Quiet Footsteps in a Loud World
It was a Thursday, somewhere between the part of the school day where your brain still functions and the part where you're just staring at the clock hoping time will pity you.
The classroom buzzed, but not in the academic way teachers hope for. At nine years old, my classmates had quirks flashy enough to keep themselves—and anyone within a ten-foot radius—entertained. Sho, the kid who could make his fingernails grow like ivy, was currently scratching shapes into his desk. Rika, the girl with the bubblegum-pink hair that grew an inch whenever she was excited, was squealing because Kenta had just made his shadow wave at her like a separate person.
And me? I was trying to finish a math worksheet while dodging the occasional paper airplane.
It's not like my life was terrible. It was just… different. At nine, the novelty of being "quirkless" had worn off for everyone else, but for me, it still sat there, like a pebble in my shoe. Not painful enough to make me stop walking, but always noticeable. People didn't tease me much anymore—not outright. But I could tell when certain kids stopped including me in games, not because they didn't like me, but because whatever they were playing revolved around abilities I didn't have.
I'd learned to adapt. If someone wanted to play "heroes," I'd be the one setting up the props or keeping score. If the class split into teams for relay races, I'd make sure I wasn't holding the baton when it mattered. It wasn't bitterness. It was strategy. You survive better when you know where you stand.
By lunch, the cafeteria smelled like curry bread and miso soup. I found my usual spot by the window. Not in the corner—corners make you look like you're avoiding the world—but not in the middle of the room either. Just off to the side, where you can observe without being the center of attention.
I pulled out my bento. Mom's handiwork, as always—perfectly cut tamagoyaki, rice shaped into little triangles, and a couple of cherry tomatoes like she was trying to brighten my day through sheer force of presentation. I ate slowly, watching the sunlight catch on the glass of the schoolyard doors.
That's when I noticed it: two older kids from another class practicing with some kind of portable training drone. One of them—a tall boy with a hummingbird-speed quirk—kept darting in and out, while the drone spat out soft foam balls at random intervals. He caught every single one like it was a game.
For some reason, I couldn't look away. My brain automatically started mapping patterns in the drone's firing sequence, predicting its next movement before it happened. If I were in his place, I'd position myself two feet left, maybe angle my torso to—
"Kenjiro, you're staring."
I blinked, looking over at Ryo, one of the few classmates I talked to regularly. His quirk let him change the color of anything he touched, which he mainly used to mess with teachers' whiteboards.
"Just zoning out," I said.
Ryo grinned. "Yeah, sure. Don't worry, man. I'll let you know if you start drooling."
I laughed, but my mind was still on the drone. The thought lodged itself there, quiet but persistent: It's not about what you can't do. It's about finding the gaps in what everyone else does.
That night, I sat at my desk at home, the glow from the desk lamp casting a little bubble of light around me. My textbooks were stacked neatly to one side, but in front of me was a thin notebook—my "other" notebook.
Over the years, it had become my quiet project. I didn't write much about school or friends here. Instead, I filled it with notes on quirks I'd seen, things I'd read about in old magazines, sketches of simple machines, even workout logs. Nothing extreme—just push-ups, sit-ups, running drills in the park when no one was watching. Enough to keep my body in decent shape.
If my classmates were investing in their quirks, I was investing in me.
I'd read somewhere that most pro heroes had intense training regimens even before their powers fully manifested. For me, there was no power coming—but that didn't mean I couldn't build the other side of the equation. Reaction time, stamina, awareness. Things that didn't need a quirk to be useful.
Dad had noticed the workouts early on. One evening, I'd been doing push-ups in the living room while watching TV, and he'd asked if I was trying to impress someone. I just shrugged and said, "It helps me think." He laughed and didn't press. Mom, on the other hand, would sometimes leave extra eggs or meat in my meals without saying anything.
I think they both understood more than they let on.
A few weeks later, during a weekend, the three of us went into the city. It wasn't a special occasion—just one of those family outings where you wander around, eat street food, and pretend you're not all checking the time every twenty minutes.
The city felt bigger now than it had when I was five. Partly because I was taller, partly because I paid more attention. Heroes patrolled in the distance, their silhouettes cutting sharp shapes against the skyline. Vendors sold everything from takoyaki to custom quirk accessories. In one plaza, a street performer juggled glowing orbs that shifted into animal shapes midair.
We stopped by a bookstore, and while Mom browsed cookbooks and Dad hovered near the sports section, I slipped into the reference aisle. There was an entire section on hero history, quirk theory, and something called "Tactical Decision-Making." I pulled one of the thinner books off the shelf, flipping through diagrams of crowd control, hazard zones, and equipment setup.
"Find something interesting?"
I nearly dropped the book. Dad was standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed but smiling.
"Just looking," I said, sliding the book back into place.
He gave me a long look, like he was filing something away in his mind, then nodded. "Good habit to have."
That was one of the quiet moments that stuck with me—not because of what was said, but because it felt like he knew where my head was going. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't think it was a bad thing.
Back at school, life went on in the usual rhythm. Classes, lunch, games in the yard. I wasn't the loudest, but I wasn't a ghost either. Some kids liked me because I didn't get in the way; others because I had a decent sense of humor when I felt like using it.
One afternoon, our teacher set up an obstacle course in the gym for "team-building." Most kids were zipping through with bursts of power—jumping higher, running faster, sticking to walls. I took it at a steady pace, watching each section before I moved. By the end, I'd finished somewhere in the middle of the pack.
Not impressive, not embarrassing. Just efficient.
As I caught my breath, I overheard the teacher say something to her assistant: "That Ito boy's got good instincts. Shame about the quirk thing."
I pretended I didn't hear it, but later that night, lying in bed, I thought about those words. Shame about the quirk thing. Yeah, maybe. But shame only matters if you let it stop you.
And I wasn't planning to stop.
The second seed of foreshadowing came on a rainy Sunday. I was jogging through the park, hoodie pulled tight, when I passed a man leaning on the railing by the river. He was older, in a worn coat, watching the water with this intense stillness.
As I passed, he glanced at me—not in the casual way strangers do, but in a way that felt like he was taking a mental photograph. I kept running, and when I glanced back a minute later, he was gone.
I didn't think much of it at the time. Just another odd moment in a city full of them. But something about it lingered, like the aftertaste of a strong drink.
By the time spring rolled around, I'd settled into a rhythm. School, light training, my notebook of observations. No grand plans, no desperate leaps at impossible dreams—just quiet, steady steps.
Because in a world where everyone's shouting to be noticed, sometimes the smartest thing you can do is learn how to move without making a sound.