Ten years. A whole decade spent under the constant, unceasing whisper in my head.
The morning didn't start with an alarm clock, but with silence. Or rather, with the struggle for it. The first thing I had to do was concentrate on the inner wall—cold, black, polished to a mirror shine by the effort of my will, behind which They slumbered. The wall was always covered in frost, and from the other side, icy tentacles scratched softly. The whisper was quiet, insistent, like thoughts that don't belong to you.
"Awake, tangible one. The world outside is full of fear. It yearns to be tasted. Let us…"
"No," I muttered under my breath, sticking my head under the icy stream of the shower. The water burned my skin, but it was a good, clear, physical discomfort. It drowned out the other kind. I always had to wash quickly. I couldn't delay. Inaction was their best ally.
I avoided mirrors. In my own reflection, I sometimes saw not my face, but pale points in the darkness, weary, full of ancient hatred. It lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough to send shivers down my spine. Not from fear of them. From the fear of becoming them.
At breakfast, mom smiled her famous "everything's fine" smile. It was too wide, too bright. Dad made awkward jokes about work. Everyone was playing the perfect family. We'd been doing it for so long that I almost believed in this performance. Almost. I saw how their gazes lingered for a second too long when I looked away. I saw them flinch if I entered a room too quietly. They loved me. I knew that. And I knew that my presence in their lives was a constant, quiet nightmare.
Their fear was the sweetest nectar for THEM.
"They fear their own child. Naturally. We are that which should be feared. Accept it. Free them from the burden of your presence…"
"Do you want more food?" Mom's voice was unnaturally cheerful.
"No, thank you. I'm full."
The walk to school was purgatory. The city was waking up, filled with the sounds of cars, voices, laughter. People were hurrying to work, to normal schools. Heroes patrolled the rooftops, shining with smiles and bright costumes. The world was moving on, and I was the boy stuck in the elevator who had once summoned a monster and now couldn't get out.
I wasn't wearing the uniform of a prestigious academy. My "uniform" consisted of dark pants and a plain gray hoodie with the hood pulled over my eyes. Not for show. The hood was a shield. It hid my face, made me less noticeable, less frightening to passersby. Children heading to normal schools instinctively gave me a wide berth. Mothers averted their eyes and pulled their toddlers closer.
I didn't blame them. I could feel their fear. It was tangible, like the wind. A warm, sticky wave emanating from them as I passed by. And with each such wave, the whisper behind the wall grew louder.
"See. They feel their insignificance before you. They acknowledge your superiority. Why do you run from this?"
"Because I am not you," I shot back mentally, clenching my fists in my pockets and quickening my pace.
The school didn't have a famous name. It didn't train heroes. It was a gray, dreary concrete building on the outskirts of the district, behind a high fence with barbed wire. The sign on the gate read: "Municipal Secondary School No. 3." Everyone called it the "Academy of Last Chance" or, more simply, "Prison for Future Villains."
This was where they sent those whom everyone else had rejected. Teenagers with Quirks too destructive, indecent, uncontrollable, or just plain scary for regular schools. This was where I was placed after the principals of twelve schools, some politely, some not so much, had shown me the door.
The gates creaked, letting me inside. The yard was deserted, except for a couple of older students smoking around the corner with dull eyes. They gave me an appraising look but apparently decided I was too scrawny and uninteresting to bother. Their own law reigned here. The law of strength, but not the heroic kind—the crude, street kind.
Inside, it smelled of disinfectant, old mops, and despair. The walls were covered in graffiti, some of which were clearly applied using Quirks. The linoleum on the floor was worn through. My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway.
The classroom was on the second floor. The door to Class 3-B was open. From it came the hum of voices, laughter that was too loud and showy, and the irritated shout of a teacher whom no one was listening to.
I froze on the threshold, taking a last gulp of relatively fresh air. Now I had to enter the epicenter of the storm of human emotions. Fear, malice, aggression, frustration—it all hit me from the room in a solid, discordant wave. For me, it was like stepping into a furnace. For Them—a feast.
"What rich sustenance… Do not reject it. Breathe it in. Let us in, and we will share this feast with you…"
I dug my nails into my palms, to the point of pain. Pain was an anchor. I took a step inside.
The conversations died down for a second. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at me. The looks varied: curious, hostile, bored, empty. I ignored them and quickly headed to my desk—the last row, by the window, in the very corner. My territory. My fortress.
"Oh, look, the Ghost has graced us with his presence," someone commented loudly. There were a few stifled giggles.
My nickname here was "Ghost." They thought it was because I was quiet and pale. They didn't know how close they were to the truth.
After I sat down and took out my textbook, trying not to look at anyone, I still couldn't avoid attention. Kenji immediately headed towards me. He was the local "alpha," if you could call a scrawny guy with a perpetually greasy face and a mohawk he'd apparently been growing and styling for weeks that. His Quirk allowed him to secrete a caustic, foul-smelling liquid from his pores. He loved intimidating newcomers.
"Hey, Ghost," he said, planting his hands on my desk, looming over me. The smell coming from him was palpable. "Heard old man Godai called you to the carpet again yesterday? Did your 'thing' get loose again?"
I stayed silent, staring at the textbook. Last week in history class, I'd gotten a headache. The pain was so unbearable that the shield had wavered. Just for a second. But it was enough. One of Them had seeped into reality, briefly, as a barely noticeable haze. It was enough to make half the class, including the teacher, gasp from sudden, inexplicable terror. Someone started crying. Kenji, to his eternal shame, had wet himself.
He had hated me with a passion ever since.
"I'm talking to you, freak!" He slammed his palm on the textbook cover. His fear was sharp, spicy. He was afraid of me, but he was more afraid of losing face in front of his classmates. That fear was like gasoline he was pouring on the fire himself.
"He insults you. He is insignificant. Let me touch him. Just for a moment. He will become quieter than water, lower than grass… Forever."
The whisper became more insistent, more seductive. My hand reached for my pocket on its own, where an old, bent nail lay—my talisman, my "sword's hilt." I gripped it, feeling the cold metal bite into my palm.
"Leave me alone, Kenji," I said quietly but clearly, still not looking at him.
"Whoa! The Ghost speaks!" he feigned surprise, turning to his lackeys. "And I thought you only knew how to scare people, like a cheap-ass hologram."
He shoved my shoulder. Not hard. But enough.
The shield wavered. Just a millimeter. But from behind it, like from a punctured tank of compressed air, a jet of freezing cold shot out. Invisible, but palpable.
The laughter behind Kenji cut off. His face paled. His bravado evaporated, replaced for a moment by that same childish, animal fear I'd seen in that store ten years ago. He instinctively recoiled, bumping into the desk behind him.
Dead silence fell over the classroom. Everyone felt it. The sudden heaviness in the air, the inexplicable anxiety.
"F-fuck you," Kenji muttered, trying to regain his confidence, but failing. He plopped down in his seat, trying not to look my way.
I took a deep breath, feeling everything inside me tremble. That was close. Too close. I barely held on. Adrenaline made my heart pound wildly. They were reveling, sensing my weakness, my own fear of myself.
"Why do you resist? Just one move… and no one will ever dare touch you again. They will lie at your feet. We will give you that power."
"Shut up," I whispered so quietly that no one but them could have heard.
The lessons passed in a familiar stupor. I didn't hear the teachers. I was fighting my eternal war on the internal front. The struggle took all my strength, leaving no resources for algebra or literature.
After the last lesson, I packed my things to leave quickly. I needed to be alone, to regroup, to strengthen the walls that had cracked today.
But a "special" lesson awaited me. The school principal, Mr. Godai, a man with the Quirk "Paperwork" (he could instantly find any needed paper in any mess), considered it his duty to "socialize" me. His office was a refuge from the school's chaos—sterile clean, filled with shelves of folders, smelling of balding man and cheap coffee.
"Sit down, Tanaka," he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "How was your day?"
"Fine," I muttered, staring at my hands.
"Was Kenji bothering you again?"
I shrugged.
Godai sighed. He was a tired, cynical man, but deep down, he still seemed to be trying to make a difference.
"Arashi, I'm not going to lecture you about control. I know you're trying. But you have to understand… your Quirk…" he searched for words. "It's not just dangerous. It's antisocial by its very nature. It feeds on the worst in people. And it provokes it. You are a walking trigger."
I stayed silent. What could I say? That he was absolutely right?
"I can't let you take the practical heroics exam," he continued. "It would be irresponsible. But… I've seen your theory grades. They're brilliant. You're a smart guy. There are other paths. Hero management, support, analysis…"
He was offering me to give up. To admit my defeat. To lock Them away forever and live a quiet, gray, safe life.
"He offers you to become nobody. To hide. To deny your nature. He is weak. He fears what he does not understand. His fear limits you. Break these shackles."
The whisper was sweet, like poison.
"I'll… think about it," I lied, standing up.
"Please do," his voice held a rare, genuine sincerity. "For your own good."
Leaving his office, I felt even more broken than after the clash with Kenji. His words hit the mark. He saw only a problem, a threat in me. And how could I blame him?
The way home was long. I walked with my head down, immersed in gloomy thoughts. Twilight painted the city in blue and purple hues. The streets grew less crowded. I turned into a deserted alley to cut through. And then I realized my mistake.
At the end of the alley, leaning against a wall, was a familiar figure. Kenji. And with him were two of his friends, big thugs. One had steel-covered knuckles, the other had a light smoke coming from his mouth. They were clearly waiting.
"Well, well, Ghost," Kenji stepped forward. His face was twisted with malice. The fear he felt during the day had now transformed into aggression. He had to prove to himself that I wasn't scary. That he was stronger. "You think you can just make me look like an idiot in front of everyone?"
I stopped, squeezing the nail in my pocket until it pierced my skin.
"I didn't touch you, Kenji."
"Your cheap tricks don't scare me!" he shouted, but his voice trembled. He was afraid. Terribly afraid. And his fear was so loud, so tasty for Them, that the wall inside shook, and cracks spiderwebbed across its surface.
"They have come to you. They seek death. Gift it to them. Gift them eternal peace. We will help. Give us free rein!"
The steel-knuckled guy punched me hard in the stomach. The air left my lungs with a whistle. I doubled over, trying to stay on my feet. A second blow hit my back, and I fell to my knees, coughing.
"See? He's just a weakling!" Kenji crowed, kicking me in the side.
Pain. Humiliation. Rage. They burned inside me. Hatred for them. Hatred for myself for my weakness, for not being able to fight back without unleashing what I feared most. The wall was cracking at the seams. Icy tentacles were already seeping through it, thirsty, demanding.
"GIVE US FREE REIN!"
It was no longer a whisper. It was a deafening roar in the depths of my mind.
And at that moment, a siren wailed somewhere on the street. A sharp, piercing sound. Like a signal. Like a call to arms.
I raised my head. My eyes were filled with tears from the pain, but I saw them. Three frightened boys trying to act tough to hide their own terror of this world that had rejected them.
Just like me.
I took a deep, ragged breath. And with an incredible effort I never knew I possessed, I… retreated.
I didn't push Them back. I didn't listen to Them. I just retreated deep inside myself, into the very depths, into a small, dark room where there was nothing. No fear, no anger, no pain. Only silence. And I slammed the door shut behind me.
The whisper cut off. The oppressive presence receded, deceived, furious.
Slowly, I got to my feet. My ribs hurt, there was a taste of blood in the corner of my mouth. My gaze fell on Kenji. I just looked at him. Without hatred. Without fear. An empty, detached look.
And that look scared him more than any shadow. He flinched.
"F-fuck you, psycho," he muttered and, throwing one last frightened glance at me, commanded his buddies: "Let's go!"
They ran off, leaving me alone in the dark alley.
I remained standing, leaning against the cold wall, shaking as if with a fever. Just don't let them out. Hold on. After a couple of minutes, I could finally pull myself together. I had defeated my ghosts.
But the victory was bitter. Because I understood that Mr. Godai was right. My presence broke people. It provoked the worst in them. Even if I did nothing.
I looked down at my trembling hands. Hands that could steal someone's will, someone's essence.
What the hell kind of hero was I?
I just stood there in the cold alley, pressing my forehead against the rough concrete wall. The shaking gradually subsided, replaced by an icy, oppressive emptiness. The physical pain in my ribs and back was just a distant echo compared to the devastation inside. A victory had been won. I hadn't given in. But what had I won? The right to keep being a punching bag for everyone stronger and more confident? The right to listen to advice to give up and hide?
Mr. Godai's words rang in my ears, merging with Kenji's taunts. "Antisocial Quirk." "Walking trigger." "Other paths." They saw only a problem in me, a defective product that needed to be packaged away so it wouldn't spoil the view. And the worst part was, I was starting to agree with them.
"They are right, tangible one. You fight against your own nature. It is pointless. You were made for something greater than to be a target for pathetic bullies."
The whisper returned, but now it sounded not furious, but almost… sympathetic. That was a thousand times more dangerous. They were playing on my weakness, on my doubts.
"Go away," I whispered, pushing off from the wall. It was time to go home. To the cage. To the jailers who loved and feared me at the same time.
I emerged from the alley onto a busy street. The evening crowd was thick — people rushing from work, from shopping, home to their families. I hunched my shoulders, pulled the hood deeper, and dissolved into the crowd, trying to walk in its very center so I wouldn't be touched or noticed. Their collective, disparate fear — the fear of being late, the fear of not buying food, the fear of their boss — was a thick fog enveloping me. It pressed on my temples, causing a dull, nagging headache. They lazily digested this background noise, like gourmets savoring a not-the-best-but-quite-drinkable wine.
I made my way to a large intersection. A multi-level overpass towered above it, with streams of cars speeding along. Below, under the concrete supports, was a small pedestrian square with a fountain and benches — a popular meeting place. It was crowded now.
I froze at the red light, standing in a crowd of other pedestrians. I was waiting. Watching the countdown timer. 20… 19… 18… A little more, and I could cross the road, turn into a quieter block, and finally be in the relative safety of my room.
It was at that moment the world exploded.
It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation. A sharp, cutting screech that went not through the ears, but straight through the bones. The air shuddered, and the massive concrete support of the overpass right above us bulged like a balloon and tore apart from the inside.
Time slowed to a monstrous, drawn-out second.
I saw giant chunks of concrete and rebar, spinning in a slow dance, begin to fall down onto the pedestrian square. I saw the faces of people looking up, first with mere curiosity, then confusion, and then — pure, unfiltered horror. A woman with a stroller opened her mouth in a silent scream. A man in a suit froze, staring at a steel rod falling right at him.
The roar was deafening. The asphalt buckled. The fountain was shattered to pieces, and a column of water, dirt, and debris shot into the air. Cars at the intersection screeched their brakes, colliding with each other. Sirens, screams, the wail of alarms — all merged into one cacophony of the end of the world.
My heart stopped, then began to beat with such force I felt pain in my chest. Not my fear. Their fear. The fear of hundreds of people. It crashed down like an avalanche, with such physical force that I barely stayed on my feet. This wasn't the background, everyday fear I was used to. This was primal, animal terror before imminent, senseless death.
And behind the wall in my head, there was absolute, eerie silence. The silence before the feast.
And then They roared.
It was the sound of nine hungry maws finally being served the long-awaited food. Their whisper, usually fragmented and insistent, merged into a single, deafening cry of approval, thirst, and ecstasy. The inner wall, so carefully built over the years, cracked like glass from a hammer blow.
"YES! YES! LET US TASTE! LET US FEAST!"
The pain in my head became unbearable. I grabbed my temples, trying to hold onto consciousness. Black spots swam before my eyes. I saw several figures jump down from the upper level of the overpass, from the clouds of smoke and flame. Villains. Their Quirks must have been related to destruction. They were laughing, pointing at the chaos below.
People were rushing around in panic, trying to escape, but there were debris, wreckage everywhere. Right above a group of people huddled by the destroyed fountain, a huge concrete beam tilted and began to fall with a deafening screech. They were trapped. Death was inevitable.
And in that moment, looking at their faces distorted by horror, I didn't think about control. I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't think about what Mr. Godai would say. I thought about my father, shielding me with his body in that store. About my mother, throwing herself between us and the danger.
I hated my gift. I feared it. But in that instant, it was all I had.
I stopped resisting.
I didn't let Them out. I fell into myself, fell through the cracked wall, straight into the embrace of the darkness. And I screamed to Them a single word, filled with all my rage, despair, and pathetic, last hope:
"SAVE THEM!"
And the world exploded for the second time.
Darkness burst out of me. Not in clouds of smoke, but in a freezing wave of absolute zero that extinguished the nearest fires and covered the debris in frost. From this darkness, right in front of the doomed people, a figure materialized.
It was taller than a human, shrouded in flowing, incorporeal black robes. The air around it shimmered and distorted, like over hot asphalt. From under its hood, two pale, cold points glowed, devoid of any expression except eternal, insatiable hunger. In its long, almost transparent fingers, it clutched a long, intangible blade, more like a clot of darkness given form.
The Sorcerer King. The leader of the Nine. The strongest of them.
He didn't look at me. He raised his head to the falling beam and swung his blade.
There was no sound of impact. No flash of light. The beam, weighing several tons, simply… stopped. It hung in the air, as if it had hit an invisible, viscous wall. From the point of contact with the invisible blade, instant frost spread over the concrete. The stone became gray, brittle, dead.
And then the Sorcerer King turned his faceless gaze to the group of villains on the overpass.
Their laughter cut off.
I felt it. I felt everything. I wasn't controlling him. I was him. Or he was me. Our consciousnesses merged into one terrifying symbiosis. I felt his cold, indifferent rage towards all living things. He felt my own horror, my pain, my desperate desire to save. It was an unbearable, insane contradiction.
The fear of the people under the overpass, their freezing horror at the appeared phantom, flowed into me like a river. It was sweet, intoxicating, it filled me with a power I never knew I had. They were feasting. And through them, I was feasting.
The Sorcerer King moved forward. His movement was unnaturally smooth; he didn't walk, he glided above the ground. One of the villains, with a Quirk resembling liquid stone, hurled a huge boulder at him. The phantom didn't even glance at it. He simply vanished and appeared right in front of the villain, his blade already touching the opponent's chest.
The villain didn't scream in pain. He screamed in terror. His face contorted, his eyes glazed over. His stone armor didn't shatter — it dulled, cracked, and crumbled like rotten wood, as if aged in seconds. He collapsed to his knees, staring blankly ahead, his will to fight, his malice, his strength — all drunk, consumed. The Sorcerer King became denser, more real.
I felt every stolen drop of energy. It made me sick, but I couldn't stop. It was too powerful.
The second villain, frightened, retreated and began firing a weapon that looked like a huge flamethrower. A stream of pure flame hit the phantom.
And then the Sorcerer King made a sound for the first time. A low, drawn-out hiss, full not of pain, but of… irritation. Fire. His weakness. The flame didn't banish him, but it caused discomfort. He took a step back, and his incorporeal form trembled for a moment, became more diffuse.
In that instant, I felt another presence. Not the villains'. Heroes. They had arrived on the scene. I saw the evacuation starting on the perimeter, saw someone in a bright costume trying to put out the fire. And one of them, with a Quirk resembling electricity, was heading straight for us.
The Sorcerer King, distracted by the fire, turned to the new irritant. I felt his attention, his cold hatred, switch to the hero. His blade rose.
"NO!" — I screamed mentally, putting all my will into the cry. — Not him! They are allies! Save the people!
The struggle was monstrous. It was like trying to turn a truck moving at full speed with my bare hands. The phantom resisted. He wanted easy prey, and the hero was full of determination and "heroic spirit," which was like an even brighter light to him. He wanted to extinguish it.
I squeezed the nail in my pocket, feeling its sharp end pierce my palm until it bled. I focused not on the phantom, but on the people. On the woman with the stroller now being pulled from the rubble. On the old man the hero was shielding with his body. On their fear, which was now gradually being replaced by hope.
"SAVE!" — I roared inside, and this time it wasn't an order, but a plea.
The Sorcerer King froze. His blade wavered. Slowly, as if against his will, he turned. His gaze fell on another group of people, trapped in a car that was about to ignite from the spreading fire. He slid towards them, passed through the hot metal like a ghost, and simply… snuffed out the flames around the car with his freezing presence.
I was working myself to exhaustion. I was a conductor, a conductor of terror. I directed him, this hungry beast, at those who feared him the most — the villains. One by one he caught them, and they fell unconscious, deprived of will, emptied. I felt my own strength draining at a catastrophic rate. Blood flowed from my nose, spasms gripped my throat. It felt like my soul was being pulled out through a straw.
When the last villain collapsed, I fell to my knees. The world swam before my eyes. I was barely aware that the panic around had subsided. There were ambulance sirens, heroes' voices, commands for clearing the wreckage.
The Sorcerer King still stood amidst the devastation. He turned his faceless head towards me. His cold, dead gaze met mine. There was no gratitude in it. No understanding. Only infinite, insatiable hunger. And a question.
"Are you satisfied, tangible one? We are fed. We have served you. Now open yourself to us completely. Give us more."
I clenched my fists. I had almost no strength left. But I had will. The very will they so wanted to break.
"No," — I croaked, mentally and aloud. — "Return. That's an order."
He hesitated. For a moment that felt like an eternity. Then his form began to dissipate, to melt away like black smoke in the wind. The cold receded. The oppressive presence disappeared.
They returned to their prison. Sated. And from that, even more dangerous.
I remained sitting on the cold asphalt, covered in dust and blood, shaking from exhaustion and shock. Someone called out to me. Medics were running towards me. Heroes were surveying the scene, trying to understand what had happened. I saw them looking at the emptied villains, at the frost-covered, dead chunks of concrete untouched by fire.
And then their gazes fell on me. A lone, frightened guy in torn clothes, sitting at the epicenter of all this chaos.
There was no gratitude in their eyes. There was bewilderment. Wariness. And fear.
I had saved dozens of people. I had stopped the villains. I had used my curse for good.
And all I saw in the eyes of the saved and the heroes was that same, painfully familiar, horror.
Not of the villains. Of me.
I closed my eyes, and I vomited right onto the bloodied asphalt.