"What are we having for dinner?" A 15-year-old boy asked.
The knife hit the board in a steady rhythm.
"Curry," his sister said, not looking back.
The boy groaned from the couch. "Didn't we have curry yesterday?"
"And the day before," she replied. "And you ate it both times."
On the TV, a familiar opening blared.
Shizukesa ga shimikomu yo de iki o tometa gozen goji
Hijo kaidan de tsume o kamu asu wa docchi da?
The day has come
He didn't answer. He had his legs tucked up on the couch, remote abandoned somewhere near the cushions, eyes glued to the screen. My Hero Academia. He was rewatching after completing the final season.
Behind him, vegetables slid into a metal bowl.
"Turn it down," his sister said.
"It's not loud."
She gave him a look over her shoulder. The boy couldn't see her full face, but he knew the look anyway. He lowered the volume by two notches. Barely.
The doorbell rang.
His sister sighed. "Zen. Get it."
He didn't move. "You're closer."
"I'm holding a knife."
"You're still closer."
She stopped chopping. Slowly turned around. Her eyes narrowed just enough to promise violence later. Zen grinned and leaned back into the couch, triumphant.
"Tch." She set the knife down harder than necessary and wiped her hands on a towel. "You're dead after dinner."
"Threat noted."
She walked toward the door, ponytail swaying. Zen went back to the screen. Even though it wasn't his first time watching this, it had been too long since he watched it.
A few seconds passed.
"Who is it, nee-chan?" he asked, eyes still forward.
No answer.
Zen frowned. He muted the TV and twisted around on the couch. "Nee-chan?"
Still nothing.
He stood up, irritation replacing laziness, and took a few steps toward the hallway.
That was when something slammed into the side of his head.
The world tilted. His feet left the floor. He didn't even have time to shout before the ground rushed up and cracked his vision apart.
He hit the floor on his side. Something wet ran down his temple.
Zen tried to push himself up. His arms shook and gave out.
Shapes moved in front of him. Two of them. Big. Dark clothes. Shoes he didn't recognise on his floor.
Yakuza
They stepped over him like he was furniture.
"Search fast," one said. His voice was rough, bored.
The other kicked open a cabinet. "The place is small."
Zen's ears rang. His eyes burned. He dragged his gaze toward the door.
His sister was there.
Slumped against the wall near the door. One arm bent wrong beneath her. Blood streaked from her hairline down her cheek, dark against her skin. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused.
"Nee—" His voice came out thin.
She coughed. Her head shifted, just a little.
"Zen," she whispered. It sounded like it hurt to say his name. "Run away."
He tried to stand.
His legs trembled. He got one knee under him. The room swam, but he pushed through it. He took one step toward her.
Something hit him again.
Harder this time.
His head snapped back. Light exploded behind his eyes. He crashed onto his back, breath tearing out of him in a useless wheeze.
"Idiot kid," someone muttered.
Zen couldn't move. The ceiling blurred and darkened at the edges. His ears filled with a high, thin sound, like metal screaming.
One of the men spoke again. "This isn't it."
"What?"
"Wrong place. The address was off."
There was a pause.
A tongue clicked. "Shitty Luck."
Zen's chest hitched. He tried to roll his head to see his sister again. She was still there. Still breathing. Barely.
"They saw us," the man continued. "Can't leave witnesses."
The other hesitated. Zen heard it in his voice. "They're just civilians."
"And?"
"…You said I'd get experience in torturing on the next job, not this"
The first man laughed quietly. "This is the job. Real-time. Field work." He gestured down the hall. "Start with her."
Zen's heart slammed so hard it hurt.
"No," he croaked. His mouth tasted like iron. "Stop."
A boot came down on his stomach.
Pain folded him in half. Air refused to come back.
"Shut up," someone said.
He heard movement. A scrape. His sister made a sound—small, broken, nothing like her voice when she teased him or yelled at him or called him stupid for leaving his socks everywhere.
Zen screamed her name.
Something smashed into his face.
"Stop it!"
Again.
"Please don't do something to her!"
And again.
His vision shattered into red and white. He tasted blood. His jaw screamed. He couldn't tell if the sounds he heard were coming from his mouth or just inside his head.
Somewhere, absurdly loud in the background, the TV unmuted itself.
"Worry not, because I am here."
The words bounced off the walls. Bright. Confident.
Zen laughed. Or maybe he sobbed. He couldn't tell.
On the screen, a hero landed between a villain and a crowd, smiling like everything would be fine now. Music swelled.
In the hallway, nothing stopped.
Zen's world narrowed to the sound of breathing—hers, ragged and fading—and the dull thuds that followed it.
Heroes always came in the nick of time.
That was how it worked.
Except they didn't in reality.
Not here.
Not now.
No sirens. No crash through the window. No sudden light or booming voice. Just two men in his house, making a mistake and deciding to clean it up.
That day, a fifteen-year-old boy waited for someone to save his sister.
He waited for a hero.
None came.
And the lesson settled into him—deep enough that even death would not be enough to loosen its grip.
***
"Ugh..." Haru surfaced slowly.
Something rough pressed against his cheek, tilting his face sideways. Fingers. Calloused. Impatient.
"…seems even now he won't cooperate," a man said, voice close. Calm. Almost bored. "Persistent, I'll give him that."
Haru's eyelids fluttered. His head throbbed in dull pulses, each one dragging something old with it. His mouth tasted dry, metallic. He tried to move his arms.
Nothing.
Rope bit into his wrists. Tight. Too tight. His shoulders screamed when he strained, and the scream echoed—wrongly—in his skull, overlapping with something else. Another room. Another floor. Another weight on his chest.
The pressure on his face vanished.
He sucked in a breath and forced his eyes open.
The room was dimly lit, with uneven illumination from above. Concrete floor, which was unusually clean.
It was a bar.
He was sitting on a chair, wrists bound behind him, ankles tied. The ropes were rough. Cheap. Whoever had done this hadn't cared about comfort.
Across from him—another chair.
Someone was tied there, too.
At first, he couldn't tell who it was.
Only boots planted stiffly on the floor. Gloves clenched tight enough to wrinkle the leather. Everything else was invisible, giving him sight of the chair.
Haru's pulse spiked.
"No…" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
The man beside him chuckled. "Oh, he's awake."
Footsteps moved into Haru's line of sight.
Shigaraki Tomura.
His posture was loose, almost lazy, but his presence sucked the air out of the room. A detached hand was covering his face, giving him a creepy look.
He had his one hand outstretched, fingers spreading slowly, deliberately.
Haru's vision tunnelled.
That hand. It could disintegrate whatever it touches.
Shigaraki stopped in front of the other chair.
Haru recognised the boots.
Recognised the gloves. How could he not recognise them when he was the one who had made the designs for them?
"Toru," he croaked.
Her head jerked up.
She tried moving her throat, but only incoherent words came out due to the gag on her mouth.
Shigaraki tilted his head, amused. "Ah. So you do know each other. Of course you do. You are classmates after all."
He raised his hand.
Haru's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
The room shifted.
For a split second, the concrete floor became wood. The dim light became the hallway lamp. Blood streaked down a wall that wasn't here.
His sister's body slid against the wall in his mind. The sound she made when she tried to breathe. The way her eyes searched for him.
Run away.
His fingers twitched uselessly behind the rope.
"No!" Haru said again. Louder this time. "Don't—"
Shigaraki's fingers hovered inches from Toru's shoulder.
"Heroes," Shigaraki said casually, "always say timing is everything."
Haru's heart hammered against his ribs.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't reach.
Couldn't do anything.
Just like before.
His vision blurred—not from tears, but from memory. A boot coming down on his stomach. The taste of blood. A voice on TV promising everything would be fine.
"Worry not, because I am here."
The words echoed, mocking, overlapping with Shigaraki's quiet breathing.
Haru's breathing went ragged.
His muscles locked, every fibre pulled tight like something inside him was trying to tear its way out. His head pounded. His skin burned, starting at his spine and spreading outward.
He saw it again.
His sister's eyes were lifeless. The moment he knew she wasn't getting up.
His body shook.
"No more," he whispered.
Shigaraki's fingers began to close.
Something snapped.
Pain lanced through Haru's head as his quirk responded to his call, changing itself.
A blue-black tendril came out of his arm.
It burst free like a living thing, whipping through the air with a crack that split the room. The ropes around Haru's wrists shredded as it surged forward.
Shigaraki barely had time to turn.
The tendril slammed into him at full speed.
On coming in contact with it, his body fell like a broken puppet.
Toru screamed through the gag.
Haru collapsed forward in his chair, gasping, lungs burning. His vision swam. His head felt like it was on fire. He barely registered the ropes falling loose around his arms.
Haru lifted his head, eyes wild, unfocused, then locked onto Shigaraki as the dust settled.
This time, someone had acted.
This time, when the moment came—
The hero was already here.
He was the hero.