"My head…" Aoi groaned, his fingers pressing into his temples as consciousness returned to him in a nauseating wave. "It fucking hurts." A dull, relentless throb pulsed behind his eyes, each beat a miniature explosion that threatened to split his skull open. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, and a fresh, sharp pain flared in his ribs with every shallow breath.
He pushed himself up slowly, his hands sinking into a soggy cardboard box. He was lying in a dumpster, nestled among reeking bags of garbage and discarded wrappers. The stench was overwhelming, rotten food and decay. His body protested every movement, a symphony of aches from the fresh bruises layered over old, yellowing ones. Using the rust-streaked wall of the alley for support, he hauled himself upright, his legs trembling from the effort. He leaned heavily against the cold brick, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
"Fucking assholes," he spat, the words a raw scrape in his throat. "What did I ever do to deserve this shit?" His voice, initially a whisper, dripped with venom and a deep-seated, burning anger. Then, quieter, laced with a self-loathing so familiar it was almost a comfort, he added, "Useless shit." The hate was mostly for himself. If he were stronger, if he had a quirk, this wouldn't keep happening. He was an easy target, and he knew it.
After a few minutes, when the trembling in his limbs had subsided to a manageable tremor, he began the slow, shuffling journey back to his apartment. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his side.
The city streets, usually a blur of noise and motion, now felt like a gauntlet. From the corner of his eye, he saw the stares. People whispered behind their hands, mothers pulled their children closer, and a few well-meaning souls took a hesitant step forward. "Son, are you alright?" an old man asked, his face etched with concern. Aoi didn't need to speak; he just turned his head, meeting the man's gaze with a look so hollow and full of simmering rage that the man faltered, mumbled an apology, and quickly walked away. It was a practiced 'art', making himself invisible or, when necessary, making himself look too 'dangerous' to approach.
When he finally stumbled through the door of his small, government-issued apartment, the lock clicking shut felt like the only victory he'd had all day. The silence was a physical relief. He didn't even make it to the bed; his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the thin, worn mattress, the springs groaning in protest. Hot, silent tears streamed down his dirty cheeks, carving paths through the dried blood. He didn't sob; his body was too exhausted for that. The tears just fell, a quiet, desperate leak of all the pain he couldn't afford to show outside.
His life had been hell since birth. Being the son of a notorious villain was a stain that never faded. Being quirkless on top of that was a death sentence in a society that worshipped power. He was a living, breathing failure in the eyes of the world.
"I fucking hate this…" he choked out, his voice cracking. "Why… me?" The frustration boiled over. He clenched his fist, the knuckles already raw, and drove it into his pillow. Again. And again. A guttural cry tore from his lips with each impact until his body finally surrendered. His muscles turned to lead, his mind went numb, and he lay there, utterly spent, trapped in a state of pure, debilitating exhaustion.
"God…" he whispered into the fabric, his voice a broken thread of sound. "If I had just a quirk… then I could have…" The end of the sentence was lost, the fantasy too painful to finish. His voice faded into the stillness of the room until the pull of sleep became irresistible, dragging him down into oblivion.
.
.
.
He stood in the familiar, empty darkness of his dream. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above, only an infinite, silent void. This was the landscape of his mind every night: a vast, black canvas with only two features—himself and the man.
Far, far away, a solitary figure stood with his back to Aoi, a permanent silhouette against the nothingness, forever staring into the abyss.
"Can't even catch a break even in my sleep," Aoi muttered to himself with a dry, humorless chuckle. He sat down, the sensation of sitting on something solid despite the emptiness. It was the one constant in his life, more reliable than any person or place.
He had never been able to control this dream. Lucidity wasn't freedom here; it was a cage. He was aware he was dreaming, yet he couldn't change a thing. He had spent countless dream-hours running toward the man, screaming until his dream-voice gave out, but the figure never grew closer, never reacted. The distance between them remained unchangeable.
"At least I don't have nightmares in here," he admitted, the tension from the waking world slowly seeping away. "I can think clearly here." This void had a strange, calming effect, as if it were a spiritual sink that drained all his dark thoughts, his anger, and his pain, leaving only a numb peace.
"Bob," he began, addressing the distant man as he always did. "What do you think I should do? I mean, I can't really do anything in my life. I got no job, no future, no friends, and no parents! Like, come on dude, give me a break, right?" The silence that answered was as deep and absolute as the void itself. "You're no fun, Bob. At least when I'm getting beaten I get some feedback, a grunt, a curse, you know? But you're just cold as stone. I mean, at least try to scare me like in those movies. Jump-scare me. Something." Still, nothing.
"Oh, Bob, I got this new idea," Aoi said, his tone shifting to one of enthusiasm. "I'm gonna be a villain! Yeah, you know what? I'm gonna be a villain because it's cooler than a hero. And imagine the money and the cool-ass suits! Oh, not to mention the look on everyone's faces when the quirkless nobody becomes the most wanted man in Japan..." And like that, Aoi rambled on, spinning elaborate tales of power and revenge, his voice the only sound in the eternal quiet. It felt like hours, this one-sided conversation. This was his sanctuary, the only thing that had kept him sane all these years: these nightly debriefs with the silent, unmoving Bob.
.
.
.
"...Huh?"
Slowly, consciousness seeped back in. The darkness of the dream dissolved into the faint grey light of dawn filtering through his grimy window. He blinked, his body screaming in protest as he turned to look at the wall clock. It was 6:30 AM.
"At least I'm not late today," he said flatly, the words devoid of any real relief. It was a simple statement of fact in a life devoid of pleasant surprises. He pushed himself up, every muscle stiff and sore, and trudged to the bathroom.
The flickering fluorescent light illuminated the small, cramped space. He leaned over the sink, the porcelain cold against his hands, and looked at his reflection. The face that stared back was a mess. His black hair was a tangled bird's nest, matted with dried blood and dirt. Dark, heavy circles hung like bruises under his dull brown eyes. His face was a map of his suffering, a network of fine, silvery lines and newer, red marks, all small enough to be overlooked at a glance, but together they told a clear story to anyone who cared to read it.
"Fuck me," he sighed, the breath misting the glass. "They're even taking away my normal look."
School was a prison in every sense. The lessons were a boring, irrelevant drone, the teachers either pitied him or ignored him, and his classmates… his classmates were the architects of his daily hell. But the part he hated most was its inevitability. It was mandatory. This apartment, this existence, was all part of a government program for "at-risk youth"—a fancy term for orphans and charity cases they didn't know what else to do with. School was the price he had to pay for a roof over his head. He splashed cold water on his face, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, and prepared to face another day.
.
.
.
Like always he took the alley that was his usual shortcut home but today was little defrant.
A sudden sharp shove sent him stumbling forward, his bag flying from his shoulder. "Think you can just slink away, Stain-spawn?" Akito's voice was a low and mocking.
Aoi didn't answer. He simply turned, his body already into a defensive posture, he was use to this after all.
"Cat got your tongue, quirkless?" one of the other boys sneered, cracking his knuckles.
The first blow was a test jab to the ribs, delivered by a lackey. Aoi grunted, shifting to absorb the impact. The second was a slap, open-handed and demeaning, from Akito. "We're talking to you. Show some respect."
Aoi's eyes, dull and hollow, flickered up to meet Akito's. But It was the wrong move.
"Don't look at me with those dead-fish eyes," Akito snarled, his Quirk, Aero-Kinetic Fist, beginning to activate. The air around his right hand shimmered, condensing into a visible, swirling vortex of compressed wind. A single, full-force punch from that could shatter concrete.
What followed was a methodical, brutal dismantling. Aoi was no fighter, but he was a survivor. He dodged the first empowered swing, the gust of wind tearing a chunk of plaster from the wall behind him. He managed to block a kick aimed at his knee, the impact jarring his entire leg. For a fleeting second, a spark of defiance ignited in his chest. He wasn't going down without making it difficult for them.
He lunged forward, not to punch, but to tackle, to disrupt Akito's balance. It was a desperate, clumsy move, but it caught the bully off guard. They crashed into a stack of empty crates, the wood splintering around them. Aoi managed to land a single, solid blow to Akito's side, a satisfying thud that earned a pained gasp
Enraged and humiliated, Akito roared, shoving Aoi off with brute force. "You pest!" Aoi scrambled back, his chest heaving.
"You pig!" he said with a breathless voice as he stood up again.
"Wow Aoi, I give it to you, you're resilient..." Akito said, amused, brushing splinters from his uniform. He was smiling now. "...but," he said, and the word was like a death sentence.
He didn't bother with his Quirk this time. He simply drove his fist, hard and precise, into Aoi's stomach.
"Pha!" Aoi opened his mouth to scream, but no air came out. His diaphragm seized. The world swam, colors blurring into a nauseating swirl. He collapsed onto the ground, curling around the white-hot agony in his gut, breathing in ragged, useless gasps.
"Don't you dare glare at me," Akito said coldly, standing over him.
"I pah didn't... do pah anything wrong!" Aoi said, his voice a strangled, breathless whisper.
"But your dad did." Akito crouched down, his shadow falling over Aoi. He fisted a hand in Aoi's hair, yanking his head up, forcing him to look directly into his cold, triumphant eyes. "Didn't I tell you not to look at me like th-"
Before he could finish his sentence, Aoi gathered the last of his saliva and his defiance. He spat. The glob landed squarely on Akito's cheek.
The alley went silent. The lackeys froze. Akito's smile vanished, replaced by a look of such pure, unadulterated fury that it was almost alien. He slowly wiped the spit away with his sleeve, his hand trembling.
"Go fuck yourself." That was the last thing Aoi said.
Akito's face contorted. The air around his fist didn't just shimmer; it screamed, compressing into a visible, tightly-wound gauntlet of distorted air. "You're dead, you quirkless piece of trash!"
The punch wasn't just a punch. It was a shockwave. It connected with Aoi's face with a sound that was sickeningly wet and cruncy at the same time. Aoi felt his nose cartilage disintegrate. He felt several teeth on the right side of his mouth shatter, the fragments like broken glass on his tongue. The force of the blow snapped his head back so violently his neck vertebrae cracked.
He didn't even have time to think before a second punch, this one to his already-bruised ribs, and he felt a sharp crack. A third punch landed on his jaw. A fourth punch slammed into his temple, and the world exploded into blinding white static before rapidly dimming.
And then... nothing.
.
.
.
"I'm here again?" He looked at the empty void, the familiar, silent darkness a welcome reprieve from the shattering pain. His body felt whole, the agony just a ghost of a memory.
"Did I actually die this time, or did I just pass out? Meh, who cares? I'm just happy it's over," he said with a deep and long sigh, the sound swallowed by the infinite quiet.
"Now, where is bOB?!" Right behind him, the man stood. He couldn't make out the face or the clothes, but he was sure that whatever Bob was, it was something terrifying.
"Would you like to make a deal?" The man said, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere.
Aoi's heart was beating fast. What was he looking at? His Bob could be something otherworldly, something so powerful it could grant all his wishes. Anything he wanted could become true if he just said yes.
Aoi, in a trance, said, "No."
"..."
"..."
"WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?! THIS ISN'T HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO WORK!!!! YOU SHOULD SAY YES TO ME!!! HOW IS THIS EVEN EJJEJRJEKWGMEES" The magnificent being, the man, said.
"Yo dude, just chill out?" the stupid, dumb human said.
"Hey, I'm not dumb!"
You are!
Wait, how can you hear my narration?!
"I don't know."
...
"What! I'm serious, I don't know."
Whatever. Look, kid, just accept the deal.
"What? Of course I'm not going to do that, you creepy old man."
Creepy old man?! I'll have you know I'm the narrator! I'm no old man, nor creepy! And besides, I didn't even tell you the benefits of the deal yet!
"Benefits?"
Yes, benefits! By accepting this deal, you would get the most powerful abilities in any universe or world! And a bonus companion of beautiful wom-
"I accept."
...Ahh... ok, well that was easy
"But I have questions."
Alright, it depends on what they are, of course. I'm a busy entity. Universes to narrate, plot holes to patch, you know how it is.
"First of all, I want to know what I'm losing in this deal?"
Oh, just your body. The physical vessel. The meat-sack. I'll be giving residence. Don't worry, they well maintain it better than you ever did.
"Just my body? Not my soul or something more sinister? No eternal servitude in the fires of damnation?"
What am I to you, kid?! I'm the Narrator, not some low-rent devil running around collecting souls! That's a whole different union, and let me tell you, their benefits are terrible. I deal in narratives, consciousness, and prime physical real estate. Souls are messy and come with too much baggage.
"And why do you want my body? And why not just take it? If you're so powerful, why even offer a deal?"
Ah, because I'm a gentleman, of course. Rules of engagement. Cosmic bylaws. You can't just go around commandeering sentient lifeforms without a signed contract. It's bad form.
"I doubt that. I think you can't just take it. I think you need permission. My consciousness is the key. Otherwise, you'd have just kicked me out already."
There was a long, strained silence. The magnificent being me seemed to deflate slightly. Only slightly!
...Fine. You're annoyingly perceptive for a punching bag. Yes, there's a... a metaphysical lock on this particular model of reality. Voluntary transfer of tenancy is the cleanest way. Happy?
"Yep," Aoi deadpanned. "And why me? Of all the people in all the worlds, you want this?" He gestured to his dream-self, a representation of his bruised and broken body.
As to why... well, look at this projection.
The void shifted, and a massive, holographic image flickered to life between them. It was a colossal body of pulsating meat and fused bone, a mountain of grotesque power.
"Oh cool, you can make stuff here."
As you can see, this massive body of meat and bones is-
"The Titan!?"
Ah, yeah, I forgot about that. People did make this into a legend of sorts, right?
"A legend?! It's more than a legend! They say 50 years ago, a battle between true evil and good took place in the Lut Desert! The Titan, a powerful monster and villain, and the hero of fire, Whiteblaze, fought viciously! In the end, the hero won, leaving nothing behind of the villain, and he disappeared just as he came!"
Wow, that's one hell of a story. But in reality...
The scene played out. The Titan roared, gathering unimaginable energy. Whiteblaze, a tiny speck of light, shot forward. Their fists met...when their fists hit the fire, shoots a massive beam and vaporized him completely.
The hologram showed the Titan vanishing in an instant, a look of profound confusion on its monstrous face before it was erased from existence.
"...O-one shot?"
Look, kid, I wish it was as cool as you said, But as you can see, he gets one-shot. Look, even he is confused! I have no idea what happened! I mean, I gave him such an OP power! A-tier concept! S-tier potential! And he gets one-shot by a side character?! with a straightforward fire Quirk! I mean, come on! What am I to you, I mean-!
I invested millions of words of backstory into that guy! A tragic fall from grace! A sympathetic reason for world domination! And he blows it all in the first act because he didn't check his opponent's power level! It was a total narrative failure! A waste of a perfectly good antagonist!
Aoi was silent. A single, hot tear traced a path down his cheek, followed by another. Then, a choked sob escaped his lips.
Oh, kid, are you okay? Why are you crying?!
"Sniff... This... this shit is so lame, All of it. The heroes, the villains... it's all just a stupid, badly written story. And you... you're lame too, just narrating me! You're not a god. You're just a bad writer."
That's my job! And I'm a fantastic writer! My subplots are legendary! It's the actors who keep messing up their lines!
"Sniff... Fine. Whatever. I accept."
..Oh. Okay. I have been taken aback by the sudden surrender. But Well then. Let's talk the details in my office. It's less... existential. And let's just...
.
.
.
"Huh?"
And that's how the Div got back.