Issei tore through the dark streets, his legs pumping with a speed that defied reason, his breath ragged but relentless.
For over fifteen minutes, he'd been chasing Hope's scent, that faint floral trace growing sharper, closer, pulling him like a lifeline.
His senses zeroed in on a small car far down the road, its taillights barely visible as it raced toward the highway.
A desperate, fleeting smile crossed his face, raw and determined—I'm coming, Hope.
Just then, a brutal, tearing pain exploded in his chest, like his heart was being crushed in a vice.
His legs gave out, and he crashed onto the asphalt, his body skidding violently across the rough surface at nearly 100 kmph.
The road ripped into him, gravel and debris shredding his hands, elbows, and knees, tearing through his clothes and skin.
His face slammed against the ground, scraping raw, blood streaming from gashes on his cheek and forehead.
The impact snapped his left wrist, the bone cracking audibly, sending a jolt of agony through him.
His phone skittered away, screen cracked, lost in the dark.
He tried to scream—"NO!"—but it came out as a choked, gasp.
Issei's heart wasn't beating.
He'd pushed too far, running at speeds beyond any unenhanced human, his body breaking under the strain of the fear-fueled quirk that had surged without warning.
His small frame, no matter how fierce simply couldn't withstand it.
Pain consumed him—his shredded skin burned, his broken wrist throbbed, his chest felt like it was caving in.
His lungs seized, unable to draw air, each attempt a shallow, useless wheeze.
Yet Hope's plea Save me, Issei echoed in his head, a desperate cry that refused to let him stop.
He clawed at the asphalt with his good hand, nails splintering, blood smearing as he dragged his broken body forward.
His scraped face left a trail of red, his vision blurring, darkening at the edges, but he forced his eyes to stay on the car's taillights, so far away, shrinking fast.
Not yet, not yet he thought, panic and despair twisting together.
He had to reach her, had to save her , from whatever she was scared of..
His body screamed in protest, every movement agony.
His broken wrist dangled uselessly, his knees bled through tattered pants, his face stung as dirt ground into open wounds.
The cardiac arrest gripped him, his heart silent, his chest a hollow void.
He coughed, blood flecking his lips, his strength fading with every inch he crawled.
Hope… I'm coming…Her fear, that single cry, was all he had left, drowning out his own terror of dying here, alone, failing her.
He reached out, his bloodied hand trembling, fingers scraping the road, stretching toward the car's distant lights.
They flickered, then vanished around a bend, taking her away.
"No…" he rasped, the word barely a breath, lost in the night.
His vision collapsed to a pinprick, the world fading to black.
His arm fell, limp, his torn face pressed against the cold asphalt, blood pooling beneath him.
He couldn't move, couldn't fight the darkness swallowing him.
...
Issei's eyes snapped open, the white of a hospital ceiling glaring down at him.
Pain throbbed through his body—his face, hands, and knees stung from scrapes, his left wrist ached in a heavy cast, and his chest felt like it had been crushed.
I'm...alive?
was his first thought, shock coursing through him.
He'd collapsed on the asphalt, heart stopped, body torn from skidding at inhuman speeds.
He shouldn't be here, breathing, awake.
His second thought hit harder—he had to get to Hope.
He tried to sit up, but a sharp tug stopped him.
His wrists and legs were cuffed to the bed's metal rails.
Panic flared, his senses picking up the antiseptic smell, the beep of a heart monitor, the faint creak of a chair nearby.
He turned his head, wincing as pain shot through his scraped cheek, and saw Gran Torino sitting beside the bed.
The old man's face was grim, his eyes heavy with worry, his cane resting against the chair.
"Grandpa," Issei rasped, his voice hoarse, throat raw. "We need to go. Hope—she's in danger. I heard her, she called me, scared. I have to find her."
His words tumbled out, urgent, his good hand straining against the cuff.
Gran Torino didn't move, just looked at him, his expression unreadable but soft, like he was handling something fragile.
"Hope's fine, kid," he said, voice low, gruff but gentle. "Her family's moving to Tokyo....She's safe."
Issei's breath caught, his mind reeling. "That's not possible," he said, voice rising.
"I got her call. She was terrified, didn't even get to say much—just my name, then it cut off. Something was wrong, I felt it."
The blood, the gunpowder in her house, the broken door—it was real.
Gran Torino sighed, pulling out his phone. "She told you about the move, Issei. In the call."
He turned the screen toward him, showing a photo: Hope and her mother, standing in a Tokyo street, bags in hand, looking… fine.
Hope's face was blank, her mother's calm, no trace of fear. "You broke into their house, ran yourself to exhaustion on the road. Nearly didn't make it."
Issei stared at the photo, his heart sinking, confusion twisting with dread.
"What are you talking about?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Hope was scared. She didn't say anything about moving. She was in trouble—I heard her, I know it."
His senses replayed the call.
It couldn't be a lie.
Gran Torino leaned forward, his voice softer now, almost pitying. "You haven't been taking your meds, have you? "
Issei froze, his scraped face burning, his cuffed hands clenching. "I…" He didn't answer, couldn't.
"That's not it," he muttered, staring at the photo, then at his bandaged body. "That's… that's not what happened."
"I don't believe this," he said, louder, desperation creeping in.
"I need to talk to her. To confirm it myself."
His voice shook, his chest tight with fear—not just for Hope, but for himself.
What if they were right?
What if he was losing it?
"Issei," Gran Torino began, his tone firm, like he was trying to pull him back from an edge. "You have to calm down. The doctors, they're worried—"
"I'M NOT CRAZY!" Issei shouted, his voice , cutting through the room.
His eyes burned, a brief, unnatural blue flare sparking in them, gone in a second, but enough to make Gran Torino lean back, startled.
Issei's breath heaved, his cuffed hands straining, the metal creaking. "I'm not crazy, she was scared. I know what I heard. I felt her fear. Something's veey wrong, and you're not listening to me!"
Gran Torino's face hardened, but his eyes stayed soft, heavy with concern. He set the phone down, his hand resting on his cane. "I hear you, kid," he said quietly. "But you're hurt, and you're not thinking straight. You need to rest. Trust me."
Issei's vision blurred, tears of frustration and fear welling up.
His body ached, his heart monitor beeping faster, his mind screaming that Hope wasn't safe, that the photo was a lie, that he wasn't crazy.
...
Six months Later
In the underground of an HSPC training facility, Hope stood trembling on a blood-slicked concrete floor, her body a ruin under the merciless fluorescent lights.
The air was rancid, thick with the stench of sweat, blood, vomit, and the acrid burn of chemical disinfectants.
Her serpentine quirkmade her naturally stronger than most—dense muscles, reflexes like a predator, and limited blood control.
But the HSPC didn't see a child, not even a person.
She was a slab of meat to be carved into a weapon, a better replacement for Hawks—silent, soulless, stripped of the limited but still present defiance that made him human.
They wanted a tool, and they'd shatter her psyche to get it, grinding her into something that believed it deserved every ounce of agony.
The training was a descent into hell, a sadistic regime crafted to obliterate her will and rewire her mind.
Disobedience was pain, a lesson branded into her through unending violence, psychological torment, and a flood of drugs that left her body and soul in tatters.
Her instructor, Kade, a hulking figure with a shaved head and eyes like frostbitten stone, loomed across the arena, his scythe spinning lazily in his hand.
He didn't see a kid, only a project to break.
Hope's small, battered hands clutched her own scythe, its blade crusted with her dried blood, the handle slick with sweat and fresh cuts.
"Strike," Kade barked, his voice a cold rasp, devoid of empathy.
The target, a steel dummy, was gouged and smeared with her blood a result of her unable to fulfill demands.., its surface pitted from her faltering blows.
"Deeper, or I'll make you wish you were dead."
Hope's body was a furnace of pain—every muscle screamed, her joints ground like broken glass, her bones ached with a deep, gnawing throb that never stopped.
The HSPC pumped her full of drugs: steroids to bulk her muscles, quirk-enhancers to sharpen her abilities, mood suppressors to dull her emotions, and experimental neuro-blockers to make her pliant.
The injections came thrice daily, needles jabbed into her arms, thighs, and neck, leaving her skin a patchwork of bruises and track marks.
Her vision flickered, edges tinged with black, her mind a sluggish fog, thoughts slipping like sand through her fingers.
She swung the scythe, her quirk-fueled strength driving the blade into the dummy, metal shrieking as it tore a shallow gash.
Her blood control sealed the fresh cuts on her palms, but the effort made her stagger, her knees buckling.
"Worthless," Kade snarled, closing the gap in a heartbeat.
His fist crashed into her face, snapping her head back.
She crumpled to the concrete, her scythe clattering away, her vision swimming with stars.
Before she could draw a breath, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her like a ragdoll, and slammed her against the wall.
"You're nothing," he said, his voice a low growl, his grip tightening until she choked. "A tool that's failing. Fix it, or I'll carve you apart."
Hope wheezed, her body limp, her mind splintering under the assault.
The drugs dulled her emotions, but not enough to block the self-loathing that festered, fed by every blow, every failure.
I deserve this, she thought, the idea sinking deeper, warping her psyche.
She was weak, useless, a burden who'd let her father die, who'd been too pathetic to fight back when her mother sold her.
The HSPC hammered it home—disobedience was pain, pain was her fault, and only by becoming their weapon could she have any value.
Her personality was eroding.
Kade dropped her, and she collapsed.
The shock collar around her neck hummed, and before she could brace, it activated.
Electricity ripped through her, a white-hot inferno that arched her spine, her scream raw and guttural, echoing off the walls.
Her muscles seized, her wings straining.
The shock lasted ten seconds, an eternity, leaving her twitching on the floor, urine soaking her torn training gear from lost control, the humiliation burning as much as the pain.
Her blood control failed, cuts reopening, red pooling beneath her.
"Up," Kade said, kicking her in the stomach, the impact folding her in half, a sharp crack signaling another broken rib.
"You don't stop. You don't feel. You obey."
He grabbed her scythe and threw it at her, the blade slicing her thigh as it landed, a deep gash that gushed blood.
"Pick it up, or it's the cell for three days."
Hope's mind was a shattered mosaic, pieces of who she'd been—her father's smile, the park's warmth—slipping away, drowned by the drugs and pain.
Issei ...
She didn't remember calling Issei clearly anymore, the memory blurred, like a dream she couldn't trust.
Was he real? Did he care?
The thought was a faint pulse, smothered by Kade's voice, the needles, the blood.
She was nothing, she told herself, a broken thing that deserved every hit, every shock, every scar.
The HSPC was right—she was a tool, and tools didn't think, didn't cry, didn't hope.
She crawled to the scythe, her thigh bleeding freely, her blood control too weak to stop it.
Her hands, swollen and blistered, closed around the handle, and she dragged herself up, swaying.
Kade watched, his face blank, uncaring, as she raised the scythe, her body shaking, her mind chanting:
I'm nothing. I deserve this. I'm nothing.
She swung, the blade biting deeper this time, cleaving the dummy's chest open.
Her legs gave out, and she fell, the scythe slipping.
Kade nodded, barely. "Better.... but You're still weak," he spat, kicking her scythe aside, the metal clanging against the concrete.
"Stay here. Reflect on your weakness." He turned, his boots thudding as he walked toward the reinforced steel door.
It hissed open, and he stepped out without a backward glance, leaving Hope curled on the floor, gasping.
The door hadn't fully closed when it opened again, and three masked HSPC operatives swept in, their faces hidden behind featureless black visors, their movements clinical, mechanical.
They didn't speak, didn't acknowledge her whimpers as they knelt beside her.
Hope flinched, her bruised body tensing, one pulled out a syringe filled with a red liquid—another dose of growth enhancers, stacked on top of the steroids, quirk-amplifiers, and mood suppressors already poisoning her system.
Her arm was a roadmap of bruises and track marks, but they didn't hesitate, jabbing the needle into a vein, the liquid burning as it spread.
Hope gasped, her muscles spasming, —tremors shook her hands, a migraine split her skull like an axe.
Another operative injected a second syringe into her thigh, the pain so intense she bit her tongue.
Only then did they bother with first aid, roughly bandaging her gash, wiping blood from her face with antiseptic that stung like fire, their hands efficient but devoid of care.
...
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