A moment later, Phos rose and crossed the room to the window. He fumbled with the lock before pushing the pane open. A rush of warm air spilled in, heavy with the scent of asphalt and exhaust, mingled with something faintly sweet—perhaps flowers draping from a nearby balcony. The light outside was harsh and vibrant, a shock compared to the muted glows and gentle luminescence of his old world, but it was not unpleasant—only different.
Below him, the city sprawled in every direction. Towering buildings caught the sun's rays, sending mirrored flashes across glass and steel. Cars wove through paved streets, their engines growling and horns blaring in the cacophony of rush hour. Figures in business suits, school uniforms, and bold hero costumes streamed along sidewalks. Pigeons circled overhead, cooing before folding into rooftops, and somewhere distant a siren wailed, fading into the omnipresent hum of traffic.
Phos blinked against the brightness. He turned away from the view and spotted a phone lying face-down on the desk. Lifting it, the screen sprang to life. Hesitantly, he tapped the browser icon, his fingers awkward on the smooth glass but steadily improving. The results were an avalanche of headlines, videos, interviews, and documentaries.
He skimmed:
> "All Might defeats criminal syndicate in record time—again."
> "Hero Rankings: Who's on Top This Month?"
> "Is Quirk Discrimination Getting Worse?"
All Might's face was everywhere—splashed across posters, emblazoned on magazine covers, even plastered on cereal boxes. His grin beamed with heroic bravado, a living symbol that leaped from headlines into the hearts of citizens.
Phos set the phone down and switched on the television. The screen flared to life with blinding color. A commercial blared: a man with chiseled features and a grin so broad it bordered on comical, posed heroically beneath a sparkling waterfall, holding a shampoo bottle aloft. His voice boomed through the speakers:
> "Even heroes need to stay fresh! With PLUS ULTRA SHAMPOO, you too can shine like All Might!"
Phos listened, expression vacant. Heroes here were entertainers as much as protectors. He flicked off the TV, and silence reclaimed the room.
He sank onto the bed, slanted sunlight tracing soft patterns over his face. Turning to the mirror, he watched as if seeing a ghost. A stranger stared back—yet behind the eyes, memories of who he once was stirred faintly. He remembered his brittle limbs and the constant struggle to matter in a world that saw him as weak. The taste of failure returned—broken promises, lost hope, and the pain of being left behind.
He exhaled, the breath trembling as it left him. In this world, he had no history: no name, no past, no bonds to weigh him down. Here, he was an empty vessel—free, in a way, but also untethered.
"This world… it doesn't know me," he murmured. "Maybe that's a good thing."
Phos's thoughts scattered like dust in a sudden storm of pain. A jagged wave of agony tore through him, forcing him to a halt. Before he could steady himself, his legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor, breath catching in his throat.
Coldness rushed through him, as though he had been plunged into a block of ice. His skin numbed instantly, each nerve screaming one moment, then cut off completely.
"What's happening?!" he cried, panic rising in his chest.
He tried to push himself up, but his limbs refused to obey. Lying on the hard floor, he felt a strange, excruciating stinging, as if a thousand bees were trading places across his flesh. Then came the sickening crack of bones reshaping themselves—nothing broke cleanly; instead, his skeleton twisted. Muscles thickened and hardened, knotting beneath the surface like coiled springs tightening.
Phos's scream echoed through the small apartment, each breath ragged with pain. Then—just as suddenly—the agony stopped, leaving only silence in its place.
Against his will, he rose to his feet and, shivering from the residual tremors in his body, stumbled toward the mirror. What greeted him was not the pale, human face he had occupied moments ago.
His skin was now smooth and pale as marble, almost luminescent in the shifting light. His cheekbones were sharper and his jaw narrower. Hair that had been soft and dark was now a spray of petal-shaped crystals, each strand glinting aquamarine as it caught the light—radiant and impossibly delicate.
With hesitant fingers, he took off his shirt. His torso was leaner, more proportionate; gone were the slight curves of adolescence, replaced by a slender frame that hinted at hidden strength. He flexed a hand, feeling taut muscles coil beneath his new skin—stronger yet inexplicably supple.
"Am I a gem?" he whispered to his reflection, voice echoing off the bare walls.
He pressed a palm to his cheek, and the smooth hardness confirmed what he already suspected: this body was neither wholly human nor entirely like the gems he once knew. It was something in between.
"How could this have happened?" he murmured, mind racing.
Quirk types varied widely. It wasn't uncommon for one to alter a person's body, resulting in dramatic physical changes.
"Is this… my quirk manifesting?"
Phos opened his eyes and pulled open the closet. He chose simple clothes, dressing without thought, and made his way to the front door.
His hand hovered over the handle for a long moment before he finally turned it.
The door creaked open, and sunlight spilled into the hallway—bright, alive, almost blinding.
Phos stepped into the unknown.