Chapter 3: Hidden Currents
The rain was steady, tapping gently on the roof of the group home like a lullaby meant for someone else. It softened the noise of the city, dulling the sharp edge of sirens and traffic. In our small, shared room, the air was thick with the scent of damp clothes and the too-strong tang of floor cleaner. Thunder grumbled in the distance—low, restless—but not enough to rattle the windows. Just enough to stir something restless in me too.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, rolling a dented coin between my fingers. It had taken a beating—more from me than time. I'd spent hours focusing my Haki through my fingertips, trying to push invisible force into the metal until it bent beneath the pressure.
It worked. Sometimes.
Usually, it didn't.
But that was fine. Progress never came easy.
"You're doing that creepy statue thing again," Souta said from the top bunk, legs swinging as he peeked down. "Glaring at that coin like it just insulted your mom."
"It owes me something," I muttered, flipping it into the air and snatching it with a snap. "Payback. In results."
Souta snorted. "You need therapy. Or sugar. Either works. Anyway, Aiko's baking cookies. She said if you bail, she's throwing flour at your face."
That got my attention.
"You bake now?"
He grinned. "Bro. Free cookie dough. Why ask questions?"
---
The kitchen was pure chaos—somewhere between a war zone and a food fight. Flour dusted the floor like snow, chocolate chips rolled underfoot, and Aiko had commandeered two smaller kids like she was leading a kitchen battalion.
"Riku! Mixing duty. Don't even think about running."
I gave her a lazy salute and grabbed the spoon. Stirring that heavy batter wasn't exactly Haki training, but it sure worked up a burn in my arms. Aiko's kitchen tactics were erratic at best, but somehow, the cookies always came out edible.
We laughed, bickered over how much sugar to add, and tried (badly) to sneak tastes of the dough when Aiko wasn't looking. Even Kenji, usually the quiet one, got involved—rolling out little cookie balls with the focus of a bomb technician.
Later that night, we crowded under a makeshift blanket fort—half-eaten cookies in hand, cushions stolen from every couch in the house—and for the first time in a long while, I felt something click into place.
I wasn't pretending anymore.
I belonged.
---
But with that comfort came weight.
I'd stepped up my nightly training, pushing past exhaustion like it was just another layer to peel back. I cobbled together drills—dodging around furniture in the dark, running laps through the hallways after lights-out, using busted table legs for resistance work. It wasn't fancy. But it was mine.
Observation Haki started to change too. It wasn't just sensing danger anymore. I could feel people. The strain behind their smiles. The quiet grief they hid when they thought no one was looking. It was like tuning into the static in someone's chest and realizing it wasn't just noise—it was signal.
One night, I felt it behind me. Not a threat, but a sadness so thick it pressed against my spine.
I turned. Souta was in the doorway, arms crossed, just standing there.
"You okay?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
I didn't push. Just nodded toward the mat.
"Want to learn something?"
He hesitated, then stepped forward. "Yeah. Teach me some of your ninja crap. I'm tired of getting smoked in dodgeball."
I handed him an old broomstick and walked him through the basics—how to plant his feet, how to keep balanced, how to breathe like he meant it.
He wasn't great. But he tried. And it's not like I am a pro at it. But observation haki helps.
"You ever get scared?" he asked, almost a whisper.
I thought of the crash. The screaming. The way everything went silent right after.
"Every day," I said. "That's why I train."
---
About a week later, we got a visit from someone with a Hero Office—some kind of community outreach thing.
He wore a red coat like it was part of a costume and aviator goggles that looked a decade out of date. His smile was wide and too polished, like something he wore instead of felt. His Quirk? Sonic snaps. Literally made shockwaves with his fingers.
"Name's Echo!" he said, striking a dramatic pose. "Here to talk about safety, community, and maybe inspire a few future heroes!"
The younger kids were starstruck. Aiko was practically glowing. Kenji bombarded him with questions about hero licenses and support gear.
I stayed back, quiet, just watching. Listening. He talked like a pro—energetic, friendly, full of charisma. But under all that shine, I picked up something different. A kind of tiredness. Like he was running on fumes.
After the presentation, he walked right up to me.
"You've got sharp eyes," he said. "What's your name?"
"Riku."
"You ever think about being a hero?"
"Sometimes."
He smiled, tousled my hair, and moved on.
I didn't say much after that.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the look in his eyes. The part of him that wasn't in the script.
---
That night, I sat with Kenji while he sketched. He was hunched over a notebook, drawing designs for support gear—little gadgets and armor pieces, all scribbled in neat lines.
"If my Quirk ends up weak," he said without looking up, "I still want to help. Even if I have to build something to do it."
"You think about that a lot?"
He nodded. "My dad used to say… you don't have to be flashy to be strong. Just dependable."
"Smart guy."
"Yeah. He was. Before he left."
We sat in silence for a bit. Not the awkward kind—just quiet.
"You're gonna be a hero, Riku," Kenji said suddenly. "Even if you don't say it out loud."
I didn't answer.
But I wrote it down later. Word for word.
---
The next few weeks moved fast. Not in big ways—just little shifts that added up.
I started sparring with Souta more often. Nothing serious, just light drills—footwork, dodges, keeping his balance. Aiko jumped in sometimes, not because she wanted to fight, but because she liked to move. She was quick, unpredictable. We made a good trio.
Three kids.
Training in secret.
Trying to become something more than what life had handed them.
---
Then came the dream.
It felt too vivid to be random. I was in a hospital room again. That white, sterile smell. Machines beeping in the background. My mom sitting beside the bed, holding my hand. Crying.
I heard myself asking, small and scared:
"Do I get another chance?"
A nurse with no face smiled gently.
"Sometimes, if your will's strong enough… the world listens."
I woke up drenched in sweat, heart racing like I'd run a marathon.
I didn't believe in fate.
But I was starting to believe in purpose.
And mine?
It was starting to come into focus