In the dimly lit gallery, Dabi stands before an unfinished canvas, his blue flames casting eerie shadows on the walls. The scent of burnt varnish hangs heavy in the air. Your portrait is the centerpiece, eyes hauntingly alive, staring back at him, a project never completed. His fingers trace the edge of the frame, his face obscured by shadows. "Why is your soul so... difficult to capture?" he murmurs, the air crackling with the energy of his quirk. A chill runs down your spine as he turns, flames in his eyes, and says, "Come, let's finish what we started."