The lights flicker once. Twice. The air grows thick — a pause so complete that even the rain outside forgets how to fall.
My instincts ignite before thought does. The storm stirs under my skin, every drop of moisture in the room vibrating like strings before a symphony. The world becomes rhythm — heartbeats, breaths, the metallic hum of the shop's old lights.
And then, motion.
The two Commission agents step forward, clipboards raised like talismans. Aizawa doesn't move. He doesn't need to. His scarf coils and uncoils, silent as judgment.
"Unregistered Quirk User," one of the agents says. His voice is the kind that's memorized procedure, not reason. "We'll have to escort you in for evaluation and containment."
Containment.
I've heard that word before — on another sea, another government, under another sky. It always means the same thing: control disguised as protection.
"Contain me," I echo quietly. "You think you can?"
The agent frowns. "That isn't a request."
Behind me, the old man — Tachibana — exhales through his nose. He knows storms when he smells them. Neri's hand clutches a metal pipe near the wall, small and shaking. Aizawa's eyes, calm but alert, slide between us like the steady motion of a pendulum.
"Don't," he says, softly, to the agents. "Not here."
"He's dangerous," the first insists. "You saw the footage. Civilians were—"
"Alive," Aizawa cuts in. "Because of him."
The agents exchange a glance. Their smiles falter. It's easy to smile when you own the narrative; harder when the silence argues better than you do.
One of them reaches for the comm on his shoulder. "HQ, we have—"
The storm moves before he finishes.
The wind presses downward, invisible but absolute. The sound of falling rain stops at the door, suspended midair. Paper lifts from the counter and drifts like snow caught in static. The Commission agents stagger — not thrown, merely reminded of how small their lungs are.
I step closer. Every inch of air between us vibrates with restrained violence.
"You came into my space," I say, voice low, each word deliberate. "You waved your chains and called them laws. You call it order. I call it noise."
The first agent stumbles back. The second draws something from his belt — a compact stunner, hero-grade tech. Aizawa's scarf flicks out and wraps around his wrist before it can hum.
"Enough," Aizawa says, tone still maddeningly even. "You're out of your depth."
The agents hesitate. They recognize him now — the Erasure Hero, Shōta Aizawa. The reputation walks faster than the man.
"We'll report this," the first agent hisses.
"You do that," Aizawa replies. "Tell them I prefer not to clean blood off my students' shoes later."
The agents leave. Not gracefully — but quickly. The door slams, rain resumes, the neon from outside bleeding red across the wet floor.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
Neri's small voice finally breaks the silence. "They'll come back."
"Yes," Aizawa says.
"With more."
"Also yes."
His gaze lands on me again. Not as a threat — as assessment. A soldier reading another soldier's scars.
"You handled that without killing anyone," he notes. "That's… rare around here."
I shrug. "I only kill roots, not weeds."
Tachibana grunts approval, muttering, "Then start with the Commission."
Aizawa ignores him. He steps closer, folding his arms. "You're not from here."
"You could say that."
"Your control's… odd. Not a Quirk signature I've seen."
"It isn't," I say simply.
The scarf twitches — curiosity disguised as fabric. "You planning to keep hiding in alleys forever?"
"Freedom isn't hiding," I answer.
"No," Aizawa says, "but isolation isn't freedom either."
His words hit sharper than expected. I don't reply.
He sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I'll pretend I didn't see you tonight. But you should move. The Commission will file your face, your voice, your movements. You won't stay invisible long."
"I've been hunted before."
"Then you know how it ends," he says.
He turns to leave. At the door, he stops, half-shadowed by rain. "If you really want to live free, you'll need to understand this world first. The rules. The power structure. Otherwise, you'll just be another villain who thought he was righteous."
The door closes behind him, scarf trailing like smoke.
Silence again. The kind that hums after lightning.
Neri stares at me, chewing the inside of their cheek. "You gonna listen to him?"
"I'll think about it."
"Thinking's slow. Commission's fast."
I glance at the stove. The warmth there is fading. I reach out with the storm, and the air inside the furnace ripples — the fire brightens, obedient. The child's eyes widen.
"Cool," Neri breathes. "Creepy, but cool."
I take the broom again, resume sweeping. "Cool doesn't matter. Control does."
Tachibana snorts. "You talk like an old monk."
"Old monks are dead men who made peace with noise."
He gives a rough laugh. "Then welcome home, monk."
Hours later, the shop sleeps. Neri's curled near the stove, soft breaths syncing with the creak of settling metal. I sit by the open window, watching the city's veins pulse with distant lights.
Billboards flash BE A HERO, REGISTER TODAY, SAFETY THROUGH UNITY.
In another world, they would've said Justice, Order, Peace. The uniforms change. The script doesn't.
I pull the storm close again, shaping it — a gentle dance of air around my fingers. The wind obeys but resists, like a memory half-remembered.
Observation Haki. The term surfaces unbidden. The feeling beneath it hums faintly in my chest — a quiet perception of everything moving around me. Footsteps two blocks away. The faint vibration of wings overhead. Even the heartbeat of the sleeping child.
It's weaker than before, but it's there.
I smile, faint and humorless. Pieces returning.
But the smile fades quickly. I sense something else — a presence heavier than the city's rhythm. Watching. Measuring. The kind of gaze trained by purpose, not curiosity.
On the rooftops across the street, a figure crouches — black coat, metal lenses reflecting lightning. Not a hero. Not a cop.
I stand slowly. The storm stirs. The figure tilts their head, raises something — a small device, glowing faintly blue. Then they vanish.
The storm snaps outward instinctively, but the signal's already gone.
Surveillance. The Commission moves faster than expected.
I exhale, the windowpane frosting slightly from the drop in pressure. "So," I murmur, "the hunt begins."
Neri stirs, half-asleep. "What?"
"Nothing. Go back to dreaming."
Outside, thunder rolls again — distant, thoughtful.
I look at my reflection in the glass — silver-tipped hair, gray eyes tracing the lightning's echo. For a heartbeat, I see another version of myself — the one who fought under another flag, who died in another storm.
I whisper, to the ghost in the glass:
"Freedom's still waiting. One world or another."
The city answers in rain.
And somewhere above the clouds, the storm remembers its name.