Shinwa didn't sleep much.
Not because of nightmares—because his thoughts refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, the classroom returned to him: the stillness, the pressure, the way people had stopped deciding what to do.
He sat at his desk as the sky began to pale, notebook open, pen resting lightly between his fingers.
He wasn't planning a future.
He was isolating variables.
He wrote slowly.
OBSERVATIONS
Triggered when people were watching
Stronger when attention lingered
Vanished when alone
Minor physical enhancement persists
He flexed his hand. The strength was still there—subtle, reliable. Not dramatic. Not dangerous.
That part felt… safe.
The rest did not.
Shinwa leaned back and exhaled through his nose. If this was his Quirk, then using it like a normal person—testing it openly, showing it off—felt wrong. Reckless. Like pulling on something that didn't have a visible end.
"…It reacts to belief," he said quietly. "Not effort."
He turned the page.
AVOID
Large crowds
Cameras
Panic
Direct confrontation
He paused, pen hovering.
Heroes trained to be seen.
That thought surfaced uninvited.
Costumes. Spotlights. Names shouted across streets.
Shinwa wrote one more line, slower than the rest.
Visibility equals amplification
He underlined it once.
If attention made it stronger, then controlled attention might let him understand it—without letting it spiral. A place where people wouldn't look too closely. Where reactions would be brief, uncertain, and forgettable.
His pen tapped the page.
Low visibility.
Low stakes.
Minimal witnesses.
A word formed before he could stop it.
Vigilante.
Shinwa stilled.
Not the kind from the news. Not someone chasing villains or making a name. Something quieter. Smaller. The kind that slipped in and out of situations before anyone could decide what story to tell.
He wrote carefully beneath the word.
TEST METHOD (TEMPORARY)
Act alone
Intervene only when necessary
Leave immediately
No name
No repeats in one area
This wasn't about justice.
It was about data.
If his Quirk responded to perception, then brief, uncertain encounters would show him how. A single witness. A moment of confusion. Fear without spectacle. Awe without narrative.
Enough to feel the edges.
Not enough to build a myth.
Shinwa closed the notebook and rested his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His reflection in the dark window looked the same as always—ordinary, unremarkable.
Good.
"I'm not trying to be a hero," he said softly. "I just need to know what I am."
The house remained silent.
But deep inside him, that faint pressure stirred—not growing, not acting.
Waiting.
Shinwa stood and pulled on his jacket.
Carefully. Quietly.
If the world insisted on watching someday—
—then for now, he would move where it barely noticed at all.