Detective life wasn't glamorous.
The badge hadn't come easily. Seigi had clawed his way up from the streets—foot patrols in freezing rain, paperwork until dawn, tailing petty thieves through alleys where stray cats outnumbered people. He'd been cursed at, swung at, even had a broken bottle held to his throat once by a drunk who thought courage came in glass form.
Each time, Seigi told himself: This is it. This is being a hero.
But the truth was, the climb was brutal. Promotion boards weren't impressed by passion. They wanted cases closed, arrests made, mistakes kept quiet. He had rivals too—officers who'd been in the force longer, men who smiled to his face but undercut him in front of captains.
Seigi stumbled once. A stakeout he had organized fell apart because of a single wrong call—his suspect slipped the net, and the ridicule that followed nearly sank him. He learned quickly that one mistake could shadow ten victories.
So he doubled down. More hours. More grit. More discipline.
By twenty-six, he had earned his detective's badge. His parents were proud. His colleagues respected him, even if some still muttered "Hero Boy" under their breath. And though the boy inside still dreamed of capes and glowing fists, the man he was becoming tried to bury those dreams beneath case files and late-night coffee.
But embers never die easily.
They flared again the night he saw the impossible.
The warehouse by the docks reeked of rust and oil. Rain
leaked through holes in the roof, dripping onto cracked concrete. Pale yellow
tape flapped in the wind from a broken window. The body lay sprawled on the
floor, chest hollowed as though a cannonball had ripped straight through it.
"Shotgun blast," one of the older detectives muttered,
shaking his head. "Close range, judging by the hole."
A forensic tech snorted. "Hell of a way to go. Guy's chest
looks like a Halloween prop." Another chuckled, adding, "Could save us the
trouble of cremation."
Their laughter echoed off the metal walls.
Seigi's jaw tightened. He wanted to snap at them, but he bit
it back. To them, the victim was just another gangster, another body. But Seigi
had spent too long dreaming about what it meant to protect life to stomach
jokes over the dead.
He crouched low, studying the wound. It was too clean. No
pellet spread, no tearing, no spray. Just a collapsed ribcage, folded in like
paper.
Renji Takeda, his partner, stood behind him, notebook
balanced in one hand. Impeccably dressed as always—tie knotted sharp, dark hair
combed neat. "What do you think, Seigi?" he asked quietly.
Seigi hesitated. "Not a shotgun. Not like any I've seen."
Renji's eyes lingered a second too long before he scribbled
something down, face unreadable.
...
Hours later, back at the precinct, Seigi volunteered to
review the CCTV footage. Grainy feeds flickered across the monitors—rats
scurrying past dumpsters, neon signs buzzing in the distance. Most of it was
nothing.
Until 2:17 a.m.
The victim staggered into frame, clutching a knife. His
movements were wild, desperate.
Then the shadow followed.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cloaked in a hooded cape that
swallowed his face.
The enforcer swung first, blade flashing under the
streetlight.
The figure didn't flinch. He drew back his arm and—
Boom.
The feed shook from the force. The victim collapsed, chest
imploding as if struck by an invisible hammer. The knife clattered to the
ground. The cloaked man turned and walked calmly out of frame, never breaking
stride.
Seigi's throat dried. His pulse hammered in his ears.
"That's… impossible," he whispered to no one.
He replayed it. Once. Twice. Slower. Frame by frame. No
weapon. No trick of light. Just raw, impossible force in a single punch.
Goosebumps prickled his arms. His stomach flipped between
nausea and awe. The world tilted, like he was standing on the edge of something
vast.
Every anime fight, every superhero comic, every dream he had
clung to as a child came roaring back. This was proof. Powers existed. He
hadn't been delusional.
The office door creaked.
Renji stepped inside, holding two cups of coffee. "Still at
it? You'll burn your eyes out, Seigi."
Startled, Seigi snapped the laptop nearly shut. "Just…
wrapping up."
Renji gave a tired smile, but his gaze lingered on the
screen. "Whatever you say. Don't stay all night." His tone was light, but his
eyes were sharp, probing. He left without pressing further.
Seigi sat frozen, hand on the laptop. He should have logged
the footage. Should have called the captain.
Instead, with trembling fingers, he made a private copy.
Then he scrubbed the file from the system, covering his tracks as best he
could.
The victim was a criminal anyway, wanted for half a dozen
violent assaults. Seigi told himself no one would miss the evidence.
But he knew the truth.
He had just stolen the first real proof that superhumans
existed.
That night, long after the station emptied, Seigi sat in his
apartment replaying the footage over and over. His reflection flickered in the
dark screen, eyes burning with the same fire that had carried him since
boyhood.
"Who are you?" he whispered. "And how did you do it?"
For the first time in years, Hero Boy was alive again.
And this time, he had a lead.