I headed for the cafeteria, trying to sort real memories from dream ones. The hallway stretched before me, too long and too short at the same time. Like the warehouse. Like...
No. Focus on what's real. Right now. This moment.
I was Nakamura Yoichi. Second year at Akudo High. I had a quirk (what was it again?). I lived... somewhere (why couldn't I remember my address?). My best friend was... was...
The cafeteria door loomed ahead. Normal door. Normal school. Normal life.
So why did everything feel like a cover story?
I reached for the handle, and for just a moment, I could have sworn I saw blood on my knuckles. But when I looked again, my hand was clean.
Just another normal day at Akudo High.
Right?
The cafeteria buzzed with activity (no, don't use that phrase), filled with students eating and chatting. I grabbed a tray, got in line. Normal routine. Don't think about warehouses or drives or betrayal.
"Yo, Nakamura!" Someone waved from a table. A friend? Must be. I headed over, trying to remember their name.
"That nap in Tanaka's class was epic," they said as I sat down. "What were you dreaming about anyway? You looked ready to fight someone."
I poked at my food. Rice. Fish. Normal lunch. Not last meals or dying thoughts.
"Can't remember," I lied. "Probably nothing important."
But as I ate, I kept scanning the cafeteria exits. Counting possible weapons. Planning escape routes.
Just in case.
After school, the library computer hummed as I typed "dying and waking up in another world" into the search bar. My chest still ached where the phantom bullets had hit, even hours after that dream. If it was a dream.
The results loaded. Hundreds of stories about people dying and being reborn or transported to fantasy worlds. They called it "isekai" - another world. Most involved magic and dragons, heroes fighting demon lords. Nothing about waking up as a high school student who couldn't remember his own quirk.
I clicked through forum posts and blogs, scanning for anything familiar. One caught my eye: "Real-Life Isekai? The Strange Case of Yamada Kenji."
The article described a man who claimed to remember dying in a car crash in 1985, only to wake up in 2018 with a quirk. The doctors diagnosed him with false memory syndrome. He disappeared three months later.
Another tab: "Memory Loss and Quirk Development - A Scientific Study." Too technical, full of terms like "retrograde amnesia" and "quirk-induced cognitive displacement."
"Having trouble finding something?"
I jumped. The librarian - Mori-san - stood behind me, peering at my screen.
"Just... research," I said.
"Isekai stories?" She adjusted her glasses. "Interesting choice for a high school student. Most kids your age are more interested in heroes."
Heroes. Right. This world had those.
I opened a new tab, typed "heroes Japan ranking." The results exploded with news about All Might, Endeavor, Hawks. Pictures of costumes and quirks that should have seemed impossible but felt normal somehow.
"All Might versus Toxic Chainsaw," I muttered, clicking a video. The footage showed a mountain of muscle in red, white, and blue, laughing as he fought a villain spewing acid. The way he moved... I found myself analyzing his footwork, noting openings in his guard.
Why did I know how to do that?
"Oh, an All Might fan?" Mori-san smiled. "Did you see the news about him being seen visiting U.A. more often?"
I shook my head.
" Some say he's looking for someone to pass the torch to. My bet is on that Mirio kid."
U.A. The top hero school. The place Tanaka-sensei mentioned. I opened another tab.
"U.A. University Entrance Requirements." Thousands of applicants, only forty spots. Practical exam. Written test. Recommendations for exceptional students.
"The entrance exam's in ten months," Mori-san said. "Planning to apply?"
"Maybe." If I was still here in ten months. If this was real.
She left me to my research. I dug deeper into hero statistics, quirk regulations, the history of this world. Each fact felt both new and familiar, like remembering something I'd forgotten I knew.
I checked social media. My account existed, full of posts I didn't remember making. Photos with people I should know but didn't. Comments about training and studying for U.A.
A message from this morning: "Good luck with the quirk assessment!"
What was my quirk?
I closed the browser, stared at my reflection in the dark screen. Normal face. Normal uniform. But something in my eyes looked wrong, like there was too much space behind them.
"Library's closing in five minutes," Mori-san called.
I gathered my things, head spinning with questions. The sun was setting outside, painting the sky orange. I should go home. Wherever home was.
My feet carried me through unfamiliar streets that I somehow knew. Past convenience stores and vending machines, apartment blocks and small parks. Everything normal. Everything wrong.
A hero patrol passed overhead - Kamui Woods swinging between buildings. No one else looked twice. This was their normal.
My phone had an address listed as "home." I followed the map until I reached a nice apartment building. Sixth floor. Unit 604. The key was in my pocket.
The apartment was fairly large, lived-in. Two bedroom, kitchen/living area, bathroom. Photos on the walls showed me with people I didn't recognize. A woman who must be my mother. No father in sight.
A notebook sat open on the desk. My handwriting, but the words made no sense:
"Quirk training schedule:
Morning: Control exercises
Afternoon: Range practice
Evening: Precision work"
What was I training? What could I do?
I picked up the notebook. Pages of notes about hero courses, exercise routines, quirk theories. The latest entry was from yesterday:
"Still can't maintain it for more than 3 minutes. Need to work on focus. Maybe meditation?"
Maintain what?
My head throbbed. Too many questions. Too many gaps where memories should be.
I sat on the bed - my bed? - and opened my phone again. More research. More answers that didn't fit.
Tomorrow. They'd expect me to demonstrate my quirk. A quirk I couldn't remember having.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling.
"Marcus," I whispered to the empty room. "Who were you? What was on that drive?"
No answer. Just the hum of the air conditioner and distant traffic.
My phone showed photos of me training, hanging out with classmates, living a normal life. But I remembered dying on a warehouse floor with secrets I'd killed to protect.
Both felt real. Both felt false.
I pulled up more hero videos. All Might's fights. Best Jeanist's captures. Endeavor's flame techniques.
The clock hit midnight. School tomorrow. Quirk assessment tomorrow.
I needed to sleep, but I was afraid of what I might dream. Afraid I might wake up somewhere else again. Or not wake up at all.
The ceiling offered no answers. The photos showed no truth. The memories - real or false - gave no peace.
I was Nakamura Yoichi, high school student applying to U.A.
I was also someone who died in a warehouse protecting dangerous secrets.
Tomorrow, I'd have to demonstrate a quirk I couldn't remember. Tomorrow, I'd have to pretend this world was normal.
Tomorrow, I'd start finding real answers.
I closed my eyes, letting exhaustion win. As sleep took me, one thought remained:
In this world of hero's and villains, which was I?
==========
[Next time on "Yoichi's Hero Academia"]
"So this is where I'm supposed to preview the next—" I leaned back in my chair, spinning lazily. "Did you know there's this girl who explodes stuff? Like, constantly? Makes me wonder about property damage costs..."
"Stick to the script!" someone whispered off-camera.
"What script?" I picked up a blank piece of paper. "Oh, you mean this thing about a sludge monster in a bottle? Boring. I'd rather talk about the angry Pomeranian. Now that's entertainment."
"The quirk assessment! Talk about the—"
"Fine, fine." I waved dismissively. "Next time, watch me use these fancy eyes of mine. Maybe blow something up. Who knows?" I smirked at the camera. "Though between you and me, I heard there's this interesting shortcut through an underpass—"
"That's not in the—"
"What? Just saying it might save time getting home. Unless..." I tapped my chin. "Something slimy gets in the way?"
"CUT!"