The midday sun poured over the neighborhood park, casting warm shadows of trees onto the sandbox and jungle gym. Children laughed, climbed, and chased each other with reckless abandon, their joy echoing like music through the open air.
Near the swings, four-year-old Malik Kurosawa darted across the soft rubber ground in a pair of bright red sneakers, eyes sparkling with energy. His brown skin gleamed with sweat under the sunlight, and a wild grin stretched across his face as he ran.
Sitting on a nearby bench was his mother, Kurosawa Ayame, a kind-eyed woman in a nurse's uniform, her long hair tied back. She watched with fondness, occasionally calling out reminders between chuckles.
"Not too fast, Malik! You'll trip!"
"I won't!" he called back with gleeful defiance.
As he reached the top of the play structure, something strange stirred deep in his body — a flutter behind his ribs, like someone plucking an invisible string inside his chest.
His feet wobbled.
Then—
Thump-thump.
His heart raced. The world seemed to slow. His hands tingled, then burned — not from pain, but from pressure, like something was trying to push out of his skin. The soles of his feet vibrated too, the sensation rising fast.
He gasped.
His palms and feet pulsed, skin bulging and shifting in an unnatural way. Panic flooded him as round, paw-like pads erupted from the centers — soft-looking, yet dense, like rubber molded under pressure. They glowed faintly with energy and heat.
"What—"
Before he could scream, everything exploded outward.
The air around him detonated with a boom, and he was flung off the structure, arms flailing.
Ayame bolted from the bench. "Malik!"
The blast sent the other kids stumbling back, dirt flying. Malik's small body spun midair, a trail of displaced air spiraling behind him like a cannonball in reverse.
His back hit the ground hard.
He bounced.
Then skidded.
Then blacked out.
Hospital Room – Several Hours Later
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nose as he stirred awake beneath crisp white sheets.
His eyelids fluttered open to the soft hum of medical equipment and the gentle pressure of a warm hand holding his. His mother's hand.
Ayame sat beside him, her eyes red-rimmed but smiling.
"You're okay," she whispered, brushing curls from his forehead. "You scared me."
Malik blinked. "I… I flew…"
"You sure did," she laughed softly, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Your quirk awakened."
His eyes widened. "...Really?"
Before she could answer, a doctor stepped in — a kind older man with a tablet and a bright white coat. "Good morning, Malik. I'm Dr. Shibata. Ready to try something cool?"
Quirk Evaluation Lab – Open Test Arena
The room was massive and empty, built with reinforced walls and shock-absorbing floors. It was made just for cases like this — for quirks still raw and undefined.
Malik stood in the center, barefoot, his tiny fists clenched nervously at his sides. The paw-like pads were still there, now fully formed and slightly glossy.
"Just do what feels natural," Dr. Shibata encouraged. "Don't be scared. We're here to help."
His mom stood by the viewing window, giving him a gentle nod.
He turned toward the empty space in front of him. The buzzing feeling in his hands and feet returned — familiar this time. Like pressure building. Like something was waiting to burst.
He thrust his palms forward.
BOOM!
A thunderclap of displaced air exploded out, distorting the air in a visible ripple. The recoil knocked him back a step, but he stayed standing, wide-eyed.
Everyone else stayed silent.
Malik's lips slowly curled into a grin.
He lifted one foot and pushed.
His body launched across the room like a pinball, rebounding once off the wall, then tumbling to a halt near the far side. He landed with a bruising thud on his forehead — but the smile never faded.
His mom rushed in, half panicked, half proud. "Malik! You're not hurt, are you?!"
He sat up, rubbing his head. "Ow… but I'm okay."
He turned to her with eyes shining.
"Mom… did you see that?! I can fly! I can push the air!"
"You nearly cracked the wall with it," she muttered, hugging him tightly. "You're grounded. Forever."
He giggled into her shoulder. "You always say that."
She sniffled. "Because you keep proving me wrong."
As the medical staff made notes and murmured in awe, Malik turned back to the testing floor, eyes brimming with wonder and ambition.
The chapter closed with a wide shot of a four-year-old boy, sitting upright, bruised forehead gleaming, smiling like nothing else mattered.
In his heart, one truth had already solidified:
He could be a hero.
-----
The first time Malik broke the family's laundry line, he was six.
One minute he was pretending to be a sky-racing hero on the back patio. The next, he'd kicked off the ground with too much force, launched six meters into the air, and yanked down the entire clothesline trying to steady himself midair.
Tangled in clean sheets and a pair of his mom's underwear, Malik could only offer a sheepish grin when she opened the door with a tired sigh.
"Malik…"
"Technically, I'm helping you rewash them, right?"
------
By ten, the paw pads on his palms and soles had hardened into distinct, flexible mounds of tissue. Not quite like animal paws — smoother, with a faintly glowing texture, like polished rubber constantly flexing with tension.
Over the years, Malik learned to control the pressure, to ease the bursts of repulsion so he wouldn't go flying with every step. The hardest part wasn't the quirk itself — it was everything else.
He had to walk slower in crowds.
Sit carefully on hard surfaces, so his pads didn't accidentally fire him backward.
Avoid clapping too hard or hugging his classmates unless he focused on suppressing the tension.
At school, he wasn't bullied, but he wasn't totally understood either. His teachers found it hard to discipline a kid who could instinctively dodge a scolding hand or leap over a hallway monitor with a toe tap.
Still, Malik was friendly, funny, and quick to help. If he knocked someone over by accident, he'd pull them up before they could even groan.
-----
"Yo! There's my future number one."
The holographic screen shimmered in Malik's living room as his father's smiling face appeared — lean and powerful, skin dark and sun-kissed, a beard trimmed neat beneath tactical sunglasses. Hero Name: Atlas Pulse, stationed in Cairo.
"Dad!" Malik grinned, sitting cross-legged in front of the screen. "You're late. Timezones still whooping you?"
"Hush, boy, I just stopped a collapsing bridge," his dad laughed. "Can't time a hero's day like a cooking timer."
Malik rolled his eyes, but the excitement glowed in his face.
"Did you use the compression burst thing again?"
"Course. Sent the supports flying back into place like jigsaw pieces."
They both laughed.
After a few updates about school and the usual, Malik's tone shifted.
"...Dad? When did you start fighting for real?"
There was a pause. Malik's mom, listening quietly in the kitchen, looked up.
Atlas leaned closer to the camera.
"I was around your age when I joined a local judo club. Got into real hero training at 14."
"Do you think I'm behind?"
Another pause. This time more thoughtful.
"No. But if you're asking because you want to start now… then you're ahead."
Malik hesitated, then nodded.
"I think I need to learn to fight. Not just bounce around."
His father's grin widened. "That's my boy. Find a club, test your body, learn your limits — then break 'em."
-----
That weekend, Malik and his mom visited a local MMA gym tucked behind a grocery complex — nothing flashy, but respected. The mat smelled like sweat and focus, and the air was filled with grunts, slams, and the shuffle of feet on vinyl.
"—You're ten?" the coach asked, glancing at Malik's lean frame.
"Yup. Fourth year. Quirk active since four. I've been practicing."
"You have a combat-type quirk?"
"Not exactly." Malik held out his hands. "I have… these."
The coach blinked at the pads, then watched as Malik gave a small, controlled pulse — a shockwave of air puffed outward, shaking the coach's clipboard.
"…Alright," the man said, lowering it. "We'll call that 'potential.'"
------
For the next few weeks, Malik threw himself into training. It was hard. Brutally so.
He had to relearn how to move with intent. Instead of bouncing, he had to brace. Instead of reflexively dodging, he had to read attacks.
He learned how to punch without repelling himself backward, how to kick while controlling his launch force, how to fall and roll. The first time he used his footpads mid-grapple, he flipped himself and his opponent straight into the padded wall.
"—DON'T just launch unless you're sure!" the coach shouted. "This isn't pinball!"
But Malik just groaned from the mat, grinning through the bruises.
-----
Lying in bed, arms sore, head bandaged from a clean tumble earlier that day, Malik stared up at the ceiling fan.
His mom walked in, holding a gel pack and a cup of hot cocoa.
"You can't smile your way out of concussions forever," she muttered, pressing the pack to his forehead.
"Maybe, but I'm not trying to escape," he said. "I'm trying to be ready. For when I really have to protect people."
She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing his curls with gentle fingers.
"You have your dad's recklessness," she said softly.
"And your heart," he replied.
She blinked, then laughed. "That's cheating."
As the lights dimmed and the quiet settled over the room, Malik whispered to himself:
"Step by step, I'll get there. One push at a time."