~ All rights to the world of My Hero Academia and the characters mentioned in this story, including the main character Denki Kaminari, belong to the original creator Kōhei Horikoshi. I do not claim ownership of the original story or its universe. This is just a Fanfiction.
~ Everything depicted in this work is purely a product of imagination and has no connection to real events, people, or places in any way.
Chapter 1: A Sky of Gold and Orange
The late afternoon sun of Musutafu bled gold onto the pavement, casting long, lazy shadows that stretched like tired arms. For Denki Kaminari, twelve years old and buzzing with the restless energy of a Friday afternoon, this light was a perfect match for the world as he saw it. Bright, warm, and full of limitless potential. His own shock of blond hair, with its signature black lightning bolt dyed into the side, seemed to soak up the sun's rays, almost glowing with a light of its own.
"I'm just saying," Hanta Sero drawled, kicking a loose pebble with the toe of his sneaker, "a hero who makes his own support gear would save a ton on maintenance." He gestured with his hands, elbows jutting out in a way that was uniquely his. "Imagine, custom tape dispensers, high-tensile strength, different adhesion levels… I'd be indispensable."
"That's cool, but it's not the same as being on the front lines," Eijiro Kirishima countered, his own red hair defiantly spiky. He punched a fist into his palm, the sound a dull thud. "A real hero has to be the shield. The one who stands firm when everyone else is scared. That's the manliest thing there is."
Kaminari grinned, his smile as easy and brilliant as the sun itself. He slung an arm over each of his friends' shoulders, pulling them close. "You guys have got it all planned out. Sero, you'll be the genius behind the scenes, and Kirishima, you'll be the unbreakable wall. That means I get to be the flash."
He wiggled his fingers, and a tiny, harmless spark of yellow electricity danced between them, fizzing out with a faint crackle. "I'll be the one who zips in, takes down the villains with a single, awesome move, and makes sure everyone feels safe. I'm gonna go to U.A., and I'm gonna be a hero whose smile is as bright as his Quirk."
There was no arrogance in his voice, only a pure, undiluted stream of certainty. It was a dream so vivid in his mind that it felt more like a memory of the future. Sero chuckled, shaking his head, but his own smile was genuine. Kirishima's eyes lit up with shared passion. "Yeah! All three of us, at U.A.!" he declared.
This was their ritual, their promise to the golden sky. The walk home was a sacred space where dreams were forged into plans, and the impossible felt just a few years away. To get home a little quicker, they took their usual shortcut—a narrow alleyway that snaked between a closed-down laundromat and a brick apartment building. The golden light of the main street barely penetrated the alley, which was painted in cool, blue shadows. The air grew still.
They were halfway through when three older boys stepped out from behind a large dumpster, blocking their path. They were bigger, their middle school uniforms looking strained at the shoulders, and they carried an aura of sour boredom that was always looking for a target.
"Well, well," the leader, a lanky boy with greasy hair, said, cracking his knuckles. "Look what we have here. It's the spiky kid and his friends."
His eyes fixed on Kirishima. "Heard you were bragging about your Quirk. What is it again? You get a little tough? Ooo, scary." His two lackeys snickered.
Kirishima's jaw tightened. At his age, his Hardening Quirk was patchy and unreliable; he couldn't sustain it for long, and it was far from unbreakable. "It's a strong Quirk," he said, his voice low but firm. "It's gonna make me a great hero."
"A hero?" The bully laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He took a menacing step forward. "You can't even protect yourself."
Before the bully could take another step, Kaminari moved. He didn't raise his fists or shout. He simply stepped between Kirishima and the threat, that easy smile still on his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes now.
"Hey, easy there," he said, holding his hands up placatingly. "We don't want any trouble. Besides, you should be careful getting too close." He let a low, visible hum of electricity crackle over his skin. The air thickened with the scent of ozone, and the bullies' hair began to stand on end, lifted by the static charge. "Wouldn't want to mess up that hairstyle of yours. I hear a million-volt shock can make it permanent."
The leader scowled, unnerved by the strange sensation and Kaminari's unshaken confidence. "You think you're funny, sparky?" He shoved Kaminari's shoulder.
It was a mistake.
Instinct took over. Kaminari's hand shot out and tapped the boy's wrist. It wasn't a punch, just a light touch. But in that instant, he released a sharp, concentrated jolt of electricity. Zzzt!
The bully yelped, snatching his hand back as if he'd touched a live wire. He shook his fingers wildly, his face a mask of pained surprise. "Ah! What the—!"
The fight drained out of him, replaced by fear and confusion. Kaminari didn't press the attack. He just stood there, his expression unreadable, the faint electrical hum around him a clear warning. The leader glared, clutching his stinging wrist, then grumbled a curse under his breath and motioned for his friends to follow. They retreated, casting resentful looks over their shoulders.
Silence returned to the alley, heavier than before.
Kirishima let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He looked at Kaminari, a new respect dawning in his eyes. "Whoa. That was… thanks, man."
Kaminari's smile returned, genuine this time. He gave Kirishima a light punch on the arm. "That's what friends are for. Now come on, let's get out of here before they come back with reinforcements."
As they stepped back into the sunlight, the warmth felt even better than before.
The smell of sizzling ginger and soy sauce welcomed Kaminari the moment he opened the front door. "I'm home!" he called out, toeing off his shoes in the entryway.
"In the kitchen, Denki!" his mother's warm voice replied.
He found her standing over the stove, stirring a pan of chicken teriyaki. His father was at the dining table, reading the evening paper, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. The scene was a portrait of peaceful domesticity, a stark contrast to the tension in the alley.
"Rough day at school?" his father asked, peering over his newspaper with a knowing look.
"Nah, the usual," Kaminari said, deftly avoiding any mention of the bullies. He didn't want to worry them. "Learned about pre-Quirk history. Kinda boring."
Dinner was a lively affair. They talked about his day, his mother's plans for the weekend garden, and a funny story his father had from work. As his mother served dessert, a slice of fluffy cheesecake, she gave him a soft, thoughtful look.
"Your father and I were talking, honey," she began, her voice gentle. "About your dream to go to U.A."
Kaminari paused, his fork hovering over the cake.
"We know how much it means to you," his father added, folding his newspaper and giving his son his full attention. "And we've never seen anyone work so hard at practicing their Quirk. But we also want you to be prepared. It's a difficult path, being a hero. It's dangerous."
Kaminari looked at their faces, at the love and concern etched into their features. He knew this wasn't about doubt; it was about fear for his safety.
His mother reached across the table and placed her hand over his. "It's a hard road," she said, her thumb stroking his knuckles. "But if anyone can light it up, it's you."
A genuine, heartfelt smile bloomed on Kaminari's face. His father nodded in agreement. "Just remember what I've always told you, son. True strength isn't in the Quirk itself. It's in the heart of the person who wields it. Never forget that."
"I won't," Kaminari promised, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll make you both proud."
The warmth in the room was more comforting than any blanket. This was his anchor, the reason his dream burned so brightly. This was the home he would always fight to protect.
After dinner, it was his turn to take out the trash. He slid open the back door and stepped out into the twilight. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and deep purple. It was beautiful. He took a deep breath of the cool evening air, his mind replaying his father's words. The heart that wields it.
A black, windowless van was parked at the curb. It was silent, its engine off, seeming to absorb the fading light around it. He barely gave it a second glance as he walked toward the bins at the edge of their property.
He never heard the footsteps behind him.
One moment, he was thinking about hero training. The next, a rough, calloused hand clamped over his mouth, and a thick arm wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off his feet. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He tried to summon his electricity, but the grip was too tight, his shock too sudden. A cloth, damp and smelling of a sickly sweet chemical, was pressed firmly over his nose and mouth.
He struggled, his legs kicking uselessly. His vision swam. The vibrant orange of the sunset blurred at the edges, swirling into the black of the van's open door. The world tilted on its axis. And then, there was only darkness.
Inside the house, the clock on the wall ticked into the silence.
"Denki?" his mother called from the kitchen. "Did you take it out?"
No answer. Just the ticking of the clock.
She called again, a slight edge of impatience in her voice this time. "Denki, come on, your cake is waiting!"
Still nothing. A seed of unease began to sprout. She walked to the back door and looked out into the deepening twilight. The trash bins were exactly where they should be. But the curb was empty. And so was the yard. Her son was gone.
The screen of a television flickered in a dark living room, its cold blue light the only illumination. It cast dancing shadows on the faces of two parents, their forms slumped and hollowed out on the sofa. On the screen was a picture of a smiling, blond-haired boy in his school uniform. The cheerful photo was a cruel contrast to the grim, scrolling text at the bottom of the screen.
"LOCAL BOY, DENKI KAMINARI, 12, STILL MISSING. POLICE URGE PUBLIC FOR INFORMATION. DISAPPEARANCE ENTERS SECOND DAY."