Chapter 3: The Return to the Light.
The silence that followed the storm was a living thing. It pressed in on Denki Kaminari from all sides, heavier than any blanket, broken only by the steady, maddening plink… plink… of the leaky pipe. The sharp scent of ozone was fading, leaving behind the warehouse's permanent stench of decay, now mingled with the acrid smell of burnt plastic from the vaporized ropes.
He stood on shaking legs, his gaze fixed on the five crumpled forms on the floor. A moment ago, they had been monsters, laughing architects of his pain. Now, they were just… bodies. Still. The rise and fall of their chests was shallow, but it was there. They were alive. A wave of something cold and dizzying washed over him—was it relief? Or was it disappointment? The thought was so ugly, so alien, that he recoiled from it.
He looked at his hands. They were scraped and bruised, but they looked like his hands. They didn't glow. They didn't crackle with terrifying purple energy. He clenched them into fists, the knuckles white. What was that? The question echoed in the vast emptiness of his mind, but no answer came. It felt like he had been a spectator in his own body, watching a stranger unleash a hurricane.
A sudden, bone-deep exhaustion seized him. The adrenaline that had fueled his rage and ignited the storm was gone, leaving a painful, aching void. Every bruise from the beating now throbbed with a vengeance. His stomach churned. He knew he had to leave. He had to get out of this place before they woke up. Before it happened again.
Each step was a monumental effort. His legs felt like lead, and he had to brace himself against a rusty metal shelf to keep from collapsing. He shuffled towards the only promise of an exit: a large, sliding metal door, its surface streaked with grime. There was no handle, just a recessed groove. He wedged his fingers into it and pulled. The door protested with a groan of tortured metal, but refused to budge.
Tears of frustration and pain welled in his eyes. He wouldn't be beaten by a door. Not after everything. He took a ragged breath, planted his feet, and threw his entire, trembling body weight into it. Metal screeched against metal. The door slid open, just a sliver. It was enough. He squeezed through the gap and stumbled out into the world.
Daylight. It was blinding, a physical blow after days in the dim yellow gloom. He threw an arm over his face, his eyes watering painfully. As his vision slowly adjusted, he took in his surroundings. He was in a sprawling, desolate industrial park. Rows of identical, windowless warehouses stretched in every direction, their metal walls shimmering under the midday sun. Weeds grew in thick clumps from cracks in the asphalt. There were no cars. No people. A hot breeze blew across the empty landscape, carrying with it a sense of profound isolation. He was free, but he was utterly lost.
He picked a direction and began to walk. It was more of a stumble, a painful, lurching shuffle. Every muscle screamed. His head swam with dizziness, and the world seemed to tilt and sway with each step. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he had to keep moving, putting as much distance as possible between himself and that dark, terrible room.
Time lost all meaning. The sun beat down on his bruised body. He was so thirsty. His thoughts began to unravel, replaced by a single, desperate mantra: keep going, keep going, keep going.
He didn't know how long he walked. He was on a wider service road now, the blacktop radiating heat. He heard a low rumble in the distance, a sound that slowly grew louder. A large transport truck, its horn blaring, was barreling down the road. He tried to wave, to shout, but his throat was too dry, his arm too heavy. He stumbled, his legs finally giving out from under him. He fell to his knees on the hot asphalt, the world dissolving into a blurry, spinning mess.
The last things he was aware of were the screech of tires, a truck door slamming shut, and a man's gruff, panicked voice shouting, "Hey! Kid! Oh my god, kid, are you alright?" Then, mercifully, the world faded to black.
The next time Kaminari woke, the first thing he registered was the smell. Not rust and damp, but a clean, sterile scent of antiseptic. He wasn't on a hard wooden chair, but a soft mattress, covered by a crisp, cool sheet. A steady, rhythmic beeping sounded softly to his left.
He blinked his eyes open. The ceiling was white. Everything was white. He turned his head, a dull ache protesting in his neck.
And then he saw her.
His mother was slumped in a chair beside his bed, her head resting on her folded arms on the mattress, asleep. Her face was pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes that hadn't been there three days ago. Her hair was messy. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn't slept in an eternity. But she was here.
A small, broken sound escaped his lips. He didn't even realize he'd made it. But it was enough.
Her head snapped up. Her eyes, red-rimmed and weary, widened in disbelief. For a second, she just stared, as if afraid he were a mirage. "Denki?" she whispered, her voice cracking.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a sob. "Mom."
That was all it took. She surged forward, wrapping her arms around him in a desperate, gentle hug, burying her face in his shoulder. He could feel her whole body shaking with relieved sobs. "Oh, Denki. Oh, my baby. You're safe. You're safe."
He clung to her, the clean scent of her perfume chasing away the last ghosts of the warehouse. His father appeared at his side, his own face a mask of grim relief. He didn't cry, but his hand came to rest on Kaminari's head, his large fingers gently stroking his hair, a silent, powerful gesture of comfort and protection. The silent dam of terror and pain inside Kaminari finally broke, and he wept. He wept for the fear, for the pain, and for the simple, overwhelming joy of being safe in his parents' arms.
Later, after a doctor had checked him over and his parents' frantic energy had subsided into a quiet, watchful vigil, two detectives came into the room. They were plain-clothed, a man and a woman, and they spoke in calm, reassuring tones.
"We're sorry to bother you, Kaminari-kun," the female detective, Detective Ito, said kindly. "We just need to ask a few questions, if you feel up to it."
Kaminari nodded, his parents watching him with anxious eyes. He told them everything he could remember. The black van. The chemical smell. Waking up in the warehouse. The five men. He described their faces, their voices, what they said about taking his Quirk for a man they worked for.
"They hit you," Detective Tanaka, the man, stated more than asked, his eyes lingering on the fading bruise on Kaminari's cheek.
Kaminari nodded again. "They were bored."
"And how did you get away?" Ito asked gently. "Did you use your Quirk on them?"
He hesitated. The image of purple lightning, of convulsing bodies and foaming mouths, flashed through his mind. It felt like a dark, shameful secret. A part of him that wasn't him. How could he even begin to explain it? He didn't understand it himself. They would think he was a monster. A liar.
"I..." he started, his voice barely a whisper. "I tried. But the ropes were… special. It didn't work." He looked down at his bandaged hands. "I think… I think I surprised them. I kicked one of them when he got close and just ran for the door. I don't remember it all very clearly."
It was a flimsy lie, but it was the only one he had. The detectives exchanged a look, but they didn't press him. They could see the exhaustion and trauma etched on his face. Based on his detailed description of the warehouse and the industrial park, they had more than enough to go on. They thanked him and quietly left the room.
Hours later, Detective Ito returned. She stood at the door and gave his family a small, weary smile.
"We found them," she announced. "Based on your son's description, we located the warehouse. The five suspects were still inside, just as he said. They're in custody and will be going away for a very long time."
A collective sigh of relief filled the room. The threat was over. It was finally, truly over.
Returning home was surreal. The house looked and smelled the same. The route from the car to the front door was one he'd walked a thousand times. But he felt like a ghost haunting his own life. Everything was familiar, yet he felt profoundly changed.
That evening, after insisting he was fine, he went to his room and closed the door. All his All Might posters were still on the wall, smiling their confident, heroic smiles. His desk was littered with homework from a life that felt a century old. He sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress soft beneath him.
He was safe. The bad men were gone. He should have been happy. He should have felt nothing but relief.
But as he sat there in the quiet of his room, he slowly raised his right hand, turning it over in the soft lamplight. It was just a hand. The hand of a twelve-year-old boy. But he could still feel it. A phantom sensation. A deep, resonant hum. The memory of a terrifying, uncontrollable power thrumming just beneath the skin. The day he was taken, he had lost his innocence. But in that dark warehouse, he feared he had found something far more dangerous. And as he stared at his own reflection in the dark window, he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he would never be the same.