A year later
Issei stood alone in the empty training room behind the house, the morning air biting his skin.
At ten years old, he looked less worn, the dark circles under his eyes gone thanks to the medication Dr. Sato prescribed.
It had worked—mostly.
He could sleep now, the sleepless nights and jagged haze finally fading after months of therapy and pills.
But the bloated feeling, that restless energy buzzing in his chest, had only intensified.
It wasn't a disease, not schizophrenia or paranoia like they'd worried.
It was an ability at least he thought so , a third one, clear now.
He could hear people's fears, not just fuzzy static but sharp, vivid thoughts—Hope's panic about being shunned, a neighbor's dread of debt, a kid at school's fear of failing.
They hit him like stray signals, random and uncontrollable, flooding his high-end senses.
Today, he focused on testing a new support item, a gift he'd asked for on his tenth birthday.
It wasn't a toy or a game—he'd requested a custom-built gun from a hero agency contact, designed to work with his heat conversion quirk.
The sleek, metallic device felt heavy in his small hands, its grip slightly too big, but he managed.
The gun held three supercooled solid gas blocks: nitrogen, alpha fluorine, and carbon dioxide, each for a specific purpose.
Nitrogen was standard, its solid form turning into a superheated gas stream that could slice concrete or metal.
Burning Fluorine was a beast—its reactivity through the roof..
It could react with any material, even noble gases, creating a flame sword that didn't meed to melt but consumed everything, no matter the substance.
Carbon dioxide was for precision, cutting in flammable areas without igniting them.
The gun added two kilos to his load, but weight didn't bother him.
He was already planning to get a power armor, something to lift a ton, to match the strength he'd need one day.
He aimed at a stack of concrete blocks.
He selected nitrogen, pulling the trigger.
Superheated gas sprayed out, his quirk flipping it to a blazing stream that screeched through the block, splitting it clean.
Dust rose, the cut edges glowing. He exhaled, the bloated energy easing a fraction.
He switched to fluorine, aiming at a rusted steel plate.
The gun made a sound, releasing the supercooled gas.
His quirk turned it into a white-hot flame sword, the reaction so fierce it burned the air itself.
The steel parted like paper, edges sizzling.
The power thrilled him.
He tried carbon dioxide next, targeting a wooden plank in a patch of dry grass.
The gas sprayed, his quirk heating it into a precise, controlled stream that sliced the wood without sparking the grass. Clean, safe.
He fired again, nitrogen this time, cutting another block.
The screech of the stream drowned out the world briefly.
---
Later that day.
In Hope's home, the night was suffocating, the air thick with dread.
She huddled in bed, her body curled tight under thin blankets, her serpentine tail coiled around her legs.
Sleep was impossible—downstairs, her parents' voices clashed with strangers', sharp and venomous, words muffled but laced with rage.
Her father's shouts spiked, raw and panicked, each one twisting the knot in Hope's chest tighter.
Her wings pressed against her back, trembling.
She wasn't allowed out of her room—her mom's orders had been firm: Stay here. Don't move.
But the argument grew louder, uglier, and fear sank its claws into her, cold and relentless.
A sound cut through the chaos—a soft, pop , like a silenced gunshot, so quiet it was almost swallowed by the shouting.
Her father's voice stopped, severed mid-sentence.
The house fell deathly still.
Then, a faint clink—a bullet casing hitting the floor, sharp and final.
Hope's breath froze, her wide eyes staring into the dark, her heart beating fast.
Her quirk made her wings twitch, every instinct screaming danger, run, hide.
But she couldn't move, couldn't think, the silence heavier than the screams.
Her trembling hands reached for the phone on her nightstand, fingers fumbling, nearly knocking it over.
She didn't think, just dialed Issei's number, the only one she knew by heart.
He was safety, the one person who made the world feel less terrifying.
Next to her home, he was her shield.
The line clicked after one ring. "Hope?" Issei's voice sliced through the quiet, his tone edged with alertness, like he'd been waiting for trouble.
His senses must've caught the panic in the call, the way her breath shook.
Hope's lips parted, but no sound came.
Her hands shook so hard the phone slipped in her grip, her pulse a deafening thud in her ears.
She wanted to speak, to tell him everything—, the silence, the fear choking her—but her voice was gone, stolen by terror.
Because a slow creak came from the hallway, followed by the soft, even thud of footsteps.
The door creaked open, a sliver of hallway light cutting into the room.
Hope flinched, clutching the phone like a lifeline, her eyes locking on the figure in the doorway.
It was her mom, standing there, her silhouette too still.
She looked… fine, her face calm, her clothes neat, but a single dot of blood stained her leggings, bright red against the dark fabric, impossible to miss.
Hope's stomach lurched, her senses screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Mom…" Hope's voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible, her tail curling tighter.
"I'm scared."
Her mom stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under her weight, each thud of her footsteps like a hammer on Hope's nerves.
"Scared of what, sweetie?" Her voice was soft, too soft, almost hollow, like it didn't belong to her.
Hope trembled in fear.
The phone stayed pressed to her ear, Issei's voice cutting through, sharper, urgent.
"Hope, what's happening? Say something—now."
Her mom's eyes flicked to the phone, her head tilting slightly, her expression blank but with a faint edge, like a mask slipping.
"Who's that, Hope?" she asked, her voice still soft but carrying a disapproving tone that made Hope's skin crawl.
Another step, another creak, closer now.
Hope swallowed, her throat dry, her voice a shaky whisper. "It's… Issei."
...
Issei's heart pounded as he sprinted through the streets, the phone pressed to his ear, his legs moving faster than they ever had.
He'd taken off the moment he heard Hope's voice—shaky, terrified, cutting through the quiet of his house.
Her fear hit him like a punch, not just through the phone but through his new quirk, the one he couldn't control.
It was her, : I'm scared, something's wrong, help.
Gran Torino wasn't home—out on emergency hero work, bad timing that left Issei alone to act.
"Hope, what's happening? Say something—now," he said into the phone, his voice sharp, urgent, his high-end senses straining for any clue.
No response, just her uneven breathing, then a creak, her whispered "It's… Issei," and silence.
The call cut off a few seconds later, the line dead.
His mind spiraled, panic clawing at him.
No, no, no, no.
Were his fears coming to life?
The ones that haunted him?
His eyes widened, chest tight, as he ran, the world blurring around him.
He didn't notice how fast he was moving, his body channeling the excesw energy that always buzzed inside him.
Fear—fueled him, unlocking something new, an ability forming without his control.
His legs burned, pushing him to inhuman speeds.
A pizza delivery guy on a scooter, going 30 kmph, swerved as Issei shot past, outrunning him by a wide margin.
"Hey, watch it!" the guy shouted, startled, as Issei veered onto the road to avoid pedestrians.
The pavement was crowded, too risky—he stuck to the street, his sneakers slapping asphalt, dodging cars, his senses hyper-focused on getting to Hope's house.
He reached her street in minutes, faster than should've been possible, his breath ragged but relentless.
The house loomed ahead, dark, its main door shut tight, locked.
No, this can't be happening, he thought, panic surging.
He scanned left and right—no lights, no movement, no signs of life.
His senses screamed, picking up nothing but the faint hum of the city.
He grabbed the lock, and pulled surprisingly breaking it.
With a desperate kick, he broke the door open, wood splintering, and stumbled inside.
The house was too quiet, the air heavy with the scent of blood and gunpowder.
Issei's stomach dropped, his senses confirming what he'd feared—a gunshot, recent, the smell fresh.
The call had cut off only minutes ago—they had to be close.
He moved fast, checking the living room, the kitchen, finding nothing—no bodies, no struggle, just that damning smell.
His heart hammered, his mind racing. How? Where is she?
He bolted to Hope's room, the door ajar. Everything was untouched—her bed messy, blankets tossed, the phone off the hook on her nightstand.
Her scent lingered, floral and faint, but no Hope.
How did this happen? His hands shook, fear mixing with hers, still echoing in his head: Save me.
He couldn't sense her thoughts now, the quirk too erratic, but he refused to give up.
He ran to the rooftop, instinct pulling him there, his senses pushed to their limit.
Standing on the edge, he inhaled deeply, praying to any god, his nose straining for her scent.
The city sprawled below, dark and vast, but he focused, blocking out the exhaust, the damp concrete, the distant food stalls.
Then—there, faint but unmistakable, the floral trace of Hope, drifting from the north.
Issei's eyes locked on the direction, his body trembling with fear and resolve.
He didn't know what he'd find, didn't know if he was fast enough, strong enough.
But he'd follow that scent, tear through anything to get to her.
Pocketing the phone, he took off, leaping from the roof to a lower ledge, his speed carrying him, chasing the only clue he had.
...
In the back of a speeding car, Hope sat trembling, her ten-year-old body hunched against the cold leather seat, her wide eyes glued to the horror across from her.
Her father lay crumpled at her feet, dead, a bullet hole in his forehead, blood pooling thick and dark, seeping into the car's floor.
His face was locked in a grimace, eyes blank, staring into nothing, the sight clawing at Hope's heart.
Her serpentine tail coiled painfully tight around her legs, her wings quivering against her back, her hair writhing wildly, like it sensed the danger she couldn't escape.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle, her chest so tight it felt like it might crack.
Her mother sat in front of her, legs crossed, one foot resting carelessly on her father's body, as if he were nothing—a stain, not her husband.
She was a stranger, her face cold, her eyes empty, nothing like the mom who'd once kissed her forehead or laughed at her silly dances.
This woman was a machine with the HSPC uniform.
She rummaged in her purse, pulling out a black lipstick, applying it with slow, deliberate strokes, her reflection in a small mirror showing no trace of guilt.
Hope's voice broke, a choked whisper, barely audible over the car's rumble.
"Why…?" Her eyes burned, tears spilling as she stared at her father's body, then at her mother, pleading for the mom she knew to come back.
Her hands shook, clutching her knees, nails digging into her skin.
Her mother paused, lipstick hovering, and looked at Hope, her eyes like shards of ice, cutting through her.
"Why?" she repeated, her voice low, devoid of warmth, almost mocking. "He was a tool, Hope. His quirk matched mine—strong, perfect for breeding a better soldier. You."
She snapped the lipstick shut, her foot nudging her father's body without a flinch. "The HSPC wanted a replacement for me, someone stronger. Nagant was an idiot, got herself locked up. I'm smarter. You're my way out, my retirement ticket. Always have been."
Hope's heart stopped, her breath hitching. "Me…?"
The word was a sob, raw and broken, as the truth sank in like a blade.
Her father—murdered, discarded—was just a pawn? And she was… a weapon?
A deal?
Her wings trembled violently, fear and betrayal crashing over her like a wave.
The woman across from her wasn't her mom—she was a killer, and Hope was her creation, her bargaining chip for freedom.
The blood, the gunshot, her mother's calm—it was all calculated, all for this.
Her mother leaned forward, her gaze clinical. "Stop crying," she said, her tone sharp, cutting.
"Your old life? It was a lie, a setup. Forget it. The HSPC will train you, make you what I couldn't be."
She leaned back, crossing her arms, her foot still on her father's corpse, unmoved, as the car sped through the dark city, streetlights casting ghastly shadows across his bloodied face.
Hope's tears fell silently, her body shaking so hard the seat creaked.
The smell of blood mingling with her mother's cold perfume.
She wanted to scream, to claw her way out, but the car was a cage, her mother a predator she couldn't escape.
Her mind clung to Issei—his voice on the phone, sharp, urgent, the only safe thing left.
She'd called him, but the line had cut when her mom walked in.
Was he coming?....Would he save her?
The car lurched, her father's body shifting, blood smearing further across the floor.
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Power Stones and Reviews please