The dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon sun, and Izaya Kurogane found himself, not for the first time, trying to convince them to dance to a different tune.
He sat cross-legged on the worn wooden floor of the common room, a textbook on foundational heroics lying forgotten beside him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hazel eyes fixed on the swirling particles. He wasn't moving his hands; that felt too much like a performance, too much like the flamboyant quirks he saw on television. This was quieter, an internal negotiation.
Stop, he thought, not as a command, but as a suggestion to the universe. Just for a second. Be still.
The dust motes, a chaotic constellation of irrelevance, ignored him. They continued their lazy waltz, buoyed by the warm air rising from the radiator. Izaya sighed, the tension leaking from his shoulders. It was stupid, really. What kind of hero spent his afternoons arguing with dust?
But it wasn't about the dust. It was about the motion. For the past few months, since the… awakening, he'd felt the world differently. It was like he'd been listening to a complex symphony his whole life, only now realizing he could, in theory, reach out and conduct it. Everything was motion. The spin of electrons in the floorboards, the flow of blood in his veins, the relentless orbit of the planet—it was all a vast, interconnected dance, and he was suddenly aware he had a say in the choreography.
He'd discovered it by accident, of course. A month after his fifteenth birthday, a bigger kid from a different orphanage had tried to take his portion of pudding. A hot, defensive fury had flared in Izaya's chest, and the kid had simply… stopped. Not frozen, but his forward momentum had reversed, sending him stumbling backwards as if he'd tripped over an invisible wire. The pudding had flown from his hand and landed, perfectly, back in Izaya's.
It had been terrifying. And exhilarating.
Since then, he'd been practicing in secret. He could make a book slide slowly across a table (control over kinetic friction). He could make a puddle of water ripple against the wind (manipulating fluid dynamics). He could even, on one dizzying occasion, make the flame of a candle split into two perfect, dancing spheres (influencing the motion of excited particles). It was endless, and each small success felt like uncovering a new rule in a universe-sized game.
He'd told the orphanage director, Lunar Sentinel, that he thought his quirk was "Matter Manipulation." It was a safe, respectable label. A slightly more versatile version of Creation, perhaps. It explained the phenomena without hinting at the terrifying, cosmic truth simmering beneath the surface. That his power wasn't about creating matter, but about commanding the fundamental forces that governed it. He was a nexus of psychic potential, and the world was his instrument. A instrument he was desperately afraid of playing too loudly.
The television in the corner of the room flickered to a news broadcast, breaking his concentration. A familiar, broad-shouldered figure in a sleek, grey and blue hero suit filled the screen. "And in a stunning display of precision, Pro Hero Kinetik, formerly known as Kaito Kurozawa, managed to redirect a runaway construction vehicle in downtown Musutafu, using its own momentum to bring it to a safe halt with zero casualties!" the reporter chirped.
Izaya watched, his face a placid lake. On the surface, nothing. No anger at the man who had discarded him for a genetic lottery he'd lost at age four. No sadness for the family that should have been his. He'd spent years digging for those feelings and found only a hollowed-out cavern.
What he did feel was a faint, distant pity. Kinetik, his biological father, moved with the polished grace of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. His quirk, Kinetic Redirection, was powerful, versatile, and perfect for a top-tier hero. He was a masterpiece of purpose. And Izaya pitied him for that simple, unshakable certainty. He didn't know the chaos that lurked just outside his understanding.
His thoughts, as they often did, drifted to Ren. His twin. His other half, cast adrift on a different tide. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he warm? The longing was a dull, constant ache, a missing piece of his soul he carried with him every day. He hoped, with a desperation that was a prayer, that Ren had found a fraction of the peace Izaya had found here.
"Not a fan of Kinetik?"
The voice was warm, a little gravelly, and came from the doorway. Izaya turned to see Lunar Sentinel leaning against the frame. The retired pro hero was a tall, lean man with kind eyes the color of a twilight sky and hair that was more silver than black. He wore simple, comfortable clothes, a far cry from the sleek silver and white armor of his Moonbeam persona.
"He's efficient," Izaya replied, a non-answer that made Lunar's eyes crinkle with a smile.
"Efficient. A very Izaya word." Lunar pushed off the doorframe and walked over, his movements still carrying the ghost of a hero's grace. He sat on the floor beside Izaya, not minding the dust. "He uses force with intelligence. I can respect that. But…" He gestured at the screen where Kinetik was now giving a polished soundbite. "…it lacks a certain heart, don't you think? It's all calculation."
Izaya nodded. That was it exactly. His father's heroics were a perfect equation. His own fledgling power felt more like… art. Or maybe chaos.
Lunar studied him for a moment. "How's the 'Matter Manipulation' coming along? Conjured any gold bars yet? The orphanage roof could use some repairs."
Izaya chuckled. "Still working on the atomic structure of gold, sir. Right now, I'm a master of making dust… continue to be dusty."
"Ah, a noble pursuit." Lunar's smile was gentle, but his gaze was sharp. He saw more than he let on. He always had. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crisp, official-looking document. "Well, perhaps a change of scenery will help. This came for you."
Izaya took the paper. It was his Quirk Registration Certificate. Under 'Quirk Name,' it read: Matter Manipulation. Under 'Description,' a deliberately vague summary he and Lunar had drafted together. It was his ticket into legitimate society. His shield.
"And," Lunar said, his voice dropping to a more serious, proud tone, "I've booked your spot for the U.A. High School entrance exam. It's in a few months."
The air left Izaya's lungs. U.A. The dream. The very institution his biological father had wanted for him, now within reach because a different man, a better man, had believed in him. The weight of the certificate in his hand felt immense. It was a promise, and a lie, all at once.
"Thank you," Izaya whispered, the words feeling inadequate. "For everything."
Lunar placed a hand on his shoulder. "You earned it, Izaya. Not your quirk. You. Remember what I've always told you. A quirk is just a tool. It's the heart that wields it that makes a hero. Your heart…" He tapped a finger gently against Izaya's chest. "...is stronger than any power you could ever possess. Don't you ever forget that."
In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the orphanage he called home, Izaya felt a surge of determination. He would go to U.A. He would become a hero. Not for revenge, not for glory, but to protect this feeling of belonging. And maybe, just maybe, from that lofty height, he could find the brother he lost.
Elsewhere, in a different prefecture...
The air in the narrow alleyway was thick with the smell of stale garbage and fear. Three thugs, their quirks active—one with knuckles of stone, another with smoke leaking from his nostrils, a third with prehensile hair—lay groaning on the damp concrete. They weren't badly hurt. A broken wrist here, a dislocated shoulder there. Just enough pain to be a very effective lesson.
Standing over them was a figure shrouded in the alley's deepening shadows. He was lean, almost gaunt, with messy black hair that fell over his eyes. His clothes were worn and nondescript. He was fifteen, but his eyes, visible for a fleeting second, held a weariness that belonged to someone much older.
"Th-the money's in the box," the smoke-quirk user stammered, pointing a trembling finger towards a metal lockbox. "Just take it! Please!"
The figure, known in these parts only as Constant, didn't even look at the money. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, flat, and carried a resonance that seemed to vibrate in their bones. "This territory is under new management. You have a choice. Serve, or be removed."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, as immutable as gravity.
The thugs, seasoned lowlifes who had faced down rival gangs and even a few low-ranking heroes, felt a primal terror they couldn't explain. It wasn't just the effortless way he'd dismantled them. It was the stillness about him. The absolute, unshakeable control. When he looked at you, you felt your own existence was contingent on his permission.
"We serve!" the one with prehensile hair squeaked. "We serve Constant!"
A flicker of something—contempt? satisfaction?—crossed the boy's face before it was schooled back into neutrality. He gave a single, slow nod. "Good. The rules are simple. No violence against civilians. No petty theft. You will maintain order. You answer to me."
He turned and walked away, the shadows themselves seeming to part for him. The thugs remained on the ground, not daring to move until long after he was gone.
Once around the corner, Ren Kurozawa, the boy called Constant, leaned against a grimy wall, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The Omega Effect, the terrifying power that had awoken within him, hummed under his skin, a symphony of absolute dominion. It had been his salvation from the streets, his revenge on a world that had thrown him away. He could feel the subatomic bonds of the wall he leaned on, could sense the terrified heartbeats of the men in the alley, could feel the very fabric of reality as a tapestry he could, with a thought, begin to unravel.
He thought of the family that had abandoned him. He thought of the weak, cowardly boy he used to be, always running. That boy was gone. He had been forged in the crucible of neglect and street-level survival, and what had emerged was something harder. Something constant.
He didn't know where his brother was. He hoped, with a bitterness that was a poison, that Izaya was safe and comfortable. He hoped he was everything their parents wanted. Because Ren was going to tear that narrow, hero-worshipping world down, brick by brick, and build something new in its place. A world where power like his wouldn't be feared, but would be the only law that mattered.
Two brothers. One bathed in the hopeful light of U.A.'s promise, the other cloaked in the grim shadows of an alley. One learning to guide the motion of the universe, the other learning to impose his absolute will upon it. Their dance was just beginning.