The rice cooker's gentle hum filled the silence between us. I leaned back against the couch cushions, letting my shoulders drop into the practiced slouch that had served me well in my previous life. When people thought you were relaxed, they let their guard down. Basic psychology.
But Kimiko wasn't buying it.
She moved around the tiny kitchen like she owned every inch of it, opening cabinets and pulling out ingredients. She moved with the economy of a high-stakes dealer. Even with her back to me, the straight line of her spine and the set of her shoulders broadcast a quiet, crushing responsibility.
"So," I said, injecting just enough casual interest into my voice. "How was your day?"
She glanced over her shoulder. Those mahogany eyes studied my face for a beat too long.
"Same as always. Classes in the morning, work at night." She turned back to the stove, lighting the burner under a small pot. "You know how it is."
I didn't. The borrowed memories gave me fragments—images of her leaving early, coming home late, the sound of textbooks hitting the table at midnight. But the details felt fuzzy, like trying to remember a dream.
"Right. Work." I kept my tone neutral. "How's that going?"
"Fine." The word came out clipped. She stirred whatever was in the pot with more force than necessary. "Tips were decent last night. Should cover the electric bill."
Electric bill. In my old life, I'd bet that much on a single card without blinking. Here, it was the line between light and dark.
I watched her cook, cataloguing details. The way she checked the rice cooker twice. How she measured out exact portions of curry powder. The small stack of coupons held to the refrigerator with a single magnet shaped like a cartoon cat.
"What about your interviews?" I asked. "The hero agency ones."
The rhythmic stir of her spoon against the pot faltered for a single beat. In the dark reflection of the window above the sink, I saw her smile tighten at the corners.
"They went well. Really well." She reached for plates from the cabinet, and I noticed the slight tremor in her hands. "The hiring manager at Kamui Woods' agency seemed impressed. Said my portfolio was 'comprehensive.'"
"But?"
"But nothing." She set the plates down harder than necessary. "It's competitive, that's all. Lots of qualified candidates."
Qualified candidates with Quirks.
I could see her at seventeen, bright-eyed and ambitious, talking about hero management like it was her calling. Then the slow realization that in a world of superpowers, being normal wasn't enough.
"You'll get one," I said, because it seemed like the right thing to say.
She finally turned around. Her smile was soft but tired.
"Thanks, Yu-yu."
Yu-yu. The nickname hit something deep in my chest. Not my chest—his chest. The original Yukio's. But the line between us was blurring in ways that made my head hurt.
"So." I gestured vaguely at the apartment. "Tell me about this whole hero thing. I mean, really tell me. Like I'm an idiot who knows nothing."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Humor me." I leaned back, forcing a lazy grin that felt like a mask cracking on my face. "Walk me through it. The whole hero racket. Sometimes you get so deep in the game you forget the basic rules, you know?"
Kimiko studied my face again. Then she turned off the burner and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms.
"You want the basics? Fine." She tilted her head, and the white streaks in her hair caught the kitchen light. "Eighty percent of the population has Quirks. Superpowers, essentially. They started manifesting about two hundred years ago, and society rebuilt itself around them."
"Rebuilt how?"
"Heroes became a profession. Licensed, regulated, ranked. They fight villains, rescue civilians, and generally keep society from collapsing under the weight of people who can level city blocks." Her voice carried the practiced cadence of someone who'd explained this before. "It's an entire industry now. Merchandise, sponsorships, television deals."
Television deals. I almost laughed. In my world, the closest thing to heroes were cops and firefighters, and they sure as hell weren't signing endorsement contracts.
"And U.A.?"
"The best hero school in the world. Maybe the best school, period." She pulled down two glasses and filled them with water. "Their acceptance rate is lower than Harvard's used to be. Getting in basically guarantees you a spot in the top hero rankings."
"Which means?"
"Money. Fame. Security." She handed me a glass. "Everything we don't have."
The bitterness in her voice was subtle, but I caught it.
"And you think I can get in?"
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she moved to the coffee table and picked up a thick packet of papers.
"This came in the mail today."
I took the packet. The cover was emblazoned with a logo that looked like a stylized 'U' and 'A' intertwined. "University Application - Heroics Program" was printed below it in bold letters.
Heroes. The word still sounded ridiculous. Like something out of a Saturday morning cartoon.
"The entrance exam is in two months," Kimiko said. "Written portion and practical assessment. They test everything—academic knowledge, physical fitness, strategic thinking, and..." She paused. "Quirk application."
I flipped through the pages. Most of it was standard application stuff—personal information, academic transcripts, letters of recommendation. But there were sections I'd never seen before. "Quirk Registration Details." "Combat Experience Summary." "Rescue Scenario Preferences."
"What's my Quirk supposed to be?" I asked.
Kimiko stared at me. "What do you mean, 'supposed to be'? You've had it since you were four, Yuki."
"I know that," I said, forcing a grin. "But indulge me. I'm trying to think about it from a marketing angle. How would you sell my quirk to a hero agency? What's the hook?"
She sat down beside me on the couch. The worn springs groaned in protest, and suddenly the space felt impossibly small. Her scent—something clean and floral, not the expensive perfumes I was used to—was an invasion.
Every instinct screamed to put more distance between us, to regain control of the space, but the body I was in simply… relaxed into her presence.
"Kinetic Charge," she said. "You can store energy in objects and release it on impact. The bigger the object, the more energy it can hold, but it takes longer to charge."