Reiji Kinzoku, at thirteen years old, was an entity defined by absence. Absence of parents, living in the functional monotony of a state-run group home. Absence of a Quirk, a genetic defect that marked him as incomplete in the vibrant tapestry of superhuman society. And, increasingly, absence of presence, a survival strategy honed in the hostile corridors of Aldera Junior High School.
The second year of junior high was a microcosm of the larger society. Eighty percent displayed their quirks with pride or carelessness, from Tsubasa's incipient wings to Katsuki Bakugo's aggressive explosions. The other twenty percent, the Quirkless, were outcasts. Izuku Midoriya, with his incessant muttering and impossible dreams of heroism, was the main target, a lightning rod for contempt and intimidation. Reiji, on the other hand, had become a master of invisibility.
He was quiet, observant, rarely meeting anyone's gaze. He kept his grades average, never standing out, never giving reason to be noticed. But invisibility was a fragile protection. The simple fact of his Quirkless existence was an offense to some, especially to Bakugo and his followers.
"Hey, Quirkless freak," Bakugo's voice snapped one day in the crowded hallway, making Reiji stiffen internally, but showing no outward reaction. He kept walking, eyes fixed on the floor ahead. "Deaf now, besides useless?"
A hard shove to his shoulder made him stumble, nearly dropping his books. Reiji silently composed himself, starting to gather the scattered materials.
"Look at me when I talk to you, damn it!" Bakugo snarled, small sparks crackling in his palms. Tsubasa and another boy with elongated fingers laughed behind him.
Reiji slowly raised his gaze, not with fear, but with a cold exhaustion he carefully concealed. He met Bakugo's furious red eyes for an instant. There was nothing to say. Any response would be fuel for more aggression. He simply went back to picking up his books.
This passivity seemed to infuriate Bakugo even more. "Tch. Pathetic." He kicked one of Reiji's notebooks across the hall before walking away with his lackeys, laughing loudly.
Reiji watched them go, jaw clenched for a moment before relaxing the force. He finished gathering his things, ignoring the pitying or disdainful glances from other students. It was just another day. But beneath the calm surface, an ember of resentment burned, fueled by every insult, every push, every reminder of his powerlessness. He hated it. Hated his weakness, hated the arrogance of those blessed with power, hated the indifference of society.
It was in this state of mind – a mixture of superficial resignation and contained fury – that he embarked on the mandatory school trip to the Municipal History Museum a few weeks later. The prospect of spending hours trapped with his classmates, especially Bakugo, was unsettling.
The museum was old, silent, a welcome refuge from the noise of school. While Bakugo complained about the lack of action and Midoriya (separated from Reiji in another group) likely marveled at some hero exhibit, Reiji felt compelled to wander off. He didn't want to hear the chatter, didn't want to risk another unwanted encounter.
He found a dimly lit side corridor leading to a wing that seemed almost abandoned: "Pre-Quirk Cultures." Dust covered the display cases, and the silence was almost absolute. It was a perfect escape. He wandered aimlessly, observing stone tools and broken pottery, feeling a strange comfort in the stillness and obscurity.
It was in a forgotten corner, behind an unidentified statue partially covered by an old cloth, that something different caught his eye. Leaning against the wall, almost hidden, was a greenish-gray stone mask. Its expression was vaguely human, but disturbing, with strange carvings and empty orbits that seemed to watch him.
An unusual curiosity, perhaps the first genuine emotion he'd felt that day besides resentment, drew him in. He approached, the air seeming colder near the object. He hesitantly reached out, his fingers brushing the cold, ancient surface. Nothing happened. Of course not, he thought with a touch of self-deprecation. It's just an old stone.
He was turning to leave when he heard voices approaching down the hall – loud, familiar laughter. Bakugo and his friends. Instinctive panic gripped him. He didn't want to be found there, cornered in that dark corner. He backed away hastily, stumbling over his own feet in the dimness. His hand reached out to steady himself against the wall but found the surface of the mask instead. The rough edge of a carving scratched his palm.
A drop of bright red blood welled up, falling onto the pale stone.
A dry click sounded in the silence, coming from the mask itself. Before Reiji could even gasp, thin stone claws shot out from the edges, enveloping his head, clamping the mask to his face with crushing force.
The pain was indescribable. An agony that exploded in his skull, not just physical, but existential. It was as if every cell in his body was being torn apart and forcibly rewritten. He wanted to scream, but the sound died in his throat as the outside world disappeared into a whirlwind of chaotic sensations and raw power. He felt his bones crack, his teeth lengthen painfully, his muscles contract with a strength that wasn't his.
The sound of Bakugo's approaching voices seemed like distant thunder. The smell of ancient dust mingled with the metallic scent of his own blood and something new, rich, pulsating – the life of his classmates. A voracious hunger, unlike anything he had ever known, awakened in his core.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure ceased. The claws retracted. The mask fell from his face with a dull thud.
Reiji collapsed to the floor, trembling violently, gasping for breath. The pain was gone, replaced by a strange vibration, a sensation of cold power tingling beneath his skin. He touched his face – intact. His palm – the wound had vanished without a trace.
"Hey, what was that?" Bakugo's voice echoed down the hall. They were close.
Panic and a new, sharp instinct took over. Hide. Erase. He grabbed the stone mask, its weight strangely significant in his hands, and shoved it under the cloth covering the nearby statue, pushing it into the deepest shadows. He staggered to his feet, heart pounding in a strangely slow, powerful rhythm, his senses exploding with information – the smell of Bakugo's hairspray, the irregular beat of Tsubasa's heart.
When Bakugo and his friends entered the dark corner, they found Reiji just getting up, composing himself.
"What are you doing here, freak?" Bakugo asked suspiciously. "We heard a noise."
"I... tripped," Reiji managed to say, his voice sounding lower, more resonant than usual, surprising himself. He forced himself to look confused and a little scared, a familiar mask. "That's all."
Bakugo stared at him for a moment, then snorted. "Tch. Useless even at walking straight." He turned to leave, uninterested. "Let's get out of this dusty hole."
As they walked away, Reiji stood there for an instant, hand pressed against his chest to feel the new rhythm of his heart. The world seemed different. Sharper, more dangerous, but also... full of potential. The hunger was still there, a dark promise. The power too.
He cast one last glance to where the mask was hidden. Whatever had happened, his life of absence was over. Something new and terrible had begun. And as he silently followed them out of the forgotten wing, a single question echoed in his confused, newly awakened mind: What have I become?