The rain had stopped before sunrise, leaving the city shivering under a thin mist. Musutafu doesn't rest; it only trades one kind of noise for another. Delivery vans replace drunks. Sirens give way to chatter. Steam rises from the drains like ghosts learning to breathe again.
From the window, I watch the streets pulse with that strange rhythm of routine — people pretending chaos can be scheduled.
Neri stirs on their pile of blankets, blinking awake with the reflex of someone who's had to survive too long to dream deeply."You're still here," they mumble.
"Apparently."
They grin sleepily. "That's rare. Most people disappear after the first night. Either too scared or too dead."
"I like to disappoint statistics."
The broom in my hand moves without thought. Sweeping keeps the storm quiet. The soft scrape of bristles fills the shop, blending with Tachibana's morning muttering as he curses at the stubborn lock on the register.
But beneath it all, the air vibrates differently. A low hum, mechanical, almost polite.
Drones.
Three of them, moving low through the street — black carapaces, red lights blinking, the same pattern of motion I saw before I learned to fear governments.
Neri catches my glance and goes still. "They're not heroes," they whisper.
"Commission."
"Yeah. Heroes ask questions. The Commission already has answers."
Outside, one of the drones pauses by the shop. Its lens irises open like an eye.
"Step back," I say quietly.
Wind answers me before I finish the thought. It flows through the cracks of the door, coils around the machine like a serpent, and squeezes until the hum dies with a spark. The body of the drone lands gently in the puddle outside — intact, but empty.
The others spin upward, retreating fast.
Neri exhales. "That wasn't hiding."
"That was correcting."
By the time the sun claws its way over the roofs, the puddles shimmer with gold and smoke. The reflection of the sky ripples — not because of the wind outside, but because the storm inside me stirs again.
Observation sharpens. I feel the watchers this time: one on a nearby roof, two more moving in a disciplined pattern. The Commission wastes no time.
A knock breaks the stillness.Three short, one long — the rhythm of authority.
Tachibana groans. "That's the sound of paperwork."
He opens the door.
Four figures stand there — uniforms crisp, weapons holstered but visible. The lead officer's voice is as dry as chalk.
"Hero Public Safety Commission. We're following up on unregistered Quirk activity. Step aside."
Tachibana doesn't. "You can talk from the doorway."
Her eyes narrow. "Sir, that would qualify as obstruction—"
"Then call it that," I interrupt.
The woman's gaze shifts to me, cataloguing every detail. "Name."
"Kazen Arashi."
Recognition flashes — she's read the report. "You'll come with us for evaluation."
"Evaluation," I repeat softly. "That word always sounds clean, right up until it doesn't."
Her patience thins. "We can do this peacefully—"
"Peace is a matter of definition."
The air trembles. A single drop of water hovers between us, caught in a current only I can feel. Her team stiffens; hands hover over triggers.
Then another voice cuts through the tension — calm, measured, utterly exhausted.
"Stand down."
Aizawa steps out from the corner, scarf dragging faint trails of water. The agents instantly straighten.
"Eraserhead," the lead woman says, forced respect in her tone. "This is our jurisdiction."
"And you're overstepping," he replies. "Go home."
"You have no authority over Commission matters."
"Then consider this a personal request."
He opens his eyes. The effect is immediate. The air around him loses something unseen — pressure, confidence, arrogance — I can't tell which. But it works.
The agents back away, muttering. The door closes behind them. Silence fills the shop again.
Aizawa exhales through his nose. "You're a magnet for problems."
"I didn't call them."
"No, you just fried their drones."
I shrug. "They started it."
He looks at me for a long moment. "You don't want to be a villain, do you?"
"No. But I refuse to be a tool."
"The Commission doesn't care about the difference."
We leave the shop an hour later, the city already dressed in sunlight. Aizawa walks like a man who's memorized every corner. I follow because I need to understand the cage before I break it.
"Why help me?" I ask.
"Because you didn't kill anyone," he answers simply.
"That's a low bar."
"It's still a bar most don't reach."
We cross a pedestrian bridge overlooking the morning traffic. The skyline of Musutafu spreads ahead, crowned by the shining spire of U.A. High — the symbol of what this world calls hope.
Aizawa rests his arms on the rail, his scarf fluttering like a tired flag.
"You said you wanted to live free. But freedom here has terms. You break them, you're labeled a villain. You follow them, you're owned. Either way, you lose."
"So your advice?"
"Learn the system before you burn it."
I almost laugh. "You think the system would ever accept me?"
"Probably not," he admits. "But maybe you can use it until it collapses under its own weight."
He glances at me, measuring. "U.A. has an entrance test soon. If you want a chance to exist without a leash, it's the only place you'll get it."
"A school."
"A fortress disguised as one."
"And you want me to be a hero?"
"I want you to stop making my job harder."
The silence between us isn't hostile — just heavy. Two men with different philosophies staring at the same problem.
Aizawa straightens. "Think about it, Arashi. Freedom's easier to defend when you're not constantly hunted."
He leaves without looking back.
That night, I return to the metal shop. Neri's asleep by the stove; Tachibana snores in his chair. The city hums like electricity through wet wire.
Through the window, I can see U.A. glowing on the distant horizon — that shining lie of safety.
The storm inside me whispers, You could tear it down.
Another voice — older, deeper — answers from memory. Or you could learn what holds it up first.
I close my eyes, feel the wind circle around me like a heartbeat.
"All right," I murmur. "Let's see what kind of sky they built over this cage."
Lightning flickers in the distance — once, twice — as if the storm itself approves.