The bruises faded, but the memory of that moment never did.
The way the world had slowed. The way the air itself had seemed to bend for him.
Seigi obsessed over it.
He filled notebooks with sketches and scribbles, diagramming what he thought had happened. Arrows scrawled across stick figures, diagrams of air currents, hastily written equations copied from science textbooks he didn't really understand. He would sit cross-legged on the floor for hours, flipping pages of his favorite manga and anime, pausing every fight scene to study the stance, the timing, the impossible grace. If fiction could make it look real, then maybe reality could be convinced to follow.
He convinced himself there had to be a method, a trigger.
And so began the years of training.
Push-ups until his arms shook and the carpet beneath him darkened with sweat. Sprints down the narrow neighborhood streets until his lungs burned, his mother's voice echoing faintly from the porch telling him to come back inside. Reflex drills in his tiny bedroom—he would set alarms to go off at random times, forcing himself to react instantly, rolling off the bed, catching objects mid-fall, training his body to move before thought could slow it.
His parents worried, of course.
"It's good to stay healthy," his mother would say at dinner, ladling miso soup into his bowl, "but Seigi, you're still a child. Don't push yourself too hard."
His father would chuckle, shaking his head as he snapped his chopsticks apart. "He's got fire, that's for sure. But fire burns out quick if you don't pace it."
Seigi just smiled and ate quietly. They didn't understand. How could they? They hadn't felt the world hesitate, hadn't heard the hush in the air that whispered maybe.
But in the quiet hours, when the house was asleep, the doubts always crept back.
What if it wasn't real? What if he'd only imagined it, a trick of adrenaline and blood rushing in his ears? What if the world wasn't waiting for him to become a hero, but reminding him instead that he was just a boy pretending?
Still, the glimpses continued.
A vase teetering on the edge of a counter seemed to steady itself when he reached without touching. A dodgeball in gym class curved slow enough for him to sidestep before it even left his opponent's hand. On one rainy afternoon, lightning cracked across the sky—and he swore his body moved half a second before the thunder rolled.
Small things. Unexplainable things.
And yet, never enough to prove anything. Never enough to show the world he wasn't just "Hero Boy."
By middle school, the nickname followed him like a shadow. Some said it with affection, most with mockery. He laughed along at first, but inside it burned.
His friends began to notice the obsession. Invitations to hang out slowly dried up. His notebooks filled faster than conversations. The girl he tried dating lasted only three weeks before frustration cracked her patience.
"You care more about your stupid fantasies than about me," she said one evening, standing by the school gates as the streetlights buzzed awake. Her voice was sharp, but her eyes carried a tired sadness. "You're not saving the world, Seigi. You're just chasing ghosts."
The words stung worse than any bruise. He watched her walk away, her figure swallowed by the tide of uniforms and chatter. For hours after, he trained harder, fists slamming into the practice bag until his knuckles swelled.
But he couldn't stop.
By high school, he was a contradiction—half athlete, half outcast. Teachers praised his discipline, but classmates whispered about his obsession. At lunch, he often sat alone, notebooks spread open while the room buzzed around him. Even his closest friends grew weary.
"Stop trying to be something you're not," one of them said, their voice low with frustration. "It's pathetic."
Seigi didn't answer. He only clenched his fists beneath the desk, the paper crumpling under his grip.
The weight of reality pressed heavier as graduation neared. His parents urged him toward college, toward stability. His mother placed pamphlets on his desk—law, engineering, economics. His father nudged him toward apprenticeships.
He tried. He visited job fairs, listened to classmates talk about majors and interviews, sat in guidance counselor offices with charts and forms. But none of it mattered. None of it fit.
Late at night, he still found himself out running the empty streets, shadowboxing beneath flickering lamps until neighbors leaned out their windows and yelled at him to stop.
The world wanted him to become ordinary. But the thread of that one impossible moment, years ago, kept pulling him forward.
Then came the compromise.
The police force.
If he couldn't become the world's first superhero, then he could at least be a hero in another way. Someone who protected people. Someone who chased criminals. Someone who—just maybe—might stumble across something extraordinary along the way.
He signed the papers with a hand that trembled between excitement and resignation.
The academy was grueling, but Seigi thrived. The obstacle course chewed cadets up and spat them out, but Seigi's body had been forged through years of self-imposed punishment. Firearms training came with hours of stillness, of breath control, of patience—and for him, it was meditation. Hand-to-hand combat was where he shone brightest. His stamina, his reflexes, his stubborn will—they all translated into skill.
"Kid's sharp," the instructors muttered during sparring sessions. "Almost like he knows what's coming before it happens."
One afternoon, during a reaction drill, an instructor hurled a heavy bag at him without warning. Seigi twisted aside a split second before impact, his hand snapping up to catch the strap before it hit the ground. The instructor blinked, then scribbled something quick on his clipboard. Seigi pretended not to notice, but inside he felt a flicker of the same fire he'd chased since boyhood.
While others crumbled under pressure, Seigi pushed harder. Settling for human excellence almost felt like a step down, but it won him respect.
By the time he graduated, Seigi wore his uniform with pride, though deep down a whisper still lingered: it wasn't enough.
The world hadn't given him powers. But it had given him a badge.
And maybe, just maybe, that was close enough.
At least for now.