Kurayami Household — Past
The file was thinner than his father expected.
That was the first thing that unsettled him.
No photographs. No drawings. Just medical reports, Quirk classification sheets, and a single printed name at the top.
Kurayami Akira. Age: 4.
"He's an Emitter," the doctor had said calmly. "Self-produced blood manipulation."
His mother had laughed then—once, sharply, like the sound escaped her before she could stop it.
"That's not possible," she said. "He's never been injured. He's never—"
The footage played anyway.
A security camera angle from their living room. Grainy. Silent.
Blood lifting from the floor.
Shaping itself.
Hardening.
Her laugh turned into something else.
His father didn't remember standing up. He only remembered the feeling that followed—like the floor had dropped away beneath his feet.
"How dangerous?" he asked.
The doctor hesitated.
That hesitation was worse than any answer.
Quirk Registration Office — Doctor's POV
Dr. Hayashi had registered Quirks like this before.
Not many. But enough.
Children whose abilities turned inward. Powers that cost something real to use. The kind that didn't make headlines or sell merchandise.
The boy sat quietly on the examination table, legs dangling, eyes following the movement of the doctor's pen. No crying. No fidgeting.
Too composed.
"Does it hurt?" Hayashi asked gently.
Akira nodded. "Yes."
"Do you understand what your Quirk does?"
Another nod. "It uses my blood."
Hayashi felt something tighten in his chest.
Most children didn't understand their abilities at this age. They feared them, or treated them like toys.
This one understood too well.
The tests confirmed it quickly. Blood extraction. External manipulation. Solidification. No foreign source. No regeneration. No automatic safety mechanism.
Exactly as feared.
"Emitter-type," Hayashi said softly, writing the designation. He paused before filling the final line.
Quirk Name: Hemoforge
He could have chosen something clinical. Something sterile.
But names mattered.
They shaped how society saw a child long before the child could speak for himself.
He looked up at Akira's parents.
"This Quirk is not evil," he said carefully. "But it is demanding. With training and discipline, it can be controlled."
"Controlled?" the father repeated.
"Yes."
"And if he loses control?" the mother asked.
Hayashi didn't answer immediately.
"That," he said at last, "depends on how much you trust him."
Silence.
The parents didn't look at their son.
Hayashi saw it then.
Not hatred.
Fear.
He finished the paperwork with a heavier hand than usual.
The Decision
They argued that night.
Not loudly. Quiet arguments were worse.
"He could hurt someone."
"He's four."
"He doesn't cry when he's hurt."
"That doesn't mean—"
"What if he cuts himself on purpose?"
"What if someone else makes him?"
"What if he becomes a villain?"
That word ended the conversation.
Akira stood in the hallway, unseen, listening.
He didn't understand all of it.
But he understood enough.
Orphanage Director — Present
Director Shinohara believed in patterns.
Children who caused trouble often sought attention. Children who withdrew often expected rejection.
Akira did neither.
He followed rules precisely. Ate when told. Slept on time. Spoke only when necessary.
He observed.
That concerned her more than misbehavior ever could.
The reports from the hospital were clear. The restrictions were strict. The recommendations cautious.
Monitor. Minimize stress. Avoid provocation.
She followed them.
She did not coddle him. She did not isolate him beyond necessity.
Neutrality, she believed, was kinder than fear disguised as affection.
Still, she watched him carefully.
Too carefully.
Doctor's POV — Follow-Up Report
Dr. Hayashi requested monthly updates.
He didn't expect to receive much. Orphanages were efficient, not thorough.
The reports unsettled him.
No incidents.
No regressions.
No emotional outbursts.
Child displays high self-control for age.
That line appeared again and again.
During one visit, he knelt in front of Akira and offered him a juice box.
"Are you afraid of your Quirk?" he asked.
Akira thought for a moment.
"No," he said. "I'm afraid of what happens if I don't control it."
Hayashi had to look away.
Parents — Distance
They didn't visit.
They told themselves it was temporary. That space was necessary. That specialists would know better.
But days became weeks.
Weeks became something else.
Akira's mother folded his clothes neatly before putting them away. She never threw them out.
Akira's father worked longer hours.
Neither of them said his name anymore.
It hurt less that way.
Director — Observation
The incident with the rock confirmed Shinohara's suspicions.
The blood moved.
She saw it.
Not clearly. Not undeniably. But enough.
Akira didn't report the other child. Didn't retaliate. Didn't cry.
He simply endured.
That night, she updated his file with a single additional note:
Child demonstrates extreme restraint.
She didn't know whether to be relieved or afraid.
Doctor — Private Thought
Hemoforge was not a villain's Quirk.
It was a soldier's Quirk.
Or a martyr's.
Dr. Hayashi closed the file and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
Please, he thought, not for the first time, let someone teach this child that suffering is not a requirement for worth.
Akira — Unseen
Akira didn't know what his parents thought anymore.
He didn't try to imagine it.
What mattered was this:
Pain could be measured.
Blood could be controlled.
People could be observed.
And discipline—true discipline—meant choosing restraint even when no one was watching.
He returned to the shed that night.
Not to train harder.
But to train smarter.