The first thing I feel is silence.Not the kind that comforts — the kind that presses against your skull until it becomes sound itself.A silence so heavy it hums.
Cold metal beneath my hands.White light overhead — too clean, too sterile.Walls smooth and curved like the inside of a machine.
I open my eyes.
No windows. No doors, just panels that pretend not to be walls.The air smells of filtered air and fear disguised as efficiency.
I try to move.Resistance answers. A hum ripples across my skin — dampening fields. Stronger this time.Layers of control woven together, the kind that knows what it's holding.
So this is the cage.
I sit up slowly.The world tilts, then rights itself. My reflection stares back from the mirrored surface of the wall: pale skin, shadows under the eyes, hair still streaked silver at the ends. A ghost pretending to be human.
Footsteps approach. Not hurried — measured.The door splits open silently, folding inward like obedient paper.
The woman from before steps inside.Her name tag reads Director Rina Seido.Her eyes are the color of cold water.
"Good. You're awake."
"You didn't have to tranquilize me."
"You destroyed a vehicle in midair."
"Correction. The wind did."
She doesn't smile. "That's exactly the problem."
She gestures to the room. "You're in a Commission facility, off-record, off-grid. No students, no teachers, no Nezu. Just observation."
"Prison, then."
"Containment," she corrects.
"You use prettier words than the old governments. Same purpose."
Her gaze doesn't waver. "You think this is cruelty. It's prevention. You walk around with a weapon no one understands."
"So do you," I say.
That earns the faintest crack in her mask. "You don't know what we're capable of."
"I do. You're terrified."
She leans forward slightly. "You have no idea what you are, do you? Why we can't categorize your ability?"
"Enlighten me."
She taps the panel on her wrist. A hologram projects between us — my own image surrounded by red waves of data. The graphs spike and distort, like the system is trying to describe something it can't.
"Every Quirk," she says, "has a genetic marker. A traceable pattern. You don't."
"Then I'm lucky."
"Not lucky. Impossible."
The projection spins, revealing cross-sections of energy signatures — none matching the recorded spectrum of Quirk resonance.
"You don't draw from genetic power," she continues. "You draw from environmental force — atmospheric compression, pressure differential, electromagnetics. You're a living reaction."
"Nature doesn't like being owned," I say.
"Nature doesn't kill thirty drones in six seconds."
"They shot first."
Her jaw tightens. "You think we're the villains here?"
"You're bureaucrats pretending to be gods."
The silence stretches.For a heartbeat, I see something raw behind her composure — not hatred, but conviction.
"Heroes need order," she says softly. "Without it, the world falls apart."
"Order isn't peace. It's quiet slavery."
That lands harder than either of us expect. Her fingers twitch once, almost invisible, before she straightens. "You'll stay here until we decide your fate."
"Then decide quickly. I don't like waiting."
"You'll have company soon," she says. "Someone wants to meet you."
She leaves before I can ask who.
Hours pass — or maybe more.The light never changes, so time loses meaning.The storm under my skin shifts restlessly, pressing against the dampeners like a tide testing the shore. I let it.You can't suppress what you don't understand. You can only delay it.
A sound breaks the monotony — the door sliding open again.But it isn't Rina.
A man walks in, tall, hair silver-white, posture military. He wears no badge. His presence changes the air, not with authority — with pressure.For a moment, the dampeners flicker.
He stops a few meters away. "You're awake," he says quietly. His voice is deep, calm, too calm.
"You're not Commission."
He smiles faintly. "Not anymore."
The air around him ripples.Not power — memory. Familiar. Impossible.
"Who are you?"
He steps closer, eyes studying mine like someone reading a text they half-remember. "Once, a long time ago, they called me Daichi Arashi."
The name hits like a storm through bone.
"…Arashi?"
He nods slowly. "Your father, if the term still means something."
I don't breathe.I don't believe.
"That's impossible. I don't—"
"I know. You don't remember this world. You weren't born here."
The dampeners hum louder, reacting to my pulse. The air thickens, trembling with restrained motion.
"You're saying—"
He raises a hand. "Let it calm. The walls listen."
His tone cuts through the noise inside me. The storm stills, barely.
He steps closer, lowers his voice. "You fell through a tear between dimensions. We detected it the night you appeared — energy signatures no Quirk has ever matched. The Commission wants to use you to stabilize that tear… or close it."
"Use me how?"
"By turning you into a weapon that controls global atmospheric imbalance."
I stare at him. "They want to chain the wind."
"They want to own the sky," he says.
Silence fills the space.
"And you?"
"I want to stop them. But I can't do it alone."
"You're asking for help from your son?"
"I'm asking for help from the only being on this planet who can unmake what they've built."
The door beeps once — warning. Daichi steps back immediately, eyes flicking toward the sensors."Time's up," he says quickly. "They're watching again. Listen carefully: tomorrow, they'll move you. North facility, Sector 5. You won't survive transport unless you decide first."
"Decide what?"
"Whether you're a storm that destroys…" He pauses, voice almost breaking. "…or one that saves."
The door opens. Guards appear. He's gone before they can speak.
When they leave, the silence returns.But it isn't the same.
Now it hums with purpose.
I lean back against the wall, close my eyes, and breathe slowly. The air responds — faint ripples forming around my fingertips, pushing gently against the dampeners.
They pulse back harder, like a heartbeat out of sync with mine.I smile faintly.
"You want to own the sky," I whisper to the ceiling. "Then you should've learned to hold your breath."
The hum grows louder. The lights flicker. The storm shifts.
Freedom doesn't scream.It waits.And when it moves, the world remembers why it's afraid.