As I stepped into the house, Mom froze, her eyes locked on my head.
"Minoru… your hair—it's back to normal! Did something happen?"
I smiled faintly. "Yeah… I figured out how to use my quirk through my whole body now."
For a second, she just blinked at me. Then her face lit up with joy, her hands clapping together. "That's wonderful, Minoru!"
Dad grinned, walking over. He ruffled my hair playfully, the way he hadn't been able to in years. "Finally! I can actually mess up your hair again without sticking to it. Thank God."
I laughed, a little embarrassed, but the warmth in their faces made my chest feel light.
That night, we sat together at the dinner table. The food tasted better than usual—maybe because, for once, everything felt… normal.
That night, I slept more peacefully than I had in years, my dreams quiet for once. The next morning, I woke up to the soft light of dawn, got dressed, and hurried to school.
At five years old, I was placed in the first grade classroom, where the walls were plastered with colorful posters and the teacher's voice carried like a lullaby. The lessons were simple—numbers, letters, shapes—but my mind kept drifting. The chalk squeaked against the board, and I fought the urge to yawn.
When the bell rang for break, instead of running outside with the other kids, I slipped away to the school library. Rows of books greeted me like silent friends, but one in particular caught my eye—a beginner's book on human biology.
I pulled it from the shelf and sat by the window, opening the pages. Diagrams of muscles, bones, and nerves stared back at me. To my surprise, the words seemed to flow straight into my brain, sticking as clearly as my quirk's grapes did to walls. I wasn't just reading—I was understanding. Every line, every chart, burned itself into my memory with almost no effort.
The rest of the school day passed in a blur, my attention fixed on the book. When the final bell rang, Mom came to pick me up. I stayed quiet in the car, mind still replaying everything I had read.
At home, I quickly changed out of my uniform and stuffed a small bag with whatever I could grab—a slice of cake, one of Dad's protein bars, and a water bottle. With the bag slung over my shoulder, I slipped out of the house and headed toward the hillside where I had trained yesterday.
The sun hung low in the sky as I climbed up, snacks rattling softly in the bag. My pulse quickened with anticipation. This time, I wasn't just going to play with my quirk. I was going to test the limits of what both my body—and my strange new control over it—could really do.
The hillside was quiet when I dropped my bag down and stretched. I started with the basics—push-ups, sit-ups, squats, running back and forth until my muscles ached and my breathing turned rough. Every movement, I tried to guide with my new sense, paying attention to how each muscle pulled and relaxed.
When I couldn't move anymore, I sat on the grass and pulled out a protein bar. Chewing slowly, I closed my eyes and focused inside. I could feel the food working its way down, my stomach breaking it apart, nutrients spilling into my blood. With a push of will, I sped it up—faster breakdown, faster absorption.
ATP. Energy. Recovery. The terms from the biology book clicked in my mind. I forced the cells to work harder, turning food into energy in minutes instead of hours. Warmth spread through my arms and legs, and the soreness eased.
I stood again. The fatigue was gone, like I hadn't just trained. Testing it, I repeated the routine. Training. Eating. Controlling. Three times in total. By the end, I could still move, and not just move—my body felt a little stronger, like the limits had shifted.
I looked at my hands and muttered, "Body Control… that's what I'll call it."
The sun slid lower in the sky as I kept testing my limits. I ran uphill until my legs burned, then forced recovery again with the snacks I'd packed. Each time, the exhaustion came back slower, the rebound faster. It wasn't infinite—my stomach growled louder with every cycle—but it was enough to keep me moving for hours.
When I tried push-ups again, I noticed the difference. My arms didn't give out at twenty or thirty. I pushed past fifty, then sixty, before my body finally refused. I collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving, sweat soaking my shirt, but there was a grin on my face.
By the time the sky turned orange, I was lying on my back, watching the clouds drift. My bag was empty—every crumb eaten, every bar gone. My body hummed with tired strength, but there was a heavy weight too, a reminder that even with control, I still had limits.
"I'll need more food next time," I muttered to myself.
Gathering my things, I started the walk home. My muscles ached again, but it was a good kind of ache—the kind that told me I'd grown stronger.
When I slipped through the door, Mom called me for dinner. I washed up quickly, hiding the fatigue as best I could, and joined my parents at the table. The food disappeared from my plate faster than usual, which made Dad chuckle.
I ate quickly, still feeling the hollow ache in my stomach. Between bites, I looked at Dad.
"Next time, can you bring home a few more protein bars?" I asked.
He raised a brow. "For what? You don't usually like those."
I hesitated for a second, then decided to be honest—well, mostly. "I'm… experimenting with my quirk. Trying to see how I can use it better. If I ever want to get into U.A., I'll need more than just sticking balls to walls."
Dad's eyes softened. He reached across and patted my shoulder. "So that's it, huh? When I was your age, I dreamed of being a hero too. But my quirk… it wasn't enough. Simple, nothing flashy." His voice carried a trace of regret, though he smiled to hide it. "If you've got a chance, son, then chase it."
Mom frowned, setting down her chopsticks. "Chase it, yes, but don't push yourself too hard. You're only five. Don't forget that."
Dad added, more serious now, "And one more thing—practice in secret. You know the law. No quirk use in public. If anyone finds out, there could be trouble."
I nodded, tucking the warning away. Still, I couldn't help but smile a little. Even with the rules and the risks, I knew I wasn't going to stop. Not now.