In a quiet meeting room, Dr. Mizue Hanayama waited for her client.
She was one of the finest therapists in Japan, and she knew it—not from arrogance, but experience. Her quirk allowed her to perceive emotions as colors, subtle and layered, bleeding into one another like watercolor on paper. Over the years, she had seen many hues. Fear. Rage. Despair.
The most beautiful color she had ever seen was love.
It had belonged to a man who had fallen deeply, completely in love. The color had been warm, vibrant, alive. It had moved her in a way she still remembered clearly.
Now, she was here to meet Sam Suzuki.
Eighteen years old. Quirkless. Infamous.
An individual with documented expertise in combat, tactics, and survival well beyond his age. For someone without a quirk, his ability to contend with powerful quirk users was… remarkable.
The door opened.
No knock.
Her attention sharpened immediately.
A slight twitch—microscopic to most, but clear to her. Hyperadrenaline response. Eyes scanning the room automatically. Exit routes. Corners. Ceiling. Walls. Searching for cameras, wiretaps, threats.
'Severe PTSD.'
She kept her expression calm.
"Hello, Suzuki-san," she said gently. "My name is Dr. Mizue Hanayama. I'll be your therapist."
Sam didn't respond immediately. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then finally took a seat across from her.
"What this means," she continued, "is that you'll have a full hour. We'll talk. I'll ask questions. You can answer—or you can choose silence. I won't judge you, and I won't disclose anything from these sessions to anyone else."
She folded her hands neatly.
"I won't start too big today. I just want to tell you what I'm hoping to achieve with our meetings."
Sam studied her for a moment.
"I get it," he said flatly. "I know I'm fucked up."
She didn't react.
"What's something you like?" she asked.
"Exercising."
"A good stress reliever," she nodded. "Music? Art? Movies? Television?"
"No."
"I see. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"
Sam was silent for a few seconds.
"Why did you agree to be my therapist?"
She exhaled softly. "Because I wanted to."
She met his eyes without flinching.
"I won't lie. You intrigue me. You're very young—and very traumatized. You're the first real challenge I've had in a long time."
Sam tilted his head slightly.
'At least she's not pretending to be some bleeding heart,' he thought.
"But," she continued, "I also want to help you."
She hesitated—just briefly.
"My nephew experienced something dreadful," she said. "He took his own life. It destroyed my sister. It devastated her daughter. And it hurt me… because I didn't see the signs."
Sam's eyes widened slightly.
"Why tell me that?" he asked.
"Because we'll be seeing each other for a long time," she replied. "I believe in transparency. I won't coerce you. I won't threaten you. I won't force you to talk."
She smiled faintly.
"When you speak, I'll listen. That's all."
Sam narrowed his eyes, then slowly exhaled.
"You're good," he admitted.
She nodded once. "Anything else you'd like to ask me?"
He shook his head.
"Then we'll end today's session here," she said, standing. "I'll see you next time, Suzuki-san."
She left the room.
Behind her, Sam remained seated, staring at the door.
Fear. Anxiety. Sadness.
And something else—faint, stubborn, and unresolved.
Hope.
'This will be an enlightening relationship,' she thought.
Meanwhile, Sam watched her leave, his thoughts spiraling in a very different direction.
'…Nice ass.'