Dying isn't like in the movies. It's not peaceful. It's not quick. It's cold seeping into your bones while your brain screams at nerves that won't respond. It's copper in your mouth and darkness at the edges of your vision.
"Should've just quit while you're ahead."
I tried to speak, but blood bubbled past my lips instead. The warehouse lights dimmed, flickered.
My last thought wasn't profound. Wasn't about revenge or regret.
I just didn't want to die on this dirty warehouse floor.
Then everything went black.
And then...
The warehouse lights snapped back into fluorescent clarity. Not concrete floor. Not blood and cordite.
Classroom. Desk. Morning sunlight.
"MURANO!"
The chalk hit the blackboard with a sharp crack.
My head snapped up. The teacher glared at me from behind thick glasses. He was a cliché of middle-aged exhaustion: balding, with a rumpled brown suit that had seen better decades.
Around me, thirty-odd teenagers in identical uniforms stared. Some snickered. Others looked bored.
"Murano Yukio," the teacher repeated, his voice carrying the particular brand of irritation reserved for students who dared to exist in his presence. "Since you're so fascinated by whatever's happening outside that window, perhaps you'd like to solve this equation for us?"
I blinked. The blackboard was covered in symbols that looked like Japanese but... weren't quite right. Mathematical formulas mixed with what appeared to be scientific notation, but the context made no sense. Something about "Quirk Factor Analysis" and "Hereditary Mutation Coefficients."
Quirk?
The word sat strange in my mouth, foreign yet familiar. Like remembering a song you'd never heard before.
"Well?" The teacher tapped his chalk against the board. "We're waiting."
I stood. The chair scraped against linoleum. My legs felt wrong—too long, too lean. I was taller than I remembered being. The uniform jacket hung loose, the fabric unfamiliar on my shoulders.
"I..." The voice that came out wasn't mine. Higher pitched. Younger. Japanese accent thick as honey. "I don't..."
Laughter rippled through the classroom. Not cruel, exactly. Just the casual amusement of teenagers watching someone else get called out.
"Sit down, Murano." The teacher waved his chalk dismissively. "See me after class."
I dropped back into the chair. My hands were shaking.
What the hell is happening to me?
The rest of the period passed in a haze. I kept my head down, scribbling nonsense in a notebook that apparently belonged to me. The handwriting was neat, precise—nothing like my own scratchy scrawl. Every page was filled with notes about something called "Hero Law" and "Quirk Ethics."
Heroes. Quirks. The words bounced around my skull like pinballs, triggering fragments of memories that felt borrowed. A man in a garish costume flying overhead. News reports about something called "Plus Ultra." A woman with pink skin and horns teaching a math class.
None of this makes sense.
The bell rang. Students shuffled out, chattering about weekend plans and homework assignments. I stayed frozen in my seat until the teacher cleared his throat.
"Murano."
I approached his desk on unsteady legs. Up close, he looked tired. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from years of dealing with teenagers who'd rather be anywhere else.
"You've been distracted lately," he said, not looking up from the papers he was grading. "Your test scores are slipping. The entrance exams are in two months."
"Entrance exams?"
He finally looked at me. Behind his glasses, his eyes narrowed. "U.A. University. Your dream school, remember? The one you've been obsessing over since middle school?"
"Right," I said. "U.A."
"If you don't get your act together, you'll be lucky to get into a community college." He went back to his papers. "Your sister works too hard for you to waste this opportunity."
Sister.
Images flashed through my mind—a woman with black hair streaked white, making breakfast in a tiny kitchen. Warm hands ruffling my hair. A voice calling me "Yu-yu" in a tone that mixed affection with gentle exasperation.
Kimi-nee.
I stumbled out of the classroom. The hallway was emptying as students headed home. I pressed my back against a locker, breathing hard.
I died. I know I died. The warehouse, the blood, the cold...
I dug through the unfamiliar pockets of my uniform jacket and found a student ID. The photo showed a teenager with black hair and violet eyes—my eyes, apparently—staring back at me with a serious expression. The name read "Murano Yukio, Class 3-B."
There was an address on the back.
The train ride home was a nightmare of sensory overload. The Tokyo subway system was familiar enough—I'd used it plenty in my previous life—but everything felt heightened. The crowds pressed closer. The announcements were too loud. My reflection in the window showed a stranger's face wearing my confusion.
I got lost twice. The address led me through a maze of narrow streets lined with apartment buildings that all looked identical. By the time I found Sakuragawa Heights, the sun was setting and my legs ached.
Building 3, Apartment B. I stood outside the door for a full minute, key in hand.
What if I'm wrong? What if this isn't my life?
But the key fit. The door opened.
The apartment was tiny. Smaller than my old studio, if that was even possible. The genkan barely had room for two pairs of shoes. Beyond it, I could see a cramped living space dominated by a worn grey couch and a small television.
"Yuki?"
I looked up.
She was sitting at a small table near the kitchen, textbooks spread around her like fallen leaves. Black hair with white streaks caught the overhead light, and when she turned toward me, I saw eyes the color of warm mahogany. She wasn't a head-turner, the kind that announces her presence. She was the quiet type of beautiful you don't notice until you're already in too deep. The dangerous kind. The kind that costs you more in the long run.
And she was completely, devastatingly familiar.
"You're late," she said, closing her textbook. Her voice carried a musical quality that made something in my chest tighten. "Everything okay? You look pale."
I stood there, key still in my hand, staring at her. The memories were coming faster now—fragments of a life I'd never lived but somehow remembered. Birthday mornings with homemade pancakes. Study sessions at this same table. Her laughing at something I'd said, head thrown back, eyes crinkled at the corners.
Kimiko. Her name is Kimiko.
"I..." My voice cracked. "I got held up at school."
She studied my face with those warm eyes. There was something perceptive in her gaze, like she could see right through whatever mask I was wearing.
"Come here," she said softly.
I approached the table on unsteady legs. She reached up and pressed the back of her hand against my forehead.
"No fever," she murmured. "But you look like you've seen a ghost."
More like I am one.
Her touch was warm. It grounded me in a way that made the borrowed memories feel less foreign. This was my sister. Somehow, impossibly, this person who I'd never met but had known my entire life was the most important thing in this strange new world.
"Just admiring the view," I managed, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen. "You're looking… domestic."
She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. Instead, she gestured to the papers spread across the table.
I looked at the documents. Official letterheads, professional language, and in the corner of each one, a small box marked "Quirk Status" with "Quirkless" written in Kimiko's neat handwriting.
Quirkless.
Her gaze lingered a moment too long on my face, a slight furrow appearing between her brows before she smoothed it away with a practiced smile. She knew. She wouldn't call me on it, not yet, but the question was hanging in the air between us.
"I should..." I gestured vaguely toward the living room. "Homework."
"Of course." She gathered her papers into a neat stack. "I'll start dinner in a bit. We've got rice and some leftover curry."
I nodded and escaped to the couch. My school bag—apparently mine now—was filled with textbooks and assignments that might as well have been written in hieroglyphics. But I pulled out a notebook anyway and pretended to study while my mind raced.
This is real. This is actually happening.
I'd died in a warehouse in Tokyo and woken up in the body of a seventeen-year-old student in what appeared to be the same city but a completely different world. A world with heroes and quirks and entrance exams for something called U.A. University.
A world where I had a sister who loved me.
From the kitchen came the soft sounds of Kimiko preparing dinner. The rice cooker beeped. Dishes clinked against the counter. Normal, domestic sounds that should have been comforting but instead made my chest feel tight.
She was humming something under her breath—a melody I didn't recognize but somehow knew all the words to.
I don't belong here.