I looked with disgust at Yakushi, whom I had just killed after the interrogation. Even though this idiot had taken care of his disguise, he had acted far too boldly in the last couple of months. Not only did he and his group of fellow imbeciles rob people in almost exactly the same district, but they also killed several civilians. While robberies without victims mostly attract the attention of heroes who are primarily interested in PR and money—meaning the weaklings and trash of Heroics—deaths might bring out more serious guys like Sir Nighteye or Eraser Head. In particularly unpleasant cases, vigilantes might appear. Not only are they experienced opponents—since the ability to hunt villains while hiding from the police and heroes already proves their strength—but they also aren't afraid to get their hands dirty, and some of them aren't quite right in the head. I once saw Stendhal from a distance while he was killing another drug dealer; I have no desire to see him again.
Alright.
I've started drifting into my thoughts too often lately; I probably picked up the habit from an acquaintance. The main thing is not to start muttering. Casting a gaze over the empty alley and listening closely, I made sure there were no witnesses. I retrieved my hidden backpack—which that Denki guy almost exposed—changed into my spare clothes, and stuffed the blood-stained ones into the bag. After checking the area once more, I headed to the place where this group of imbeciles kept their money. At least there was some use for them, making it a double profit. A local "businessman," so to speak, had paid me to get rid of these noisy guys because he didn't need the authorities and heroes paying attention to this district.
It's a pity there aren't many such idiots; I could have gotten more money, and more importantly, the chance to strengthen my Quirk and uncover more of its capabilities. Pulling my hood lower over my head, I quickened my pace, walking along the street filled with a few passersby. In the first months of freedom, I grew tired of constant questions like "Why are you out so late, kid?" and "Where are your parents, boy?" from kind-hearted strangers or policemen. I had to improvise, making up all sorts of lies—like claiming I possessed an "Eternal Youth" Quirk—and in extreme cases, I just ran away. Back then, I changed my sleeping spots often because many people wanted to catch the thief who could walk through walls. It was during that period that I killed a person for the first time since my dream. Having started to believe in my own elusiveness, I decided to steal some looted money from right under the noses of some villains; one of them managed to grab my arm. As far as I understand, my Quirk consists of the ability to create and manipulate a substance that appeared in my body after the Quirk awakened. I gave this substance, and the Quirk itself, a pretentious name: Dark Matter. One of its properties allows it to affect the space of my body and a short distance around it, letting me choose what can touch my body and what cannot. But this powerful ability has a serious limitation: I cannot pass through Quirk users or attacks infused with the power of a Quirk. Whether that's a fundamental rule or I just lack the strength, I don't know. But back then, I didn't care. Eyes bloodshot with rage from a hero chase stared into mine, and his fur-covered hand, like a monkey's, squeezed my arm until the bones creaked. At 그 moment, panic and horror seized me—the fear that I would be captured and end up back in that laboratory. That the Man with the Cold Gaze would ask his questions again. I wanted to scream and cry, but more than anything, I desired the death of the one who threatened my freedom. A sudden movement toward the villain rather than away from him caught him off guard for a split second. That was enough for me to sink my teeth into his throat. Pictures of the past flashing in my head made me clench my jaws tighter. A sharp blow to the side that threw me two meters away brought me back to my senses. Forgetting the money, my legs carried me away. The metallic taste in my mouth and the memory of an involuntarily swallowed piece of his neck were revolting. Only two blocks away, in a back alley, did I allow myself to empty my stomach. Since then, I've acted more cautiously and tried to better understand what that actually was.
"Klithrophobia," was the answer I found in a search engine, glowing brightly on the cracked screen of a smartphone I "borrowed" from a villain. The fear of being trapped. Quite ironic given my Quirk, since the only thing that can stop me is a firm grip on my body. Well, knowing that something is wrong with your head is better than not knowing it. Though it caused problems later.
Noticing policemen running toward the alley with the corpses, I ducked into the nearest backstreet and hid behind a trash can. They didn't seem to notice me. I didn't want to answer questions about what a twelve-year-old kid was doing out so late. I think once I'm done with all this, I'll go underground for a few months, rest in a hideout, and focus more on training and education. Everything is much easier now than in the first year of my "nomadic" life after escaping that place. I was lucky back then to stumble upon the broker Giran, or perhaps he allowed me to find him. I'm still not sure. For money and some completed errands, I was able to get information, some goods, and services. For example, I had to spend all the money I saved over a year and a half on proper identification documents and a middle school diploma—which I allegedly finished early. That damn penny-pincher. Kuso. Why did I have to remember the exact amount of money I spent? It just ruined my mood.
The main thing is that thanks to Giran's connections, I was able to find trainers who don't ask unnecessary questions. There, I was taught combat techniques, knife handling, and firearms. And there were sparrings—lots of sparrings. I was beaming with a smile when I gave the trainer a black eye, thanks to his lack of knowledge about my Quirk and the element of surprise. Well, it disappeared quickly when the trainer got serious. He's a colorful guy. A bald, dark-skinned brute nearly 190 centimeters tall with a vertical scar across his left eye and a stone expression. He speaks only on business, and the desire to ask about his life or anything else besides training vanished under his direct stare. I guess the "fork in the eye" joke during our first meeting was unnecessary. New properties of Dark Matter also came to light. It passively enhances all the qualities of my body. This enhancement is closely tied to the body's level of training. For instance, if I built up my strength to five units, the Quirk would give me +1 strength; if I reached 10, I would get +2. These conclusions are dreadfully simplified, but for exact measurements, I would need equipment that I have neither the desire nor the money to buy or rent.
Alright, this looks like the right entrance Yakushi mentioned. Mda, this building could use a major renovation. Not that it matters; I'll just take the money from the stash in the apartment of that "Solvent" guy—who turned out to be a total disappointment in combat—and it's unlikely I'll ever have to show up here again in the future. There's the cash. I'll toss it in the backpack and head to my rented apartment. Everything else can wait until tomorrow. How pleasant it is to sleep in MY OWN bed instead of on the floor or on crates. Although, I did spend the night in a furniture store once, but the next morning I had to run quite fast. Still, it was fun to see the salesman's jaw drop when he found me waking up on a king-sized bed.