent – managed to corner him. Dragged the monster back under control. Took all of them." He gestured vaguely towards Dante's shadowed perch. "That’s who’s watching you. That’s Dante Morningstar."
Dabi sat utterly still. The rough burn of Dante’s possession, the terrifying power in his voice, the possessive fury when Sapphire approached… it all clicked into horrifying focus. The sheer, staggering weight of millennia of loss, rage, and damnation. He stared across the club, seeing not just the dangerously handsome club owner, but the ancient, broken creature forged in unimaginable trauma. His mouth was dry. His mind reeled. Flabbergasted didn't cover it. He felt hollowed out, the world tilting violently on its axis. The roar of the club was suddenly deafening, yet distant, muffled by the thunderous silence roaring inside his own skull.