The Day They Said I Was Normal
Mornings in this world were too… perfect.Back where I came from—wherever that was—there were always car horns, somebody yelling, and air that felt like you could chew it. Here, the sunlight poured down like a scene from a postcard, and the breeze smelled faintly of something fresh. Not bad… just unnervingly pleasant.
My "mom" held my hand as we walked down a quiet street. My "dad" was three steps ahead, hands in his pockets, the human equivalent of a closed door.
We were headed to the "Quirk Assessment." Apparently, every kid my age went through it. It was where they figured out what your special ability was—if you even had one.
I still didn't fully understand how common these "Quirks" were. At first I thought maybe one in ten people had them. But on the way here, I saw a guy whose forearms were literally made of stone, and no one reacted. A woman with cat ears was pushing a stroller. Two kids chasing each other down the block—one had skin that shimmered like glass. People didn't just have quirks here. They were… everywhere.
The building we stopped at was a low, rectangular place with big glass doors and a crowd of families outside. Kids about my age stood with their parents, chatting nervously. Some had obvious quirks—tiny horns, glowing freckles, hair that seemed to sway in a wind no one else felt. Others looked completely ordinary.
I wondered which group I'd fall into.
Inside, the waiting area smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper. A colorful poster on the wall read: "Know Your Quirk—Know Your Potential!" with a smiling cartoon hero giving a thumbs-up.
We didn't wait long before a man in a white coat appeared. "Kenjiro Ito?"
My mom gave me an encouraging smile. My dad barely nodded. I followed the man down a short hallway into a small, clean room.
"I'm Dr. Tanabe," he said, crouching slightly so we were at eye level. "Today we're going to see if your Quirk has manifested yet. Simple tests—nothing painful."
That "nothing painful" line didn't exactly fill me with confidence.
First came the boring stuff—height, weight, flexibility, eyesight. Then he led me into a longer room with a padded floor and a line painted across it.
"We'll start with a simple sprint test," the doctor said. "Run to that wall as fast as you can."
I took my place at the line. My mom watched from the side, smiling. My dad stood with his arms crossed.
"When you're ready."
I ran.It wasn't bad—my legs pumped hard, my feet slapped the mat, and I reached the wall a few seconds later, breathing a little harder than before.
The doctor made a note on his clipboard. "Alright. Reflex test next."
They had me press buttons that lit up in random order. My score was… fine. Not terrible, not amazing.
Then came the "special ability" tests. A tray of metal weights to see if I could lift anything far beyond my size. A temperature gauge to see if I could heat or chill my hands. A candle to see if I could extinguish the flame without touching it.
Nothing.Every single test came back normal.
The doctor tried a few more things, clearly giving me the benefit of the doubt. "Sometimes a child's Quirk only shows under stress," he explained. He had me jump, shout, hold my breath, even imagine something scary. Still nothing.
Finally, he set his clipboard down. "Mr. and Mrs. Ito… your son does not appear to have a Quirk."
The words hung there like a heavy weight in the room.
My mom's face softened. "You mean… not yet?"
"At this age," Dr. Tanabe said gently, "most children have already manifested their Quirk. There are rare cases of late development, but it's unlikely. Being quirkless is not a disadvantage in life—you can still do anything you set your mind to. It simply means you don't have an ability beyond the normal range of human capability."
I stared at the floor. Normal.That word didn't feel comforting. It felt… small.
The afternoon after my Quirk Assessment felt… heavy. Not the kind of heavy where you're physically tired, but the sort where your thoughts drag like lead weights.
Mom tried to make small talk on the walk back from the clinic. She pointed out a bakery that was selling anpan in the shape of cartoon heroes. She mentioned how the weather was "so nice today." Dad said nothing at all. His silence wasn't angry—at least, I didn't think so—it was the same kind of silence he carried all the time. Like he was here but not here.
When we reached the house, I went straight to my room. I sat on the floor and just… stared at my hands. They were small, ordinary, unremarkable. No matter how hard I flexed my fingers, nothing happened. No sparks, no glow, no hidden strength.
Part of me wanted to just accept it. This wasn't my world to begin with—why should I expect to be special in it? But another part of me felt… cheated. If this place was full of people who could bend the rules of reality, why was I stuck playing by them?
I lay back on the floor, staring at the ceiling.No Quirk.No powers.No advantages.
If I was going to live here, I'd have to do it the hard way.Which meant learning everything I could about this world, quirks or no quirks.
I didn't know how yet, but I made myself a quiet promise in that moment:Being quirkless wouldn't stop me from keeping up.
And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't stop me from standing out.
Dinner that night was quiet. Mom asked me to pass the soy sauce. Dad talked about work in short, clipped sentences. Nobody mentioned the assessment directly, but I felt the words hanging in the air like smoke.
I barely tasted my food. My chopsticks just went through the motions.
After dinner, I went to my room again, but this time I didn't just sit there. I opened the desk drawer and pulled out the small notebook I'd been using since arriving in this world. The first few pages were just scribbles—observations about the strange mix of technology, hero culture, and everyday life here. At first, it had been a way to keep my mind from unraveling, like I was cataloging proof that I existed at all.
Tonight, it became something else.
I wrote one line at the top of a blank page:
If I can't have a Quirk, I'll make myself into something else.
I didn't know what "something else" meant yet. But it sounded better than doing nothing.