The sun barely touched the backyard, filtering through the branches of the old plum tree. The damp grass brushed against the soles of his bare feet, and the air had that scent of fresh earth that only exists at that time of morning.
Reiji stood in the center of the garden, his torso bare, his breathing measured. There was no noise, no distractions around him. Just him, his body, and the slow throbbing of power beneath his skin.
He was home alone.
His mother had gone out with Himiko a couple of hours ago, some impromptu outing between mother and daughter. His father, as always, had left for work long before the sun was fully risen. For the first time in days, Reiji had the whole house to himself.
It was a relief.
He slowly stretched his arm, feeling the tension build in his shoulder. He gently opened his fingers, as if touching an invisible surface. From his palm, a thin strand of blood emerged with a slight, barely contained tremor, responding to his concentration.
He guided it forward, making it trace a circular figure in the air. The movement was not perfect, but it did not break apart. That was enough for the young man to smile almost imperceptibly.
He no longer needed to be on the verge of an emotional breakdown to activate his Quirk. He had made progress.
He was only eight years old, but his body told a different story. His height was comparable to that of Himiko, who was already ten, and although his build was still that of a child, certain changes in his proportions were noticeable. His arms, for example, were better defined. The muscles in his abdomen were clearly visible when he tensed his body, and each movement was more fluid, more precise.
He looked like Himiko. That was undeniable. He had the same facial proportions, but his expressions were totally different. Himiko radiated a big smile and tenderness, while he was much more serious and his expressions were firmer. His hair, tousled, was a shade darker than his sister's, and fell over his forehead in no particular order. And his eyes, a fiery orange, seemed fixed even when he blinked, as if they saw more than they should. He had taken after the good genes, though it wasn't as if he particularly cared.
The strand of blood dissolved into the air when he loosened his hand. Reiji took a deep breath, flexing his neck to release the accumulated stiffness. He felt his muscles crack slightly in response.
He trained every morning. Since he had decided to be a hero, even more so knowing the dangers that lurked in the world, he had decided to strengthen himself as much as his body could handle. After all, he had his regeneration ability, which practically encouraged him to get stronger, to push himself to the limit, day after day. And if he didn't take advantage of it, he would only be wasting the one thing that made him resilient in a world that could turn hostile at any moment.
But it wasn't all that simple.
Quirk's training was a different story altogether. His progress was slow but steady. He couldn't control it completely with his will, but at least he could use it unconsciously, without the need for blood to trigger it.
Inevitably, however, that urge did not fade over the years.
He drank in secret. Small animals. Just enough to keep that part of himself at bay. Never in front of Himiko. Never when anyone might suspect. It was his burden, and he preferred to bear it alone.
As for his sister.
She was better. Much more controlled. She slept better, smiled more often. But she had also become more... close. Every time he left a room, she followed him with her eyes. Every time she woke up before him, she watched him as if she needed to confirm that he was still there.
She had developed a great dependence on him... Almost obsessive.
Reiji tried not to think about it too much. Not because he didn't care, but because he didn't know how to handle it. They had become inseparable, but sometimes he felt that it wasn't entirely healthy. Still, he owed her that stability. And he wasn't going to let her down. Not after everything they had been through.
He raised his hand again, trying to form a spear of blood. It was more difficult this time. Less stable. When he spun it, it broke in the air, falling into drops that landed on the grass as if they had never defied gravity.
He pressed his lips together.
It wasn't a failure. It was part of the process. Each drop taught him something new.
He stood still for a few seconds. Then, without knowing why, he felt a slight tingling sensation at the back of his neck. An uncomfortable feeling, as if something were watching him from some corner of the world. He turned his gaze slowly.
Nothing.
No shadows, no movement, no noise. Just the garden bathed in soft sunlight. Just the silent house. Just the plum tree swaying in the wind.
But the feeling didn't go away. She frowned at this, knowing full well that it wasn't the first time it had happened, but whenever she turned around, there was nothing there.
"It can't be a mere coincidence, can it?" he thought. It couldn't be that he felt that presence constantly.
It had started a year ago, while he was in his Quirk education class, where he had to learn to control the early stages of his peculiarities. It was normal in this world to do so, but it wasn't normal for him to have two clearly... Someone had noticed him, he was completely sure of it.
From then on, the discreet glances, hidden in the shadows, began to become more constant, and by now it was every few days... Even now in his own home!
He didn't know who or what it was, but whatever it was, he was on alert. He knew perfectly well that his strength couldn't be compared yet, he was still weak against novice professional heroes, let alone organizations deeply rooted in Japan.
"As long as I keep watching, there's little I can do. I must continue to strive so that when the time comes to act, I'll be ready." He wiped the sweat from his forehead and began training his body once more.
He divided his training between physical training and rest, learning to control his Quirk. Perhaps it wasn't the most efficient approach, but it had worked so far, and he would continue this way for a while longer.
***
The sun was beginning to set behind the rooftops, casting an old orange hue over the streets. Reiji walked calmly, a paper bag hanging from his arm. His mother had asked him to pick up some last-minute ingredients, and although he usually did so accompanied by Himiko, this time she was busy at home baking with absurd enthusiasm.
He didn't complain. Going out alone gave him space. Space to think. To feel.
The way back was the usual one... until it wasn't.
A figure suddenly crossed out from a newsstand, barely grazing his shoulder. Reiji barely felt the contact, but he turned anyway to see a small piece of paper, too elegant to be trash, fall to the ground.
He stopped. He looked at the man.
A generic face. Fifty years old, perhaps. Smoked glasses. A discreet hat. He was already walking in the opposite direction, without haste. As if he had never been there.
"Hey, sir," he called weakly as he picked up the paper, but when he looked up, the mysterious figure had disappeared. He frowned slightly, looking at what he had in his hand.
"Reiji."
Five letters neatly handwritten with an elegance he hadn't seen since his previous life, when he watched scientists write notes about his condition.
His stomach tightened. He felt the twinge, that uncomfortable pressure at the back of his neck. The same tingling sensation he felt every time he was being watched by something, by someone.
There was no signature. No stamp. Just that. His name.
He looked around. No one was looking directly at him, but the feeling was still there, like a knot under his skin.
He didn't open it.
Not there.
He tucked the envelope against his chest, inside his jacket, and walked faster than before, ignoring the slight tremor in his legs.
***
When he arrived, the door opened before he could find his key.
"You took forever!" Himiko crossed her arms with a small snort of annoyance. She wore an apron with poorly painted flowers and flour stains on her cheeks. Her gaze was filled with exaggerated annoyance... which barely hid her concern.
"I took a different route," Reiji replied, lifting the bag containing all the ingredients he had been asked to buy.
"A different route? Why would you do that?" she insisted, frowning. Her eyes scanned him as if searching for an invisible sign that something was wrong.
From the kitchen, his mother peeked out. "Himiko, honey, don't harass him. Sometimes you need to walk to think."
"Yes, but it's not like him," Himiko muttered, without moving from the doorway. She looked away at her mother, who dismissed it as just another scene between her daughter and her brother.
Reiji sighed, handed the bag to his mother, and turned toward the hallway. "I'm going to the bathroom."
"Are you okay?" Himiko asked, stepping forward. "You have that look on your face when you lie."
"I'm fine, I'll be down in a minute," he repeated without stopping.
When he reached the bathroom, he double-locked the door. He searched his pocket, his fingers steady but his pulse slightly elevated. He reached in and felt it: a folded piece of paper, thick, with a texture different from the rest.
He unwrapped it carefully.
There was a single sentence written in black ink, by hand. The handwriting was elegant. Disturbing in its precision.
"Society fears what it does not understand. And you, Reiji? What will you do when they understand you too well?"
He frowned, looked at the page, but there was nothing else written, and he turned the paper over. Another sentence was written in the corner, smaller than the previous one.
"The answers will come in time, but until then, I have a question for you: What does it mean to be a true hero?"
Reiji felt a chill. The same tingling sensation in the back of his neck. He calmly closed the paper.
He took a deep breath.
This was not just any message. Whoever had written it was looking for something from him, a reaction, a feeling... Something.
An emotional trap.
"What kind of organization trains for this kind of psychological game... And with an eight-year-old child, no less... One thing is clear, it caught someone's attention... But whose?"
He closed the paper carefully, folding it exactly as he had received it. The bathroom was deathly silent, barely broken by the hum of the ventilation.
His fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the mixture of excitement and danger boiling beneath his skin. There were no direct threats. Just ideas. Questions. Seeds of doubt.
And they were all directed at him.
"A provocation..." he thought. "They're trying to break something inside me. Maybe provoke curiosity, maybe fear. Maybe... both."
The paper was a hook disguised as philosophy.
But he wasn't the average kid. He never had been.
"What is it to be a true hero, huh...?" he muttered to himself, putting the note away.
His orange eyes, reflected in the bathroom mirror, showed no confusion.
Only determination.
'I was someone's tool in my first life, in this one I will be the one who uses them as tools...'