The deafening sound of shattering glass was the first thing to interrupt the afternoon routine, followed by a hysterical scream that instantly transformed the quiet supermarket atmosphere into an arena of panic.
To a commoner, it was a tragedy. However, to Nabiel, it was nothing more than a plot device, a cheap conflict trigger he had seen in millions of other stories.
Nabiel simply stood still in the snack aisle, his dark black eyes staring blankly toward the end of the corridor. His oversized white shirt looked striking amidst the chaos. At the front counter, a large man with skin hardened like asphalt, clearly a mutation type Quirk, was pointing a makeshift pistol at the head of a sobbing child.
"Everyone get down! Hand over all the cash from the safe, or this kid gets a hole in his head!" the villain roared, his voice hoarse and full of desperation.
Suddenly, a hand roughly pulled at Nabiel's dangling shirt sleeve, forcing him to crouch and hide behind a shelf of tomato soup cans.
"Nabiel! Get down!" Momo whispered sharply. Her breath was ragged, and the eyes that usually radiated elegance were now filled with tension. She peeked through the gaps in the shelves, her jaw tightening at the sight of the hostage child.
Nabiel obeyed, folding his legs with slow movements as if his bones refused to cooperate. He leaned his back against the shelf, not bothering to peek at the situation ahead at all.
"This is troublesome," Nabiel murmured softly. He stared at the supermarket ceiling. "Momo, the emergency exit is in the left aisle, past the floor cleaners. If we crawl now, we can be out in less than two minutes."
Momo turned to him with a look of disbelief. "Leave? Nabiel, don't you see? There is a child being held hostage! That man has a firearm and a protective Quirk."
"Of course I see it. And precisely because he has a firearm and a protective Quirk, we should leave," Nabiel replied in a flat tone, as if he were discussing a dinner menu instead of a life and death crisis. His face showed not a single ripple of panic. "It is none of our business."
"How can you say that?!" Momo hissed, trying hard to keep her voice from being heard by the criminal in front. "Pro heroes might be stuck in traffic in the next district because of that accident this morning. It will take at least ten minutes before they arrive here. That child could die at any moment!"
Nabiel let out a long sigh. From behind his long sleeves, he raised one hand, lazily resting his chin on it. His black eyes, as deep as a cosmic abyss, stared directly into Momo's onyx eyes.
"Momo, listen to me," Nabiel said, his voice so calm that it stood in stark contrast to the stifled screams of the other supermarket shoppers. "You do not have a provisional hero license yet. Using a Quirk in a public space to fight a criminal is vigilantism. It is illegal."
"But this is an emergency," Momo started.
"And what are the consequences?" Nabiel cut in pessimistically. "If you act, you break the law. Your record will be stained. Your recommendation to enter U.A. could be revoked before the written exam even begins. Your dream of becoming an official hero will end right here in this tomato soup aisle."
Momo bit her lower lip hard. Her right hand began to emit a faint bluish glow, a subconscious reaction of her Creation Quirk. She was imagining the molecular structure of a smoke grenade or a steel shield.
"I do not care about U.A. if it means I have to let an innocent child be killed in front of my eyes!" Momo argued stubbornly. The justice within her rebelled against her friend's cold logic.
"You are too naive," Nabiel responded without changing his intonation. He tilted his head slightly. "Let us talk about probability. How long do you need to create a shield thick enough to stop a bullet? Two seconds? Three seconds? A bullet travels at an average speed of three hundred meters per second. That man is panicking. One sudden move from you, and his finger will pull the trigger. You will not save that child. You will only accelerate his death, and perhaps your own."
Nabiel's words hit Momo like ice water. The girl stared at her glowing hand, then at Nabiel. The young man in front of her was always like this, apathetic, always seeing the world as if he stood outside a glass box, never truly feeling connected to general human emotions.
"Then what? We just stay quiet and watch?" Momo's voice trembled, a mixture of anger at the situation and frustration at Nabiel's indifference.
"Yes. We stay quiet, or we run," Nabiel answered lightly. He drew his knees closer. "Heroes will come. That is already a law of nature in this world. Good will always arrive at the last second to defeat evil. We are just extras in this scene, Momo. Do not try to take the lead role if you are not ready for the script."
"That is such a pessimistic way of thinking, Nabiel!"
"It is realistic," he corrected. "The world will not end just because you choose to save yourself today. But your world will be destroyed if that bullet goes through your head."
Up ahead, the criminal shouted again, this time firing a warning shot into the ceiling. Shards of neon lights scattered everywhere, making the small child in his grip scream even more hysterically.
Momo flinched. The blue glow on her hand grew brighter. She had made up her mind. To hell with U.A., to hell with a criminal record. She was a Yaoyorozu, and she was taught to protect the weak.
Seeing the change of expression on his friend's face, Nabiel closed his eyes for a moment. Behind his eyelids, he could see the threads of fate for this story beginning to shift, pulled by the impulsive decision of a teenage girl.
Truly troublesome, thought the External Observer.
Nabiel opened his eyes again. His blank gaze narrowed slightly. If Momo moved, she would get hurt. And if Momo got hurt, his peaceful and lazy mortal life would become very complicated.
"You really are stubborn, Princess," Nabiel murmured softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the muffled sobs around them. The long sleeves of his white shirt brushed slightly against the floor as he slowly adjusted his sitting position.
He was still pessimistic. He was still apathetic. But it seemed that for once, the Observer would have to get his hands a little dirty within the story.