The apartment was silent.
Ayanokouji sat at the desk, the monitor dark now, its glow extinguished hours ago. He leaned back in the chair, arms folded loosely, eyes unfocused.
He reviewed the information in his mind, piece by piece.
Capes.Gangs.The Protectorate.The Triumvirate.Endbringers.
A world already fractured, straining under the weight of constant superhuman conflict, yet still pretending at order. A world locked in cycles of violence without resolution.
It was not the first time he had been placed in an artificial environment. The White Room had stripped him bare, reduced him to raw function. But this was different. This was not a cage. It was an entire world.
The thought lingered. Why him? Why here?
The bulb overhead buzzed faintly, a constant background drone.
And then — without warning — something shifted.
Not in the room. Within himself.
A pressure bloomed in his chest, radiating outward. His breath caught for the briefest instant as heat pulsed through every nerve, every muscle fiber. His mind, disciplined and precise, suddenly flooded with alien clarity.
Knowledge.
Not learned, not studied — given.
He gripped the desk edge, fingers white against the wood, as the torrent cascaded through him. Words formed unbidden in his mind:
Training Montage. Growth Booster. Secondary Powers. Super Training.
The names were meaningless, yet their functions were not. He understood them innately, as if he had always known.
He could train, and the effort itself would crystallize into strength beyond human limits. Powers born not of a shard, not of accident, but of his will, his discipline. Every regimen, every repetition, every refinement — a path to superhumanity. And beyond that, the powers would grow, expand, multiply. A cycle without ceiling.
His head dipped slightly, eyes narrowing. He could see the paths branching outward, infinite in possibility. Muscles honed into steel, senses sharpened beyond comprehension, body regenerating from any wound. All of it within reach.
And for a second, his composure cracked.
A flicker of something long buried — a sensation he had almost forgotten. Not fear. Not calculation. Emotion.
It surged with the force of memory. The White Room. The endless drills. The broken bodies of his peers who could not keep pace. The pressure of perfection, the expectation of becoming the "masterpiece."
He had buried it all. Locked it behind walls of ice.
But now, as the power rushed through him, a warmth sparked in his chest. A strange exhilaration. Not joy — but close. Not hope — but something that brushed against it.
For a moment, Kiyotaka felt alive.
The sensation burned, unfamiliar and dangerous, and just as swiftly as it came, he smothered it. His breathing steadied. His expression smoothed to neutrality once more. The storm in his chest receded, leaving only the faint echo of what had stirred.
He released the desk edge and straightened, folding his hands calmly in his lap. His heartbeat slowed.
The knowledge remained. The powers were his. His alone. Not tied to shards, not to entities, not to chains of manipulation.
For the first time, true freedom was within reach.
He sat in silence, the faintest shadow of what he had felt lingering like an afterimage.
Emotions are weakness. Yet… they remind me I am human.
The refrigerator hummed steadily. The bulb flickered once, then held steady.
Ayanokoji Kiyotaka closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
Cold. Clear. Controlled.
But the awakening was not yet complete.