Some beginnings were loud.
Dave's was not.
+A Small World+
The Toruko apartment was never quiet—but it was never noisy either.
Morning sunlight filtered through thin curtains. The hum of the refrigerator blended with distant traffic. A radio played softly in the kitchen, always tuned to the same station.
Dave learned these sounds before he learned words.
They became constants.
His mother's footsteps in the morning—light, careful.His father's voice in the evening—steady, tired, warm.
This was the shape of his world.
Small.Ordinary.Safe.
+Growing Slowly+
Dave did not rush his childhood.
He could feel Hive working, quietly organizing sensation and movement, but he let his body grow at its own pace.
When he fell while learning to walk, he didn't correct it instantly.When he mispronounced a word, he let it happen twice before adjusting.
Not because he couldn't do better.
But because normality was camouflage.
Aiko would clap happily.Kenji would laugh and cheer him on.
Their joy wasn't based on achievement.
It was based on presence.
Dave noticed that.
+A Calm Child+
Other children cried easily.
Dave did not.
When he was frustrated, he paused.When he was tired, he slept.When he was curious, he observed.
"He's so gentle," Aiko once said while watching him stack wooden blocks.
Kenji nodded. "Or maybe just thoughtful."
Dave stacked the blocks carefully.
He liked how they fit together.
Quiet Observations
Dave watched hero broadcasts from the corner of the living room.
Bright costumes. Loud voices. Explosions framed as hope.
He didn't feel excitement.
He felt… analysis.
Heroes weren't just powerful—they were performative.
Dave noticed what was never shown:
Cleanup crews
Infrastructure strain
The way people waited to be saved instead of acting
He didn't judge.
He remembered.
+A Family Dinner+
Dinner was always simple.
Rice. Soup. Something warm.
Kenji talked about work—signal failures, system upgrades, how one small miscalculation could ripple outward.
Aiko talked about her patients—children who healed faster when they felt safe.
Dave listened.
Two people.Two quiet quirks.Two lives built on support, not spotlight.
Hive absorbed the pattern.
Strength didn't always look like force.
+A Child's Resolution+
One evening, Dave lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Hive hummed softly beneath his thoughts—not demanding, not loud.
"This is enough," he decided.
Not forever.
But for now.
He would grow like any other child.Learn like any other child.Laugh, stumble, and rest like any other child.
There was time.
This world would still be here tomorrow.
Dave Toruko closed his eyes.
And his childhood—the quiet, fragile beginning of something much larger—continued.
End of Chapter 2