The smell of miso soup filled the little Shiranami house that warm morning. Miyako, barely nine years old, sat on the tatami in the sitting room, swinging her feet in the air as she waited for her mother to put the bowls on the low table. Her face still held that childlike innocence, with dark eyes too large for her round face. She watched every movement her mother made as if it were a solemn ritual.
Aya Shiranami was a small woman, her hair tied in a tight bun and hands soft that always smelled of soap. She had a serene smile, the kind that managed to soften even the tensest arguments between her husband and her teenage son.
"Ren, come now or it'll get cold," she called sweetly.
The boy came down the stairs blowing out his cheeks, his school uniform half fastened. At fifteen, Ren was the complete opposite of his sister: tall for his age, black hair falling in rebellious tufts over his brow. He pretended to be distant, but not a day went by without him ruffling Miyako's hair as if she were a pet.
Kenji, the father, was already seated at the end of the table. His bearing was unmistakable: straight back, steady gaze, muscles marked even beneath the simple T-shirt. He had served in the army years before and you could see it in every gesture. Yet that morning, as so many others, he merely observed his family with an expression of calm shown only within these walls.
"Late again, Ren?" he grunted without raising his voice much.
"It's not my fault the teachers always make me stay behind," the boy replied, sinking down in front of his bowl.
"Sure — I'm sure it has nothing to do with playground fights," Kenji arched an eyebrow.
Ren turned his face with a snort, but Miyako noticed how her brother hid a smile. That was his way of admitting that, deep down, he enjoyed those reprimands.
Breakfast continued with small talk: Aya asking about school, Ren answering with monosyllables, Kenji talking about a new repair job in the neighbourhood. Miyako didn't say much, but she watched everything closely. She often thought she didn't need to speak; her family made enough noise for all four of them.
When they finished, Kenji stood up and made a motion for Miyako to come over.
"Come here a moment. I want to show you something."
She followed him to the small workshop at the back of the house. There, among boxes and old tools, her father opened a hidden compartment behind a wooden shelf. Miyako held her breath: inside rested a strange metal weapon, something shorter than a rifle but with two parallel barrels, one thick and the other thinner. The first gleamed with a steel tone; the second was etched with inscriptions she couldn't understand.
"What is that, Dad?"
Kenji held it reverently, as if he were cradling a sacred object.
"A relic from other times. It's not a toy, Miyako. Promise me you'll never touch it."
The girl's eyes widened. There was something fascinating about that machine, something that drew her without her being able to explain it.
"I promise," she whispered, although inside she felt a sting of curiosity that did not go away.
Kenji put the weapon back and closed the compartment. Then he tousled his daughter's hair with a tenderness that contrasted with his tough appearance.
"You're smarter than you look. Just remember: strength isn't always the most important thing."
Back in the sitting room, Ren waited impatiently to go out and play in front of the house. Miyako ran after him, still with the memory of the weapon burning in her mind. She didn't know why, but she sensed that that object, and that promise, would mark her fate.
Her brother's laughter echoed off the walls of the neighbourhood as both of them went out into the street. It was a day like any other. Or at least that's how it seemed.
The street where the Shiranamis lived was quiet, with low houses and cement walls painted in worn colours. Some flowerpots hung from windows, and neighbours were used to leaving doors open during the day to let the air in. Miyako ran after Ren down the narrow walkway that led to the main road, laughing as she tried to catch him.
The afternoon sun bathed the tarmac, and a couple of other children played improvised football with a rubber ball. Everything seemed normal, too normal for the chaotic city they lived in. Miyako, however, always noticed the distant murmur of sirens or the flashes in the sky when some hero and some villain clashed in another district. She was used to danger existing… but never so close.
Ren collapsed onto the kerb, panting.
"You're faster than you look, little one!" he said with a crooked smile.
Miyako puffed her cheeks indignantly.
"I'm not little!"
"Of course you are," he laughed, pinching one of her cheeks. "But you're my little one."
That moment of complicity was shattered when a bang shook the ground. It was a dry roar, like thunder that reverberated far too close. The children playing football stopped; the ball rolled slowly into the gutter.
"What was that?" Miyako asked, her voice trembling.
Ren frowned, standing up. In the distance, along the main avenue, a column of dark smoke was rising. People began to shout and run the other way. Then they saw it: a hooded figure, broad of body, running among overturned cars as if they were mere obstacles. The skin on his arms and chest hardened into plates of grey stone, glinting in the light.
"He's a villain!" Miyako heard someone cry.
And behind him, a red trail lit up the street. Centella Carmesí descended from the top of a building, clad in a tight suit etched with glowing red lines. His eyes shone with determination as he thrust out his hand and fired a beam of energy that exploded against the tarmac, sending sparks and smoke into the air.
The villain spun and hurled a rusty car at the hero as if it weighed nothing. Centella split it in two with a single blast.
Miyako froze. She had never seen a fight so close, only heard stories. The intensity of the heat, the smell of burning metal and the roar of the fleeing crowd made her cower against Ren.
"Get inside, quickly," their father's voice ordered. Kenji appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.
Aya stood behind him, nervous, her hands clutching her apron.
Ren grabbed his sister's arm and shoved her towards the entrance, but Miyako kept staring, unable to look away from the red glow lighting the avenue. She saw the hero and the villain destroying everything they touched, as if the street had ceased to be their neighbourhood and become a battlefield.
Kenji slammed the door shut as soon as they were inside. The walls trembled with every impact outside.
"Don't separate from me," he said, in a tone that did not admit argument.
Miyako hugged her mother, seeking refuge. She could feel Aya trembling, though she tried to appear calm. Outside, the clash of power upon power intensified. It was only a matter of time before that fury reached their home.
The din outside became unbearable. Each strike against the tarmac made the windowpanes vibrate. Miyako squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to her mother's waist, while she heard the muffled cries of her mother, the groan from her father as he tried to hold a collapsing beam, and Ren's desperate coughing. A second later, everything became dust, smoke and silence.
Miyako staggered to her feet. The room where they had all been together was now a tangle of splintered wood, cracked walls and burning embers.
"Mum?" her voice barely escaped as a whisper.
There was no answer.
She moved clumsily through the rubble, knees grazed, heart hammering. The dust stung her eyes; tears mingled with the dirt. That was when she saw them: her mother's motionless figure, arm outstretched as if still trying to reach her. Ren lay nearby, trapped under a chunk of wall. Her father, further back, crushed by the beams he had tried to hold.
Miyako fell to her knees with a sob. The scene froze in her mind: her family, destroyed before her, and she unable to do anything.
Far away, Centella Carmesí appeared through the smoke. The hero bent down to check on other injured people, pulling a child from beneath the remains of a car. He did not look in Miyako's direction. He did not even turn his head.
She believed he had seen her. That he had been there, upon his knees, shouting, and had decided to ignore her. She could not know she had become invisible.
And in her childish mind, it carved itself brutally:
"He saw me… and chose not to help me. He killed them."
The air smelled of dust, smoke and ash. Miyako rose from the rubble, swaying, eyes glassy and chest tight. She walked as if floating, unaware that her footsteps cast no shadow and that her outline remained erased from the world. To her, the sensation was only strange: a tingling across the skin, a kind of emptiness around her body.
The girl reached a trembling hand towards what was left of her mother. The contact never happened; a burning piece of beam fell between them, separating them forever. Miyako stepped back, tripped over a fragment of debris and sat down. Tears flowed, hot and heavy, but in silence. She no longer had the strength to cry out.
A few metres away, Centella Carmesí moved through the chaos, gathering survivors. The hero bent down to check the wounded, his hands glowing with red energy as he shifted chunks of concrete to rescue a trapped man. He panted, sweat beading on his brow beneath the mask. His eyes were fixed on saving others. Not once did he look towards her.
Miyako watched him with trembling lips.
"I'm here…" she murmured, barely audible.
She waited for him to raise his gaze, to notice her tears, to reach out a hand. But he did not.
The silence between them was like a sentence. In Miyako's mind, there was no possibility of being invisible; she could not understand that her body had vanished from the eyes of the world. She only saw a hero who chose to save others while her family lay lifeless.
"He saw me. He ignored me. He didn't care about us."
That thought struck her again and again, like a hammer. The pain mixed with a rage she did not yet know how to name.
The smoke began to spread, and auxiliary heroes arrived running, attending to the injured. No one noticed her. No one lifted her, no one asked if she was all right. Invisible, Miyako edged away slowly, wandering aimlessly among the ruins.
Her bare feet were stained with ash and dried blood as she walked through what remained of the neighbourhood. She saw neighbours weeping, hugging bodies covered with makeshift blankets. She heard a woman scream her son's name in sobs. Another hero barked orders, trying to organise the rescue. Everyone seemed to belong to a world in which she no longer existed.
Miyako's heart pounded out of control. She felt as if the air were being taken from her, as though the smoke itself sought to choke her. She walked without knowing where to go, stumbling over rubble, invisible to all. Time and again her eyes searched for the figure of her father, Ren, her mother. Nothing was left.
At some point, despair mingled with rage. Whenever she thought of Centella Carmesí she pictured him standing, back turned to her, attending to others. In her childish mind that image became a verdict: he had had the chance to save them but had not.
The inner silence was replaced by a phrase that began to repeat itself like a dark seed:
"Heroes don't save. Heroes destroy."
Invisible, Miyako kept walking until the smoke was behind her and the city night wrapped her in shadows. No one stopped her. No one called after her. No one seemed to notice that a child walked alone in the street.
For the first time in her short life, she understood what it meant to be completely alone.
The city streets felt like a hostile maze under the gloom. Miyako wandered aimlessly, eyes red and mind blank, unable to process what had happened. The smoke still threaded between buildings, and the echo of sirens reminded her that the battle was not over.
Around her, life went on amid the disaster. Injured people ran seeking shelter, minor heroes flew over rooftops toward damaged districts, and police patrols tried to keep order amid the chaos. But no one stopped her. No one turned to ask why a little girl was alone in the street.
Miyako felt as if she moved through a dream. She reached out towards an old man limping with the aid of a makeshift stick.
"Sir…" she whispered, hoping he would hear.
He walked past without looking.
Further on, a group of volunteers handed out bottled water to survivors. Miyako approached with uncertain steps.
"I'm thirsty…" she said, voice broken.
No one answered.
Fear hit then: what if she had died? What if she were actually wandering like a ghost? She looked down at her hands, expecting to see them, but she found only emptiness. She could not understand what was happening. Her fingers seemed to vanish into the air. Panic forced her to step back and run without looking behind her.
Neon signs of still-open shops flickered weakly. A bakery had its door half smashed, the glass chipped by the blast wave. Inside, a man tried to sweep up the shards with resignation. Beyond, a child cried in his mother's arms while a low-rank hero tried to calm him. These scenes of pain passed by her as if she did not exist.
Miyako walked on, invisible, until the bustle of the city fell away. Her steps led her back to the narrow streets of her neighbourhood. The smoke was denser there and the silence heavier. Where children had once played football, there were now charred stones, collapsed walls and puddles of murky water used by the firefighters.
She stopped in front of what remained of her home. Her heart hammered so hard she could almost hear it in her ears. Everything was in ruins: the outer walls collapsed, the roof caved in, furniture reduced to splinters. The scent of ash still hung in the air, mingled with the metallic tang of blood.
She held her breath and moved among the debris, recognising the remnants of the tatami, the twisted door frame and the paper lantern shards. Each step felt like walking over broken memories.
At last she reached the back of the house, where her father's small workshop stood. To her surprise, the structure had survived, barely damaged. The shelf she had often glimpsed from the corner of her eye still stood, covered in dust and ash.
Miyako paused before it, lips dry and breath coming in fits. A strange feeling, half fear half attraction, drew her toward the place. She remembered Kenji's words from that very morning: "Promise me you'll never touch it."
And yet she stepped forward.
With trembling hands, Miyako ran them along the shelf. There were soot marks on the wood, but the structure held as if protecting a secret. She gave it a clumsy push and the shelf swung to one side, revealing a dark cavity.
Inside lay a black metal box, scratched by years. Miyako knelt before it. For a moment she hesitated, fingers hovering in the air as if afraid that opening it would unleash something forbidden. At last she lifted the lid and the metal creaked softly.
There it was: the small machine gun, with a double barrel. One was ordinary, cold and menacing. The other had been adapted to fire darts that glowed faintly in the dark, loaded with the power to nullify abilities for a few seconds.
Miyako looked at it with wet eyes. It was like holding a piece of her father, a link to what she had lost. She stroked it awkwardly, and for the first time since the tragedy she felt a strange warmth in her chest.
She did not yet understand what the discovery meant, but deep down she knew: she was no longer a child. The weapon had chosen her.
Clenching her teeth, she murmured in a low voice, eyes red:
"If the heroes didn't save… then I won't save anyone."