My name is Ren Takahashi. At least, that's what my parents call me. To them, I'm just an ordinary four-year-old boy—restless, a little mischievous, always quick to smile. What they don't know, what no one in this world could ever imagine, is that I… have already lived another life.
I was born in a different world. A world without quirks, without heroes soaring across the skies. A world where justice, kindness, and hope were more fragile than glass. I grew up surrounded by comics, movies, and legends of men who could fly, lift mountains, and stop disasters. Among them, one hero stood above the rest: Superman. His symbol, his promise of hope… it carried me through even my darkest days.
And then, I died. I don't know how or why. All I know is that I woke up here, in a place where powers were real, where heroes walked among ordinary people.
My parents are good people. My father, Daichi Takahashi, works in construction—strong, reliable, with a quirk that lets him control the weight of objects. My mother, Aiko, teaches elementary school; her quirk only makes her fingertips glow like a flashlight. Nothing flashy, but useful in daily life. They both look at me with such warmth, as if I were the best thing that ever happened to them. In this second life… I wasn't meant to suffer.
I remember the first time I saw All Might on television. I was sitting next to my dad, watching the evening news, when that towering figure appeared on the screen. Smiling with unshakable confidence, he rescued a derailed train as if it were nothing. Reporters shouted his name, the crowd roared in praise… and I just stared, wide-eyed, hardly blinking.
In that moment, it was like seeing Superman brought to life. Not fiction. Not drawings on a page. Real. A man who embodied hope in this world. From that day on, I kept clippings of his feats, drew him with my crayons, and taped them to my wall. "A hero inspires," my father used to say. "And All Might is the greatest of them all."
Now I'm four years old. And something inside me tells me everything is about to change. Doctors say quirks usually appear between the ages of four and five. I… don't know what to expect. Will it be something small, like Mom's? Something practical, like Dad's? Or maybe… something more?
The answer came at the most ordinary moment imaginable. I was in the bathroom, standing on a stool to reach the mirror, brushing my teeth with effort. Foam covered my mouth as I made silly faces at my reflection. I laughed to myself, like any kid my age would.
And then… it happened.
A sharp burn shot through my eyes, like liquid fire trying to break free. I screamed, squeezing my eyelids shut, but it didn't help. When I opened them, a crimson beam exploded outward, so bright the mirror shattered into a thousand shards. The wall behind it melted like butter, and the sink cracked under the heat.
I froze, my heart pounding out of my chest. Toothpaste foam still dangled from my lips. My eyes burned, and red-tinged tears streamed down my cheeks.
"Ren!" Mom's voice rang out as she rushed into the bathroom. My father followed right behind, his quirk activating instinctively.
They saw the wreckage: smoking tiles, shattered glass, the air heavy with the smell of burning. And me—shaking, eyes half-closed, tears flowing.
But instead of screaming or pulling away in fear… my mother hugged me. I felt her warmth, her trembling hands pressing against my back.
"It's okay…" she whispered, though her voice shook. "It's okay, Ren… it's over now."
My father knelt beside us, studying my eyes intently. His expression was serious, not frightened—like a man searching for answers.
"It's his quirk…" he murmured. "Our son already has his quirk."
I didn't understand much. I was scared, confused… and then I remembered Superman's heat vision. Excitement flickered inside me—what if my quirk gave me powers like his? But then I realized… Superman never looked like he was in pain when he used it.
"Mom, my eyes hurt…" I whispered.
"It's okay, sweetheart," she said softly. "It's just your quirk. Don't worry, everything's going to be fine."
---
[Aiko Takahashi's Perspective]
When I heard that sound from the bathroom, my heart froze. It wasn't a fall or a clumsy bump—it was the violent crack of glass shattering under fire. I ran without thinking, terrified of what I would find.
And there he was. My little Ren, crying softly, surrounded by smoke and tiles warped by heat. The mirror was gone, reduced to blackened shards scattered across the floor.
I didn't stop to be afraid. I just wrapped him in my arms. He's my son. My child. No power in the world could ever change that.
His sobs were faint, more confused than pained, but the blood at the corners of his eyes made me tremble.
Daichi arrived moments later. At first he scanned the room like danger might still be lurking, then dropped to his knees beside us. We exchanged a look—no words needed. Our son's quirk had awakened.
---
[At the Quirk Hospital]
The white walls and sterile smell set me on edge, though I forced a smile for Ren's sake. He sat on my lap, his little head tucked against my shoulder, while Daichi filled out forms at the reception desk.
A doctor with her hair pulled back and thin glasses led us into an exam room.
"So it manifested today?" she asked, skimming her notes. "Tell me what happened."
"He was brushing his teeth," I said, swallowing hard. "And suddenly his eyes fired a red beam. It was… incredibly strong. Melted the tiles in our bathroom."
The doctor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She leaned closer to Ren, her voice gentle. "And how are you feeling now, sweetheart?"
Ren hesitated. He clung to my blouse, staring at the floor, before mumbling, "My head hurts… and my eyes."
She nodded. "That's expected. From what you describe, this is an ocular emission quirk. Very rare… and very dangerous without proper control."
She shined a small penlight near his eyes. Ren immediately flinched, shutting them tight with a whimper.
"Immediate hypersensitivity to visual stimuli," the doctor noted, writing quickly. "And the bleeding indicates excessive ocular pressure during activation."
The words hurt to hear, but strangely, I felt a sense of relief. At least someone understood what was happening.
"Can it be controlled?" Daichi asked, his arms crossed.
"With time, training, and support," the doctor replied. "He'll need special regulator glasses. A filter to contain the excess energy, so he doesn't discharge beams accidentally."
Daichi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "So… does he have a future as a hero?"
Ren raised his head slightly, as though the question had sparked something inside him.
The doctor allowed herself a faint smile. "That depends on him. The power is strong… but risky. If he learns control, he could be extraordinary."
I looked at my son—his eyes still red, still wet with tears—and saw a new glimmer in them. Dangerous, yes… but also, undeniably, a spark of hope.
---
[That Night, at Home]
Ren was already asleep, worn out from the hospital tests. We tucked him in quietly and then sat together in the living room.
Daichi handed me a cup of hot tea. My hands trembled as I accepted it.
"I'm scared," I whispered. "If Ren chooses to be a hero… if he follows All Might's path… he could get hurt. He could die."
Daichi stayed silent for a long time, staring at the steam rising from his cup. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that calm gravity that always steadied me.
"I'm scared too, Aiko. The thought of him facing villains, disasters, battles… it terrifies me."
I looked at him, startled. He rarely admitted weakness, but his eyes spoke the truth.
"Then what do we do?" I asked softly.
He took a breath, thoughtful, then clasped my hand. "The only thing we can. Support him. Guide him. Our job isn't to decide his future—it's to give him the tools to choose it himself."
His words struck deep.
"We have to raise a good man, Aiko. Just, honorable, responsible… and most of all, kind. That's what matters. Whether he chooses to be a hero or not, we'll accept it. But he must grow up knowing he's never alone."
Tears threatened, but I held them back. I leaned closer, pressing my forehead against his.
"Then let's promise we'll always be there for him," I whispered.
"Always," he answered without hesitation.
Down the hall, through the small crack of his bedroom door, I could see Ren sleeping peacefully, his face calm beneath the dim glow of the nightlight. He had no idea of the weight this day carried, nor of the conversation his parents had just shared.
But we knew. That night, Daichi and I made a silent vow. Whatever the future held, our son would never walk this path alone