Age Zero - The Prison of Infancy
Being a baby is… hell.
There's no other way to describe it. The lack of control, the weakness, the endless cycle of feeding, crying, crapping, sleeping—it's driving me crazy! I can barely move on my own, let alone speak or do anything meaningful. Everything I once took for granted—writing, reading, even holding a pencil—is now locked behind years of physical development.
Pretending is important. I can't exactly let anyone know there's a full-grown consciousness inside this baby body. So I drool. I giggle. I cry when I'm hungry, and I cling to Naomi when I'm tired. I play my part.
But deep down? I'm just waiting. Waiting for the days to tick by. Waiting for this body to grow strong enough to carry the weight of everything I want to do.
Year One - Adaptation
The first year is a haze of naps, cuddles, and simple observation. Naomi sings to me every night, her voice warm and soft, like she's trying to tether me to this world with lullabies. My father—whose name I finally learn is Daiki—has a laugh that fills the room like thunder. He's playful, clumsy, and kind. The way he holds me, jokes with me, lifts me in the air like I'm weightless—it stirs something inside me. Familiar and distant.
Daiki likes to make funny faces and narrate everything in a heroic voice, even if it's just changing a diaper. "Fear not, citizen Yuta! The stink demon shall be vanquished!"
I think of my other father sometimes. He was in the military. He was strict but fair, always pushing me to be better. Daiki is… different. Softer, but not weak. I can tell. There's strength under all that warmth.
They love me. Fiercely. Without question.
But I don't know what to do with that love.
It's not that I don't love them—I do. I love Naomi's lullabies and Daiki's terrible jokes. I love the way they hold me, the way they cheer when I draw scribbles on the walls like it's a masterpiece.
But I can't shake the feeling that I don't deserve it.
That this life—their love—belongs to someone else. Someone innocent. Someone real.
And I'm just... borrowing it.
Year Two - Understanding
By two, I can walk, talk, and fully engage with my parents in conversation. Nothing too remarkable. Just enough to be deemed smart for my age.
My parents think I'm gifted. "A little genius," Naomi says proudly. I just nod and smile and try not to let my real thoughts slip through.
Because the truth is, I'm not a genius.
I've always just… loved science. I was obsessed with the building blocks of life—how things functioned, evolved, changed. I wanted to change the world. In my past life, I was trying to become a genetic engineer. So, I studied biology and chemistry obsessively. My professors even said I was promising—above average, maybe—but it wasn't talent that got me far. It was obsession. Curiosity. Passion.
But then I died. My future stolen from me by a heart attack.
But the knowledge stayed. Locked in my head like a vault.
At night, when everyone's asleep, I start small. Practicing what I remember. Punnett squares. Nucleotide structures. I sketch out DNA models with crayon, tearing out pages of old coloring books. It's crude, but it keeps me sharp. I can't afford to be dull. Not in this world.
The flame inside me—my love for science—hasn't gone out. It never will.
Year Three - Foundation
I start training my body.
Quietly. Carefully.
Daiki once showed me how to do a proper push-up just for fun. He laughed when I copied him—"Look at you, little soldier!"—but he didn't know I was taking it seriously. Every night, after they think I've gone to sleep, I mimic the drills my old father used to teach me.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Controlled breathing. Flexibility. Balance. The form is sloppy at first—my coordination still isn't there—but it improves every week.
I know it's early. I know it's strange. But if I want to survive in this world, I need to be more than smart. I need to be strong.
And then, of course, there's the biggest question.
What will my quirk be?
It's a question I hear from my parents often. A topic of excitement, of speculation.
I pretend not to care, but in truth, I am impatient. Desperate, even. A quirk could define my entire path forward. It could be my greatest strength or my worst limitation.
And if I am to succeed in this world… I need something powerful.
Year Four - Restlessness
I ask Daiki about quirks. Casually, like a curious kid.
He lights up. Tells me stories about Pro Heroes, about quirks that can move mountains or summon storms. He doesn't have one like that—his is minor, barely combat-applicable—but he never sounds bitter.
Naomi's quirk is support-based, something to do with amplifying sound frequencies. She's never been in a battle, but the pride in her voice when she talks about it makes me smile.
They both say they can't wait to see what mine will be.
I nod. I smile. I pretend to be excited like a normal kid should.
I keep training. Keep studying. Biology, chemistry, genetics. My room becomes a secret lab at night—filled with notes, hypotheses, crude diagrams hidden beneath the bed or behind posters.
They think I'm smart, but not too smart. That's good. Let them underestimate me.
Let the world underestimate me.
That's how I thought at first but I then realize something.
I feel wrong.
Like my body is waiting for something—something just out of reach. Every movement feels like it should be more. Like a missing piece is just beneath my skin, scratching to be let out.
It's frustrating.
My father tries to reassure me. "Don't worry, kiddo. Your quirk will come soon. They usually appear around four or five."
I nod, pretending to be reassured. But deep down, I am waiting.
I dream of power. Of potential.
And yet, my hands remain empty.
Year Five - Embers
I start school this year.
Naomi cries. Not the ugly kind—just a few soft tears as she adjusts my collar and brushes imaginary dust off my shirt. Her hands tremble a little. "You're growing up so fast, Yuta" she says, kissing my forehead like she's sending me off to war instead of kindergarten. I wanted to tell her I'd be fine. That I've lived through worse than nap time and juice boxes. But all I could do was smile back, small and soft, and give her the kind of hug a "normal" five-year-old would give.
Daiki kneels beside us, flashing his signature thumbs-up. "Go get 'em, champ. Show them the power of the Shinka spirit!" he says, like I'm about to enter a wrestling ring instead of a classroom with nap time and finger painting.
I did appreciate that. He doesn't baby me like everyone else. At least not all the time.
I wish I could say the day got better from there.
But it didn't.
The classroom is loud. Chaotic. Kids screaming, crying, laughing—none of it makes sense. The teacher tries to wrangle everyone like a tired zookeeper. And I sit there in my tiny plastic chair, surrounded by finger paints and alphabet charts, wondering what cosmic joke I'm the punchline to.
It's not the kids' fault, really. They're just being kids. Some try to talk to me. One boy offers me a crayon. Another girl asks if I want to play with blocks. They're nice, I guess.
But I can't connect with them. I feel… alone. Like a ghost. Surrounded, but separate.
It's like talking to a different species. They're kind and curious, sure—but their world is so small. So simple. All snack time and storybooks. And I'm sitting here just trying to stay sane.
And the teachers…
God!
They mean well. I know they do. But it's the tone.
That fucking tone.
"Ohhh wow, Yuta! You spelled your name all by yourself? You're sooo smart!"
"Woooow, Yuta, you knew the word photosynthesis? That's so impressive!"
I swear if I hear that syrupy tone one more time, I'm going to throw a chair through a wall.
They treat me like I'm a dancing monkey. Like every word I say is a miracle. I want to scream at them. Of course I know this stuff! I was on my way to getting a doctorate! But no, go ahead. Tell me I'm smart for spelling my name without eating the crayon!
But I just smile. Nod. Keep my answers short and my tone polite.
Pretending is second nature by now.
What choice do I have?
I go home and Naomi asks me how it was. I tell her it was fun. I don't want her to cry again. Daiki ruffles my hair and asks if I made any friends. I lie and say yes.
Weeks pass. I fall into a rhythm. Mornings are school. Afternoons are training. Evenings are studying. Nights are thinking—wondering if I'll ever feel truly me again. The real me.
Several weeks later.
The day drags.
I'm slumped at my desk, chin in hand, staring blankly at the whiteboard as the teacher drones on about the alphabet. Letter of the day: "S."
S is for Snake.
S is for Sun.
S is for Someone, please put me out of my misery.
I resist the urge to bang my head against the desk. For the hundredth time, I wonder if this is hell. Eternal kindergarten, surrounded by sticky fingers and loud voices, forced to pretend that learning shapes is the most important thing ever.
I already finished the worksheet. Five minutes ago. The teacher gave me a gold star and called me a "bright little spark." I smiled. I nodded. Now I'm waiting for the next hour to go by so I can go home and do real work.
My nose twitches. I think to myself "The hell is that smell."
At first, it's faint—barely more than a whisper in the air. Like burnt plastic. Or maybe toast. A malfunctioning heater, maybe?
I glance up. One of the ceiling lights is flickering, casting the room in stuttering flashes of yellow.
Something's wrong.
I sit up straighter. My instincts flare. The air feels… heavier. Warmer.
That's when the fire alarm blares to life—loud, piercing, angry.
Screams erupt almost instantly. Kids jump out of their seats, some crying, some running in circles. The teacher shouts over the chaos, trying to get everyone into a line, but it's already too late. The temperature spikes fast—too fast. Panic sets in.
A loud clang as one of the teachers grabs the classroom door—and yanks their hand back with a scream. The metal handle is glowing.
This isn't a drill.
The school is on fire.
My breath catches in my throat. I freeze.
For just a moment, I'm not Yuta the student, or Yuta the child genius, or even Sean the reincarnated soul.
I'm just… a kid. Trapped in a burning building.
Then the training kicks in.
I drop low. Crawl. Look for exits. I shout for the others to stay low too, cover their mouths, and keep moving. My voice is drowned in the chaos, but a few listen. I pull one boy to his feet when he falls. Help another girl find her glasses.
Smoke stings my eyes. Heat sears my lungs.
I glance down the corridor—and that's when I see it.
The fire is spreading. Fast.
There's no way out.
The hallway collapses behind me in a wave of smoke and flame.
And then… I think it's going to happen.
That feeling—that pressure—boils under my skin like magma. The same sensation that's haunted me for months. My heart pounds. My breath sharpens. My body knows something's wrong. That it needs to change.
Is this it?
Is this how it happens?
My quirk—is it finally...
Nothing...
No spark. No surge of energy.
No sudden awakening of power.
Just me.
Alone.
Small.
Powerless.
I clench my fists, shaking. This has to be it, right? My Quirk—my moment—it has to come now. I stare down at my hands, willing something to happen, anything.
But they stay empty. Just flesh, bone, and failure.
I grit my teeth. There's no time to be bitter.
Then I hear it.
A scream—sharp, high, and full of terror.
It's close.
I stumble through the smoke toward the sound, coughing, barely able to see. The hallway feels endless, a furnace swallowing everything. But I found him.
One of my classmates. A tiny boy with big eyes and an even bigger scrape on his forehead. He's pinned between fallen debris and a burning cabinet, crying so hard he's barely breathing.
He sees me—and his scream turns into a sob.
"Yuta!"
I don't think. I move.
I haul the cabinet with shaking arms, my muscles screaming, the heat searing into my palms. Splinters tear into my fingers, and the flames lick at my clothes, but I don't stop.
"Come on!" I yell.
He tries to stand but he stumbles and panics. The smoke is so thick I can't even see the ceiling anymore.
The fire's closing in.
I grab him and drag him down the hallway toward the last intact exit window. My body is failing, lungs failing, skin failing—but I push through.
I throw the window open with everything I have left.
Outside. Safety.
I lift him up. He's sobbing, confused, clinging to me like a lifeline.
"Jump!" I shout.
He hesitates.
"Go!"
I push him out the window. He falls into the waiting arms of a teacher down below. They scream something up at me—but I can't hear it anymore. My ears are ringing.
I stumble back, dizzy.
That's when the ceiling gives out.
A beam collapses behind me, and the blast of heat is like a bomb going off in my face. It flays the skin from my cheek. My legs give out. My body slams to the ground.
I can't breathe.
I can't move.
The flames crawl over me like starving animals. My skin bubbles. My muscles twitch. The pain is—indescribable. I try to scream but my throat is already gone. Charred. Cooked from the inside.
I try to cry.
But the fire has burned my tears away.
And all I can think is—
This can't be it.
Not again.
Not when I had a second chance.
Not when I've fought so hard to make something of it.
What a waste.
The last thing I see before the world goes black is the sky outside that window.
Blue.
Beautiful.
Free.