Chapter One
The sterile, chemical-laden air of the private hospital wing hummed with the quiet despair of machines doing the work of failing bodies. In the heart of this artificial vitality, Katsuki Bakugo stood, a blond, spiky-haired anomaly in a sea of white, his crimson eyes scanning a medical file as if it were a battlefield report.
The title screamed up at him: "Quantum-Fragmented Energy."
He was Patient 0.1's personal guard, a covert agent for the Japanese Security Council, and he was currently listening to the man who'd been trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again for three long months.
(Dr. Harumi Fuji), a man whose fifty years had etched deep lines of wisdom and exhaustion around his eyes, sighed. The sound was a dry leaf skittering across stone. He was a legend—top neurosurgeon, top general surgeon, a mind borrowed by the Defense Council for special cases. And this case was special, all right.
It was a catastrophe wrapped in a teenage body.
The doctor's gaze drifted to the surgical bed behind the observation glass. On it lay the subject of the file, a boy with unruly green hair, a respirator mask obscuring the lower half of his face. His body, once clearly muscular, now showed the subtle atrophy of three months of absolute stillness.
"His condition is extremely critical," (Dr. Fuji) said, his voice a low murmur meant for the charts but heard by Bakugo's sharp ears.
The young man's internal organs had been, in the doctor's precise, clinical terms, 'shredded.' But that was almost mundane compared to the neurological injury. It was as if the brain had been forced into overdrive, pushed to unbelievable levels, and then someone had pulled the plug on the universe. Nerves weren't just damaged; they were… rewritten. Or exploded.
(Dr. Fuji) had seen many things in his decades straddling the frontiers of science and surgery. He had rebuilt spines, tweaked brains, and stitched soldiers back into something resembling men. But this… the energy signatures, the cellular activity that defied every textbook…
His eyes returned to the file in Bakugo's hands. The 'Quantum-Fragmented Energy.' He'd written the notes himself. Observations logged in the dead of night, measurements that made his instruments weep error messages. The energy seemed to emanate from the boy, a peculiar radiation that, according to the scrawled notes, drastically elevated his physical capabilities.
Probably the only reason he's still breathing after whatever hit him, Bakugo thought, his jaw tightening. The report detailed impact trauma consistent with a fall from a tremendous height at hypersonic speeds. A fall from the sky.
"I've already contacted Commander (Momo)," Bakugo stated, his voice cutting through the sterile silence like a knife. The communication device on the desk between them had transmitted the conversation with crystal clarity, leaving no room for privacy. "The Commander has agreed to keep Patient 0.1 out of sight. But it seems there are already people sniffing around. You know about the incident in Tokyo, of course."
(Dr. Fuji) paled slightly, a slight tremor in his hand as he adjusted his glasses. "O-Of course."
Who didn't? It wasn't an 'incident'; it was a localized apocalypse. A strange energy had flooded the city, a silent, crushing wave that snuffed out electricity for days, froze communication networks, and left an entire metropolis holding its breath in pure, unadulterated terror for one hour. The news cycles had been obsessed with it. Theories ranged from solar flares to secret weapons testing.
But (Dr. Fuji) knew a hidden piece of the puzzle. One that had fallen from that terrified sky.
The Defense Forces, on high alert because of the Tokyo event, had been fast. Sensors and store security cameras in a less affected district had caught it: a human-shaped comet streaking down and impacting the earth with a CRUMPH that registered on seismic monitors. By the time the dust settled, their teams were already there, scooping up the broken, green-haired kid from the crater.
And they called (Dr. Fuji).
He'd agreed immediately. Curiosity, professional duty, and the Council's intense interest were a potent cocktail. For three months, he and a small army of specialists had fought a war for this boy's life. And for three months, they'd lost. It was as if the boy's own body was fighting their healing efforts. This strange energy… it was repairing him, supercharging muscle density and regeneration rates, but it was doing it its own way. It felt… conscious. A willful, unseen medic working frantically from the inside, yet leaving the pilot—the boy's mind—locked in a dark, silent cockpit.
"Isn't there an estimated time for him to wake up?" Bakugo asked, impatience lacing his tone. He was a man of action, and this waiting, this watching over a living enigma, grated on him.
(Dr. Fuji) struggled for words, his mouth opening and closing silently for a moment. He finally settled on a helpless gesture. "I... I don't think he'll be waking up anytime soon. His physical condition is… improving. About 80% restored, miraculously. But his nerves…" He trailed off, searching for an analogy. "We're not confident we can repair that kind of damage. It's like… it's like an explosion inside the search engine of a computer."
The analogy was bizarre, clunky, but it hung in the air, perfectly absurd. Bakugo just stared. A computer's search engine? What did that even mean? But the doctor's point was clear: the core processing was fried in a way they couldn't map, let alone fix.
Great. A comatose kid with unexplainable super-energy and a brain that's suffered a metaphysical malware attack.
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Outside the doctor's office, in the overly bright hallway that smelled of antiseptic and dread, Bakugo pulled out a secure phone. The sleek device felt cold against his ear. He connected directly to his superior.
"Sir, you heard everything, I assume?" he said, his voice low. "Do you think Genesis will send their agents for Subject 0.1?"
On the other end, in a sleek, modern office atop one of Tokyo's few functioning skyscrapers, (Commander Momo) gazed out over the city. The view was a testament to recovered order, but the memory of the blackout was a fresh scar. She took a deep breath, the sound a soft whisper over the secure line.
"That is a certainty," she said, her voice firm, edged with steel. "They will never stop trying to find out what caused that event. And I am sure they will pursue what—or who—0.1 is. Therefore, Agent (Katsuki Bakugo), your mission is to protect the patient 24 hours a day. Around the clock. Until we are certain the situation is secure. Furthermore, backup will be sent to you."
"Understood, Commander. I'll stand guard here."
The line went dead with a soft click.
Bakugo shoved the phone into his pocket and strode back toward the ICU room, his boots making soft, decisive thuds on the linoleum. He entered the silent chamber, the only sounds the rhythmic hiss-whirr of the ventilator and the steady beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor.
He looked at the boy.
Sixteen? Seventeen? It was hard to tell. The face was young, but the body, even in its atrophied state, spoke of intense, disciplined training. Defined shoulders, the hint of pectoral muscles under the hospital gown. If this kid ever got up and moved, he'd probably be a beast. The energy they'd detected… it was supposedly reinforcing all that. Amplifying it.
It made him think of Genesis Corp. The 'partner' of the military, a shadow with a shiny public face. Known for… questionable research. Human experimentation whispers. And they had their own special agents, rumored to possess unnatural abilities.
Bakugo, by contrast, was proudly, exceptionally normal. A human weapon honed to a razor's edge. Orphaned, raised by the military, trained in every combat style under the sun since he could walk. At twenty-five, he had over two decades of conditioning under his belt. He'd once taken down five armed men using only two fingers and a series of movements so fluid they looked like a dance. He was a legend among soldiers. A prodigy of pure, un-augmented human potential.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a statue of vigilance. His red eyes, sharp enough to spot a fly twitching from across a battlefield, scanned the room. The pristine white sheets. The clear tubes. The pale, motionless form of Patient 0.1.
Three months like this. What's going on in there?
Minutes ticked by, marked by the relentless beep… beep… beep.
Then, it happened.
A flicker. A minuscule tension in the linen sheet draped over the boy's left leg. It was so small it could have been a trick of the light, a draft from the air vent.
But Bakugo's eyes weren't ordinary. They were the eyes of a predator who'd survived a thousand ambushes.
He didn't hesitate. His hand shot out, a blur of motion, and slammed down on the large red nurse-call button mounted on the wall.
BLAAAAAARP!
The harsh alarm shattered the room's clinical serenity.
Within seconds, the door swished open, and two nurses hurried in, their shoes squeaking on the floor. "Sir? What's happening?" one asked, her eyes wide with alarm, darting from Bakugo to the seemingly unchanged patient.
(Agent Bakugo) didn't look at them. His gaze was locked on the sheet. "I observed movement from Patient 0.1."
The nurses exchanged a look—confused, skeptical. It was probably a false alarm. Agents, even elite ones, could get jumpy. But Bakugo simply pointed a single, rigid finger at the spot on the sheet.
"Right there."
As if on cue, in the very next second, the sheet twitched again.
This wasn't a draft. It was a definite, slight contraction of muscle. The linen puckered, just above the knee, then settled.
The nurses' eyes widened in unison, their professional composure cracking. One brought a hand to her mouth.
"He… he really moved!"
The beep… beep… beep of the monitor continued, steady as ever, but the air in the room had changed. The static waiting was over. Something had stirred in the depths of the broken search engine.
And (Katsuki Bakugo) stood ready, a smirk touching his lips—not of humor, but of anticipation. The mission had just gotten a lot more interesting.
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End of Chapter.
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