The Impossible??
The drive back to the hospital felt longer than it had any right to be. Mom sat in the passenger seat, twisting her hands in her lap, while Dad's knuckles were pale on the steering wheel. Neither of them spoke much—every attempt at words had died in the air, replaced with the echo of that plate nearly shattering, and their son's hand catching it before gravity could finish its job.
Mom replayed it again and again. The slip, the gasp, the way the porcelain had seemed to freeze halfway down. And Kenjiro—her boy who had always been awkward, always a step behind—suddenly was there. Faster than her eyes could properly follow. His hand steady, his face just as startled as hers.
It had looked impossible.
It was impossible.
She finally whispered, "Do you think… we imagined it?"
Dad's jaw tightened. He didn't answer right away. The road hummed under the tires, streetlights sliding by in thin orange bands. When he spoke, his voice was low, controlled. "No. I know what I saw. And so did you."
"But…" Mom's throat closed up. She hated the way her words trembled. "He's quirkless. He always has been."
Dad didn't reply. His eyes never left the road.
The hospital was quiet at this hour, the halls carrying that antiseptic smell Mom had grown to hate over the past months. Too many visits, too many tests, too many sleepless nights pacing sterile floors. She hated being back.
Kenjiro walked between them, hoodie pulled tight around him. His face was pale, his eyes hollow with something she couldn't name. He hadn't said much either—not since the plate. He'd tried to downplay it in the car, mumbling about reflexes, adrenaline. But Mom could hear the tremor in his voice, could see how badly his hands shook when he stuffed them into his pockets.
When they checked in, the nurse gave them a quizzical look. "Emergency?"
Mom hesitated, glancing at Dad. He stepped forward, his voice clipped. "We need to see a doctor. It's about our son."
The nurse's eyes flicked to Kenjiro, who looked down at his sneakers. She sighed, tapped something into her tablet, and led them to a waiting room.
Mom hated the waiting. Every minute stretched. She tried not to stare at Kenjiro, but she couldn't help it. He looked… different. Not outwardly—he was still her boy with his messy black hair and tired posture—but something about the way he held himself now, alert, coiled, like something inside him was too restless to sit still.
Finally, they were called in.
The doctor was younger than Mom expected, maybe late thirties. His nameplate read Dr. Sato. He skimmed Kenjiro's file on the monitor, eyebrows rising.
"Hm. It says here…" He tapped the screen. "Kenjiro Ito. 10. History of being classified as quirkless. 1 year ago, lightning strike with extended coma. Discharged recently."
He looked up at them, polite but faintly puzzled. "What brings you back tonight?"
Mom opened her mouth. No words came. How did she explain this without sounding insane?
Dad stepped in. "Something happened at home. Something… unusual."
Dr. Sato leaned back. "Unusual how?"
Mom's throat was dry. She forced herself to speak. "Our son… moved. Too fast. Faster than… faster than what's normal."
The doctor blinked. For a moment, Aya thought he might laugh. But instead, he leaned forward, pen tapping against his clipboard. "Define 'too fast.'"
Mom's fingers twisted in her lap. "A plate fell. Before it hit the ground, he… he caught it. I didn't even see him move. One second it was falling, the next it was in his hand."
Dr. Sato's eyes flicked to Kenjiro. "And you?"
Kenjiro swallowed. His voice was hoarse. "I don't… I don't know. It just happened. Reflex, maybe."
"Reflexes don't usually break physics," Dad muttered.
Dr. Sato gave a small chuckle, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I understand your concern. But let's be cautious. Quirks don't just appear out of nowhere, especially not at ten." He tapped Kenjiro's file again. "Every test has shown nothing."
Mom's chest tightened. She hated the dismissal in his tone, however polite it was. "But something happened. We saw it."
Dr. Sato studied her a moment, then sighed. "All right. Let's run a few tests. For your peace of mind."
Kenjiro's POV
He hated the way everyone stared at him. Hated the fluorescent lights, the machines, the wires they clipped to his chest. It felt like being back in the coma again—like he was nothing more than data on a screen.
They made him stand on a treadmill first. He didn't like treadmills. Too boxed in, too artificial. The doctor told him to run. So he did. At first, it was normal—feet pounding, breath steady, the belt whirring beneath him. But then…
Then he felt it again.
That strange pull, like something brushing against the edges of him. Not in his body exactly, but just outside it. A hum, a vibration, whispering for him to lean in.
He pushed harder. His legs blurred beneath him. The machine whined, then screeched, struggling to keep up. The doctor barked at him to slow down, but Kenjiro couldn't—not yet. The pull grew stronger, brighter, like a current trying to swallow him whole. For a heartbeat, he swore he saw light flicker at the edges of his vision—gold and white and endless.
And then—snap.
He stumbled, chest heaving, nearly collapsing as the treadmill emergency-braked under him. Mom was at his side in an instant, Dad close behind.
"Kenjiro!" Mom's voice cracked.
"I'm fine," he gasped, though his lungs burned, his stomach churned. Fine wasn't the word. He felt hollowed out. Empty and starving, like he'd burned through everything inside him in seconds.
Parents' POV
Dr. Sato was no longer smiling. He studied the monitor, frowning, then looked back at them. "That's… unusual."
Mom clutched Kenjiro's hand, heart hammering. "Unusual how?"
The doctor hesitated, searching for words. "His output is… abnormally high. Energy expenditure beyond what we'd expect even in a high-level speed quirk."
Dad's voice was sharp. "So it is a quirk?"
The doctor tapped his pen. "Possibly. The tests suggest something along those lines. Though… it doesn't resemble anything I've seen. And it comes at a cost. He's burning fuel at an alarming rate. To sustain this, he'll need—"
"Food," Mom whispered.
Dr. Sato nodded. "Significant amounts. Constant intake, or he'll crash. Severely."
Mom's stomach twisted. She thought of the plate again. Of her son's pale face now, the way his hands trembled.
The doctor continued. "I'll order bloodwork. But for now, I'd advise monitoring him closely. Keep him well-fed. Hydrated. Rested. Until we know more."
Mom nodded, though her head spun. A quirk. After all these years. After the lightning.
Kenjiro's POV
The ride home blurred. His parents spoke in low voices, but he barely heard them. His thoughts were louder. Too loud.
When they finally pulled into the driveway, Mom touched his shoulder gently. "We'll… we'll talk more tomorrow. Get some rest, Kenjiro."
He nodded, barely looking at her, and went straight upstairs.
The second his bedroom door clicked shut, the facade shattered.
"Holy shit." His voice cracked. He pressed his hands to his face, pacing. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit."
He couldn't sit still. His body buzzed with leftover energy, his mind a storm.
What the hell just happened?
He spun toward his desk. The notebook sat there—worn, scuffed, edges curled. The one from the bus. The one he'd scribbled in right before the lightning swallowed him.
His hands shook as he picked it up. The pages felt heavier than they should. He flipped through, heart hammering, until he saw it: the messy equation, half-finished, the ink smeared where the bolt had struck.
It stared back at him like an accusation.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, clutching it, breath ragged. His mind spiraled.
This wasn't just reflexes. This wasn't just a quirk suddenly showing up late. This was… something else.
Images flashed. That white-gold light. The hum. The endless current whispering at the edge of his senses.
He thought of comics he used to read. The Speed Force. Barry Allen. Fictional nonsense.
Except now—was it nonsense? Or was he living in some twisted bizarro version of it?
His laugh broke halfway into a sob. He pressed the notebook to his chest, eyes burning.
"Holy shit," he whispered again.
And for the first time since the strike, he was terrified of what might come next.