mimixis

[mimixis]

[ARC I: Core Memories] Chapter 6: Sugar, Spice, and Blushing Sighs

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64873270/chapters/167668738

“The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all.”

— Mulan (1998)

The office lights of Ryukyu’s agency were dimmed to a soft, honey glow, the kind that made everything feel like golden hour. The lobby—usually all sharp edges and professional polish—was dressed up for the night in ribbons, floating lanterns, and a garland of pastel paper dragons Rin had insisted on making. Glitter glinted in every corner, a trail of enchanted mess leading from the entrance to the back where the actual party was happening.

Ryuko’s birthday was always a quiet affair on paper, but in practice? Her sidekicks knew better.

Ryuko’s agency didn’t often get dressed up unless it was for PR campaigns or seasonal patrol uniforms. But tonight, the sleek halls had been transformed. Streamers in warm gold and crimson draped from the light fixtures, and someone—probably one of the sidekicks—had spelled RYUKYU-SAMA! in glittery kanji across the break room wall. There was a punch bowl. There were meat skewers stacked like a shrine. Someone had even dared to hang a You’re Still Hot at 30! banner above the cake.

“Okay, I love this energy,” Rin said, clapping her hands as she walked in beside Ryuko, whose cheeks were already pink from a mix of mild embarrassment and deep affection.

“Don’t you dare encourage them,” Ryuko muttered, though her smile betrayed her.

Fat Gum arrived around 7 PM with a giant party platter balanced like a tray of jewels. "Brought snacks and charisma," he declared, grinning wide. He gave Ryuko a gift bag shaped like a unicorn and Rin a wink that made her snort into her soda.

The room erupted with cheers. Sidekicks waved, someone popped a confetti cannon prematurely, and Rin got pulled into a group hug by two of Ryuko’s most reliable—and chaotic—sidekicks: Hikari and Beni.

“Rin-chan!” Beni grinned, ruffling Rin’s curls. “Still short, still cute, still giving us emotional whiplash!”

“She’s taller than you now,” Hikari pointed out.

“But her energy is pocket-sized,” Beni shot back.

“Stop bullying the child,” Ryuko warned dryly, but she didn’t stop them. This was tradition. For the last few years, whenever Ryuko had agency obligations or was stuck on patrol, Hikari and Beni were the ones who picked Rin up from school, supervised sleepovers, or made sure she ate something besides cup noodles. They were chaos incarnate, but family in all the best ways.

“Got you a little something,” Beni said, handing over a glittering mini gift bag. Inside was a pair of earrings shaped like tiny lightning bolts wrapped in hearts. “Thought it suited your vibe.”

Rin lit up. “Oh my god, these are so me.”

“Right?” Beni beamed.

Across the room, a familiar rumble of laughter drew Rin’s attention—and there he was. Fat Gum. In a suit jacket that could barely contain him, chatting easily with Ryuko and somehow still holding a paper plate full of karaage in one hand. The golden glow of the agency lights caught in his hair, and Rin caught a flash of something soft in Ryuko’s expression as she looked at him.

Oho, Rin thought, smirking. Noted.

She wandered over to the snack table, grabbing a soda and a takoyaki skewer. They'd stocked the fridge with sake and soda, ordered in too much food, and even Kamui Woods had shown up early with his arms full of snacks, looking sheepish and festive in a shirt that said, Punch First, Cake Later.

One of the younger interns tried to talk to her about quirk training, but Rin was distracted—watching Ryuko laugh too hard at something Toishiro said. He leaned in slightly, hand resting casually at the small of her back. It wasn’t obvious. But it wasn’t nothing.

“Subtle,” Rin muttered into her soda.

Rin flitted around the room in a tulle skirt and high ponytail, sleeves rolled up as she tried to balance being helpful with staying out of the way. She carried a tray of mochi from the kitchen to the table, narrowly avoiding stepping on Nagomi’s tail—Ryukyu’s newest sidekick, who currently lay sprawled like a tired cat across a beanbag, a party hat tilted sideways on her head.

“You’ve got a little frosting on your cheek,” said Hekiji, one of the agency’s veterans, tapping his own face in demonstration.

“Battle scars,” Rin grinned, licking her thumb and wiping at the pink smudge. “From the cake trenches.”

The cake in question was absurdly tall and covered in whipped cream roses. Rin had decorated it herself that morning with silver edible glitter and strawberries cut into dragons. It leaned slightly to the left, and everyone pretended not to notice. Ryuko hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d seen it.

The agency gleamed with soft fairy lights and subtle warm tones, transforming its usual sharp, clean lines into something almost cozy. It smelled faintly of polished wood and lemon cleaner, undercut by the richer scents of party food laid out on the long table—takoyaki, mochi, karaage chicken, and tiny cakes with glittery sprinkles Rin had insisted on picking out herself. Someone had put on a playlist that swayed between jazzy city pop and nostalgic hero ballads. The kind of songs that wrapped around memories whether you wanted them to or not.

Ryukyu, or rather Ryuko-san tonight, stood at the center of it all with a paper crown tilting on her head and a plate in her hand, laughing at something one of her sidekicks said. Her usual armor of professionalism was gone, replaced by soft jeans, a red panda T-shirt Rin had given her last year as a joke (which Ryuko wore shamelessly), and purple star-shaped earrings.

Rin, curled in a bean bag, was swaying her socked feet in time with the music. She wore a fluffy lavender hoodie and her most dramatic eyeliner. Balanced on her knees was a plate absolutely stacked with sweets. Ryuko’s sidekicks—Aika, the mellow one with sea-green hair, and Kaito, the one who always had a dad joke ready—hovered nearby, chatting with her like she was their niece. Because in a way, she was.

They’d been around for years. They too picked her up from school when Ryuko was caught in a mission. Made sure she ate dinner. Tucked her in more than once when Rin had cried herself to sleep and Ryuko hadn’t made it home in time. They knew not to mention her parents. They knew when to let silence do the hugging.

The agency sidekicks were family by now. They helped her with homework, taught her how to cook rice without burning the bottom. One of them had even painted her room when she was thirteen and decided baby blue was her new identity. They had their quirks—one always left their socks in the hallway, another hoarded tea bags like rare coins—but they were hers. A patchwork of grown-ups who’d made space for her without ever making her feel like an obligation.

The music shifted into something more upbeat as people started dancing. A makeshift karaoke machine emerged from under a desk like a gremlin summoned by disco lighting. Beni screeched something about ‘90s throwbacks and dragged Hikari into a duet they absolutely could not sing.

Rin wheezed with laughter and tried not to choke on a mochi ball.

She felt light here. Grounded. Like her body remembered joy in this place, in this room. A hero agency filled with people who weren’t just pros—they were hers. Familiar, steady, loud, ridiculous, and real.

Fat Gum—Taishiro, technically—stood near the stereo, holding a plastic cup of melon soda, looking entirely too big for the dainty decorations around him. His voice boomed over the music. “Hey, kiddo! That playlist of yours is fire!”

Rin gave a mock bow. “Born to DJ, cursed to heal.”

He laughed, loud and bright, and Rin felt a flicker of warmth in her chest. She saw the way his eyes followed Ryuko when she wasn’t looking. The way he leaned in when she laughed. It was subtle, almost sweet. Grown-up stuff, but the good kind. Rin was perceptive like that. She kept it to herself, but inside, she was rooting for them hard.

“Okay,” Ryuko said, clapping her hands once to gather the room. Her smile was small but warm, touched by the quiet kind of joy that came from being truly seen. “I just want to say… thank you. For the glitter invasion, and the chaos, and the love. You’ve all made me feel really lucky.”

“Hear, hear!” Fat Gum toasted with a grin.

Someone handed Ryuko a ridiculous glittering tiara. She laughed and didn’t fight it when Rin gently placed it on her head, then snapped a photo for the album they kept every year.

But as the clock edged closer to nine, the energy began to shift.

The adults’ conversations got louder and sillier as the night ticked on. At 9PM sharp, the doorbell rang, and Chikuchi’s parents stood in the doorway like perfectly timed plot a knock at the glass doors interrupted a raucous chorus of karaoke gone wrong. Rin turned—and there they were. Mr. and Mrs. Togeike, Chikuchi’s parents, bundled in cozy jackets and bright scarves, waving like Rin was their own.

“Time for the teenage hand-off,” Ryuko said, coming up behind her. She looked a little flushed, like someone had dared her to do a shot. Fat Gum lingered in the background, trying not to look like he was listening. He definitely was.

“Can I borrow your niece for a night?” Mrs. Togeike teased.

“She’s all yours,” Ryuko said with a wink. “Don’t let her stay up too late gossiping.”

“I would never—” Rin began, but Ryuko snorted.

“You would and you will. Go be a teenager.”

Rin hugged her aunt tightly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That list is very short,” Ryuko muttered, but she hugged back fiercely.

"You ready, birthday deputy?" Chikuchi’s mom asked, grinning at Rin.

"More than ready. These adults are getting weird," Rin stage-whispered, gathering her things. 

As Rin pulled on her jacket and followed the Togeikes out, she glanced one last time at the room. Her eyes landed on Ryuko and Fat Gum standing just a little too close. She grinned.

“Good luck,” she whispered under her breath.

Rin followed Chikuchi’s parents into the crisp autumn night, the city lights blinking like tired stars overhead. The walk to their apartment was short, just a couple blocks, and Rin had made it a thousand times before. When they arrived, Chikuchi was already waiting in the hallway with popcorn, blankets, and a ridiculous pink bat with little fangs peaking from a wide smile.

"You're late," she said dramatically. "I’ve already assigned the roles for tonight's romcom reenactments."

"I get to be the chaotic best friend, right?"

"Naturally. I’m the brooding lead who doesn’t believe in love until the third act."

The sleepover at Chikuchi’s house was everything a girl could need after a glitter-heavy party: quiet, warm, chaotic in the right ways. They changed into pajamas immediately—Rin’s had little thunderclouds with pink cheeks, Chikuchi’s had rainbow swords. They did their usual sleepover rituals: face masks, nail painting, and rating the most recent celebrity crushes like a sacred sport.

They painted their nails in glittery pastels. Talked about celebrity hero crushes. Rin confessed she might be into both girls and boys and Chikuchi blinked and said, "Duh. That’s the vibe you give off. Soft bi chaos."

“Okay, okay,” Rin said, sprawled on a beanbag with popcorn in her lap. “Rank: prettiest pro hero and best hair.”

Chikuchi pretended to think deeply. “It’s still Mirko for me. But Ryuko’s a close second. That braid? Iconic.”

“She’s so cool it’s almost illegal,” Rin agreed, then added, “But I’m still obsessed with Hawks’ eyeliner. How does he do that?”

They talked late into the night, light from the fairy lights dancing off their glittery nails and half-finished soda cans. The safe kind of night. The kind that felt soft around the edges, like it could be folded and tucked into your pocket for later.

At some point, Rin sat up suddenly. “Do you think Ryuko likes Fat Gum?”

Chikuchi blinked. “Duh. You’ve seen how she looks at him.”

“Yeah,” Rin whispered, her heart squeezing in her chest, a strange cocktail of hope and longing. “I hope it works out.”

“You’re allowed to have nice things,” Chikuchi said simply, bumping their shoulder against hers.

Rin smiled at that. Not ready to believe it, not yet—but willing to hold it in her hands for a minute and imagine the weight of it.

They ate too much candy and practiced fake acceptance speeches for awards they’d never win. They argued over which UA teachers were secretly hot and who had the best costume in hero history.

Sometime around 2AM, Rin lay on her stomach, a pillow hugged tight to her chest. "I don’t think I’ve laughed like this in months," she whispered.

Chikuchi, half-asleep, murmured, "That’s ‘cause you finally let yourself have a night off."

Rin smiled, and for once, it reached her eyes.

The next morning arrived with the unforgiving glare of sunlight cracking through the curtains and the unmistakable taste of too many sour gummies still lingering on Rin’s tongue.

Chikuchi’s apartment smelled like miso soup and fresh laundry. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s wind chime clinked like a fairy’s coffee cup. Rin stretched, groaned, and peeled herself off the futon like a pancake off a cold skillet.

Chikuchi’s mom had made breakfast, humming a 90s girl group song as she flipped tamagoyaki with the poise of someone who could moonlight as a ninja. Rin padded into the kitchen still wrapped in a fuzzy blanket like a wizard freshly risen from a glittery tomb.

They ate quietly, the kind of soft, homey quiet that didn’t need filling. Afterward, Chikuchi braided Rin’s hair while they sat on the veranda, sipping juice boxes and sharing a blanket. "You’ve got galaxy hair today," Chikuchi said, twisting the blonde strands with reverence.

"Good. I wanna look like a nebula that kicks ass."

Rin returned to the apartment she called home a little bleary-eyed, her bag slung over one shoulder and her socks mismatched from the chaos of getting dressed while half-asleep. Chikuchi’s mom had driven her home with the radio playing soft city pop, the kind of morning that felt like a lullaby still echoing in the bones.

As soon as she stepped into the genkan, she froze.

There were boots.

Big boots.

Definitely-not-Ryuko’s-boots.

They were black, clearly broken-in, and standing neatly to the side of the door like they'd been there a hundred times before. Rin blinked once, then squinted like that might change the visual. But no, they were still there. Sturdy, unmistakably male boots.

Her heart did a little tap-dance of what the fuck and oooooh. She toed off her sneakers and padded into the apartment, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound. The lights were off in the hallway, but there was the faint murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. She caught Ryuko’s low laugh and a warmer, deeper tone that could only belong to one person.

Rin nearly collided with Nagomi in the hallway, who was carrying a tray of empty glasses. The older sidekick grinned like a cat who knew all the secrets.

“Morning, superstar,” she whispered, winking. “Hope you don’t mind leftovers. It was a very long night.”

Rin raised an eyebrow. “You slept here?”

“Not really.” She smirked. “I live here now. I've adopted myself.”

Rin continued toward the kitchen, walking softly over the polished wood floor. She paused just before entering, peeking around the corner with the kind of stealth that would make any ninja proud.

Ryuko stood at the counter, still in pajama pants and a hoodie, pouring coffee into two mugs. One was pink and had a sleepy dragon on it. The other was a black one Rin didn’t recognize—it had a chip near the handle and a little sticker that said #1 Sidekick (Don’t Tell Hawks).

Taishiro was at the table, leaning back in one of their rickety chairs with an easy smile on his face and bedhead that looked aggressively slept-in. He was wearing a t-shirt Rin vaguely recognized from one of his hero interviews. It said ‘Gum Me Up’ in faded letters.

They were talking about something domestic. Groceries, maybe? Someone had to fix the squeaky faucet. Nothing spicy, but the comfort between them was loud. The kind of loud that made Rin want to tiptoe backwards, leave a note, and escape before she interrupted the soft bubble they’d built overnight.

Too late.

Ryuko turned and caught sight of her, smiling gently. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home early.”

“Chikuchi’s mom had a thing. We bailed out after breakfast,” Rin said, stepping into the room like she hadn’t just witnessed her guardian in full domestic bliss.

Taishiro gave her a sheepish wave. “Mornin’, kiddo.”

“Good morning,” Rin said politely, her inner voice screaming: YOU SPENT THE NIGHT.

Ryuko slid her a mug of hot chocolate without asking. “We’ve got leftover cake, if you’re hungry.”

Rin accepted the mug and leaned against the counter, sipping carefully. “You guys look... cozy.”

Ryuko raised an eyebrow. “We are cozy. He helped me clean up after the party.”

“Did he help a lot, or just enough to get coffee in the morning?”

Taishiro choked a little on his drink. Ryuko snorted. “Rin.”

“I’m just observing,” she said, innocently. “You seem... happy.”

Ryuko didn’t answer right away, just looked down at her mug like it held something important. “I am.”

Rin nodded, then added, “Good. You deserve it.”

The kitchen went quiet, filled only with the low hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of birds outside the window. Taishiro eventually stood and stretched with a groan. “I should head out. Patrol this afternoon.”

Ryuko followed him to the door. There was a moment—very quiet, very subtle—when their hands brushed and lingered just a second too long. Then he was gone, boots thunking softly against the floor, and Ryuko exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.

Rin leaned in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed, watching her with fond exasperation. “You really like him.”

Ryuko gave her a look. “You’re very nosy for someone not paying rent.”

“Consider it emotional rent,” Rin smirked. “You date a pro hero, I get nosy privileges.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Ryuko said, but the color in her cheeks betrayed her. “Yet.”

“Yet,” Rin echoed, eyes glittering. “We’ll add him to the board.”

They actually had a board. A whiteboard in Rin’s room labeled “Ryuko’s Romantic Possibilities” that had started as a joke and turned into an elaborate analysis tool, complete with color-coded sticky notes and sparkle pens. Taishiro had moved from “Might Just Be a Friend” to “Certified Crush” about two weeks ago. Now, Rin mentally bumped him up again—to “Probable Boyfriend (Denial Arc).”

She’d draw a little gum bubble next to his name later.

The rest of the day passed in the soft haze of a post-party Sunday. Rin curled up on the couch with a book, her legs thrown over the armrest, while Ryuko tackled a pile of reports. At some point, Rin dozed off to the sound of jazz playing quietly in the background and Ryuko muttering about patrol routes.

When she woke up, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, and someone had draped a blanket over her. Her book had slipped to the floor. She blinked blearily, smiled to herself, and let her eyes drift shut again.

The apartment was warm, and quiet, and full of the good kind of noise—the steady rhythm of a life being rebuilt, one soft piece at a time.

---

The wig was glorious. Platinum-blonde, streaked with electric blue and bubblegum pink, and utterly unbothered by gravity. Rin flipped it over her shoulder and struck a pose in the mirror, conjuring every drop of drama in her bloodstream.

“Do I look like I eat hearts or break them?” she asked, voice low and mischievous, posing dramatically as she adjusted the long, embellished jacket that sparkled like stardust.

Chikuchi, bent over in the corner tying her boots, didn’t look up. “Both,” she said. “Simultaneously. Like a tragic prince with too many secrets.”

Rin gasped. “You get me.”

She did. That was the whole point.

Rin twirled once, letting the coat billow behind her. “Ugh, I love Miyazaki season,” she sighed, sweeping out of her room and down the hallway like a star-powered god on a mission. “And the gays adore Howl. We're going to be legends.”

Chikuchi followed her out, adjusting the old-lady shawl draped over her shoulders. She was Sophie tonight—specifically, the version in the enchanted older body, gray braid swishing down her back. Her look was understated, but when paired with Rin’s Howl, it absolutely sang. Whimsical, a little haunting, and full of heart.

Ryuko leaned against the front door, arms crossed and clearly fighting a smile. “You two ready for your big debut?”

Rin struck a pose. “Born ready.”

“You’re walking into a middle school Halloween party, not the Met Gala,” Ryuko said dryly, grabbing her keys.

“Not with that attitude,” Rin quipped, giving Ryuko a cheek kiss on the way out. “But thanks for the ride, Queen.”

Ryuko’s car was warm and smelled faintly of licorice gum and old receipts. Rin and Chikuchi giggled the whole way, trading last-minute advice on how to pull off their characters. Rin practiced her most melodramatic Howl voice, declaring, ‘I’m not going, Chikuchi. I’m having a meltdown!’ while dramatically clutching her chest. Chikuchi responded with calm, grandmotherly reassurances about bacon and destiny.

They arrived at the party a little after 7. It was hosted at one of their classmate’s houses—big enough to fit twenty hormonal almost-fifthteen-year-olds, decked out in fairy lights, foam pumpkins, and an actually impressive haunted hallway in the back. Parents were stationed like checkpoint guards throughout the house, sipping tea and occasionally reminding people to behave.

The moment Rin and Chikuchi walked in, heads turned.

“Howl and Sophie!” someone gasped.

“Wait, is that Rin? Rin?!”

And then the floodgate burst open. Compliments rained like glitter.

“Your jacket’s insane!”

“I didn’t even recognize you!”

“That wig—Rin, you look like you stepped out of an anime.”

Rin tried to play it cool, tossing her hair and offering mysterious smiles, but inside, her heart thumped like a dance remix. It wasn’t just the compliments. It was the invitation. For the first time since arriving in Japan, she felt like she wasn’t just the new girl with dead parents and a weird transfer story. Tonight, she was Howl. Enchanting. Powerful. Part of the group.

She glanced sideways and saw Chikuchi beaming too, laughing as someone asked where she got her shawl and if she’d made it herself. (She had. Of course she had.)

The two of them floated through the party like soft storms of sparkle and serenity. They bobbed for apples. They took spooky Polaroids in a makeshift photo booth with other kids dressed as ninjas, witches, and various Pokémon. Rin even danced— dramatically, and in perfect time —while Chikuchi swayed beside her awkwardly and with no rhythm.

By the time the snacks were raided and a conga line snaked through the kitchen, Rin had forgotten the tightness that sometimes lived behind her ribs. Forgotten the weight of September and that cake she couldn’t finish. This night felt like a sigh of relief, like someone had finally opened a window in her heart.

Later, they slipped away from the crowd and climbed the stairs to the quiet guest bedroom they’d been allowed to use if they needed space. Rin sat on the window seat, moonlight brushing her Howl wig as she kicked off her boots. Chikuchi pulled out two candy bars from her satchel like a magician and tossed one over.

“You did amazing tonight,” Chikuchi said, peeling her wrapper.

“You too. Sophie realness. Your braid was iconic.” Rin took a bite of chocolate and let herself sprawl. “I feel… not like a ghost.”

Chikuchi tilted her head. “You ever feel like one?”

“Sometimes.” Rin traced a spiral in the fog on the window. “Like I’m watching everything happen from a little pocket dimension. I’m in the room but not in the room, you know?”

“I get it,” Chikuchi said softly. “But not tonight.”

“No,” Rin agreed. “Not tonight.”

For a moment, they just sat there in their cozy costumes, costumes that had made them seen. The world felt a little more breathable.

Then, downstairs, someone started playing ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons,’ and a yell of ‘RIN, DANCE BATTLE!’ rang up the stairs.

Rin grinned, unpeeled herself from the window like a dramatic anime prince, and stood up tall.

“Duty calls,” she said. “Time to enchant the masses.”

Chikuchi laughed. “Just don’t trip over your own drama.”

“I make tripping look good.”

And together, Howl and Sophie descended once more into the mayhem.

Downstairs, the living room had fully transformed into a stomping, laughing, sugar-high cauldron of costumed middle schoolers. Rin stepped in like the final act of a fireworks show, hair catching the glow of hanging jack-o’-lantern lights.

“She’s back!” someone cheered.

Chikuchi followed, adjusting her shawl and looking bemused, the perfect calm to Rin’s storm. A circle formed as kids chanted her name.

“Rin! Rin! Rin!”

One of their classmates—Toma, who wore a full inflatable T-Rex suit—challenged her to a dance battle.

“You’re going down, Howl!”

Rin narrowed her eyes dramatically. “How dare you challenge a wizard before midnight.”

And then the music blared—some remix of a spooky anime theme—and Rin let go. Her limbs moved with glittery chaos and theatrical confidence, blending interpretive flair with pure Halloween silliness. Her Howl coat flared like magic with every spin.

Chikuchi clapped and cheered from the side, eyes shining. Around them, classmates were screaming with laughter and awe.

Toma made valiant attempts to dance in his dinosaur getup, but the crowd was already won over.

“She’s insane.”

“I didn’t know she was this cool.”

“She should be in Class 1-A already.”

Those last words hit something inside Rin like warm honey.

Cool. Magical. Seen.

When the final song ended and she collapsed on the couch, flushed and giggling, a classmate named Kana shyly offered her a soda.

“That was amazing,” Kana said. She had on a sparkly witch costume and cheeks painted with tiny stars.

“Thank you,” Rin beamed, accepting the drink. “I’m just a humble wizard.”

“I didn’t know you were funny,” Kana admitted.

Rin tilted her head, amused. “I’m hilarious. Chikuchi can vouch.”

“Tragically so,” Chikuchi added, slipping beside her. “It’s why I haven’t left.”

The conversation flowed easily now. They were asked about their costumes, their favorite Studio Ghibli movies, their quirk training. Even a few boys came over, sheepish and kind, asking if Rin really wanted to go to U.A.

“Absolutely,” she said, eyes sparking. “Hero course. Or bust.”

“Cool,” one boy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I hope you get in.”

Me too, she thought, but this time with a flutter of real belief. She wasn’t a ghost tonight. She was Rin. Big dreams. Bigger presence.

Hours passed in a soft blur of laughter and caramel corn. As the party began winding down, a few parents filtered in to collect their kids. One mom leaned in to compliment Rin’s costume. “You really lit up the room, sweetheart.”

Rin flushed beneath the wig. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Eventually, Chikuchi’s parents showed up too, all warmth and good-natured teasing. They offered to walk both girls home, since the streets were cooling and quiet.

The neighborhood was bathed in moonlight. Fallen leaves whispered across the sidewalks, and the glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickered on stoops. Rin walked beside Chikuchi, both of them still in costume, shoes scuffing gently against the pavement.

“My feet hurt,” Rin murmured.

“Beauty is pain,” Chikuchi replied.

They reached Rin’s building a few minutes later. Ryuko was still out—on a Halloween patrol shift, most likely. Rin had a key. She turned to Chikuchi with a sleepy smile.

“Thanks for tonight.”

Chikuchi shrugged. “Thank you. You carried us.”

Rin hugged her suddenly, arms wrapped tight around Sophie’s wool shawl.

“You’re the best part of Earth,” she whispered, impulsive and sincere.

Chikuchi stiffened for half a second, then melted and hugged her back. “Same.”

They separated with grins, and Rin climbed the stairs slowly, dreamy-eyed. She took off her boots in the genkan, peeled off the jacket, wig askew and happiness humming under her skin.

As she padded into the kitchen to get some water, her eyes caught something unexpected.

Male boots.

Big ones.

Familiar.

Fat Gum’s.

She paused, tilting her head, then padded quietly to the living room. Sure enough, the hallway light was on, voices low.

Ryuko’s laugh drifted through, warm and unguarded.

Rin smiled softly to herself.

She went back to her room, changed into pajamas, and curled up in bed. Tonight was a small miracle. She was full of candy, compliments, and connection. Her bones still buzzed from the music, her heart from all the firsts.

And outside, the city glittered like a spell just cast.

---

The smell of strawberries and sugar filled the apartment before Rin even got her shoes off.

She toed off her boots and followed the scent like it was some kind of magic spell, her socks skimming the hardwood as she padded into the kitchen. Inside, Ryuko stood at the counter in an oversized sweater dotted with cartoon snowflakes, frosting a white cake with a steady hand. Toishiro, already lounging on the couch like he owned the place, raised a hand in a lazy wave.

"Smells like a bakery in here," Rin said, already peeking over Ryuko's shoulder like a curious kitten.

"It's your Christmas Eve cake," Ryuko replied without turning around. "Tradition."

"Right," Rin said softly, eyes flicking to the strawberries lined up like little soldiers on a plate. “White sponge, whipped cream, fresh fruit. The most Japanese of Western holidays.”

Toishiro snorted. “You say that like you’re writing a dissertation on it.”

Rin flopped dramatically onto the floor, limbs everywhere. “Maybe I am. Christmas Eve: A Socio-Cultural Dissection of Romance and Frosting.”

“Catchy,” Ryuko said dryly, placing the final strawberry on top of the cake with surgical precision.

They lit a few scented candles—just enough to give the living room a golden glow—and brought the cake to the coffee table. Rin sat criss-cross while Ryuko and Toishiro took the couch. The three of them shared the whole thing with spoons straight from the tin, passing around mugs of too-hot cocoa and mock-arguing about whether whipped cream counted as a topping or an ingredient.

It was peaceful. Not perfect. Not painless. But peaceful. The kind of quiet that Rin hadn’t felt in months. She tucked it into her ribs like a secret, like something holy.

“So,” Toishiro said with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, “got any Christmas Eve dates, Rin?”

She almost choked on her cocoa. “I am literally fifteen.”

“Exactly,” he said, completely unbothered. “That’s the peak age for catastrophic crushes.”

Rin threw a pillow at him.

Ryuko laughed into her mug. “Ignore him. But… okay, curiosity. Do you think about love? About that kind of thing?”

Rin’s cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t shrink away from the question. Instead, she stared into the mug like it might offer answers.

“I do,” she said quietly. “But not in the way people expect, I think. I’m not dreaming of white weddings and kissing in the snow. It’s more like…” Her brow furrowed. “More like I want someone to see all of me. Not just the sparkles or the sass. I want them to see the shadows, the mess, the grief—and choose me anyway.”

Neither Ryuko nor Toishiro interrupted. They just listened. Let her talk.

“I think Western stories make it seem like love is explosive,” Rin continued. “Like fireworks and confessions in the rain. But sometimes I wonder if it’s quieter. Like, love might be just… someone knowing exactly how much cream you like in your cocoa.”

Ryuko reached out and gently touched Rin’s hand.

“That’s beautiful,” she said.

Rin grinned. “What about you? You’ve got the mysterious hero thing going with Toishiro here.”

Ryuko coughed into her cup.

Toishiro smirked. “I’m offended it took you this long to notice.”

“Oh my god,” Rin groaned, flopping onto the floor again like a fainting anime heroine. “If you two start making goo-goo eyes, I’m putting on a horror movie.”

Ryuko flushed, but she was smiling. Toishiro just looked smug, which meant she’d hit a nerve—in the good way.

They spent the next hour watching a mix of romantic comedies, both Western and Japanese. You’ve Got Mail followed by Love Letter. The Princess Bride and then My Love Story!! Toishiro pretended to gag during every heartfelt monologue. Ryuko cried at least twice. Rin watched it all like she was storing every scene in her bones.

“I want a love like that,” she said when one movie ended. “Not dramatic. Just… real.”

“Real is the best kind,” Ryuko said softly.

Later, as the clock ticked toward midnight and the lights dimmed to a dreamy hush, Rin curled up on the couch with her head on Ryuko’s lap and her feet thrown over Toishiro’s knees. The TV flickered gently in the background, forgotten. Her heart, so often heavy and guarded, felt cracked open in the best way. Like maybe the warmth would stay this time.

The white cake sat half-eaten on the table, strawberries glowing faintly in the fairy light. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks began to crackle—early revelers preparing for the New Year.

Rin didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She just breathed.

The first breath of the new year smelled like snow and incense.

Rin stood at the base of the shrine steps with Chikuchi, bundled in layers of knit and faux fur, her cheeks pink with cold and anticipation. Musutafu glittered beneath them, a city of endless light, but up here on the hill, everything was hushed and sacred. Bells chimed. Lanterns glowed. A thousand tiny wishes floated in the air like snowflakes.

“I feel like a Studio Ghibli character,” Chikuchi whispered, her breath fogging in front of her.

Rin giggled, elbowing him gently. “You're the mysterious sidekick who ends up being a powerful spirit prince, obviously.”

“And you?” she asked, adjusting her scarf without thinking.

She smiled, soft and sly. “Main character energy, obviously.”

They joined the slow procession of worshippers climbing the steps to the shrine. Rin’s gloved fingers brushed the wood of the torii gate, and a shiver went down her spine—not from the cold, but from the weight of it. This tradition. This magic. This moment.

At the top, they washed their hands and approached the offering box. Coins clinked. Palms pressed together. Rin squeezed her eyes shut.

Please give me the strength to keep going. The wit to pass the entrance exam. And the courage to be who I’m meant to be. No matter what.

She bowed. Once. Twice. And let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

They stepped aside to draw their fortunes, each choosing a folded slip of paper from a wooden box. Rin unfolded hers with trembling fingers and gasped.

“Great blessing,” she read aloud, eyes wide. “DAI KICHI.”

Chikuchi cheered. “We’re manifesting victory.”

She grinned, heart soaring. It wasn’t just luck. It felt like a sign.

They wandered among the food stalls and souvenir booths, sipping amazake and nibbling on warm sweet potatoes. Music floated from someone’s portable speaker, something lo-fi and hopeful. Rin felt shiny and new. Like a phoenix wearing mittens.

And then—like a scene straight out of a romcom—someone bumped into her.

“Oh—!”

A girl with short blond hair, pouty lips, and eyes full of playful mischief looked her up and down with a grin that could melt glaciers.

“My bad,” the girl said, voice honeyed with Kansai charm. “Didn’t mean to mess up your vibe, angel.”

Rin blinked. “Um. You didn’t. It’s… It’s okay.”

The girl tilted her head, appraising. “Cute and polite? Dangerous combo.”

Chikuchi was suddenly very interested in a nearby shrine charm display, pretending not to listen.

“I’m Camie,” the girl said, offering a gloved hand.

“Rin,” she replied, taking it automatically. The touch was brief, but electric.

“You from around here?”

“Sort of,” Rin said, her default answer these days. “Shizuoka-side.”

“Nice. I’m from Osaka, but I’m here for training.” Camie smiled, sly and sparkly. “You go to school with heroes?”

Rin tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got that energy,” Camie said, like it was obvious. “That ‘I’m gonna be somebody’ sparkle.”

Rin felt her face flush again, but this time, she didn’t look away. She squared her shoulders like she was posing for the universe.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m applying to U.A.”

Camie’s brows lifted. “Ooh, fancy. You should come to Shiketsu instead. We’ve got flair and flavor.”

“Tempting,” Rin said with a smirk, but her voice was already laced with no.

Camie leaned in just slightly. “We should trade numbers, angel. Just in case you change your mind.”

They did. Rin’s hands trembled slightly as she typed. Chikuchi was still ‘not listening’ from four feet away.

As Camie disappeared into the crowd with a wink and a strut, Rin turned to Chikuchi and just beamed.

“Did you see that?” she whispered. “She flirted with me. Like, actual flirting. With a capital F!”

Chikuchi sipped her amazake like a wise old sage. “You are dazzling tonight.”

Rin squealed. “I mean—do I look like someone who gets flirted with at shrines?!”

“Yes,” she said immediately.

She tackled her into a side hug, nearly spilling both their drinks.

Later that night, back at the apartment, Rin burst in through the door like a gust of enchanted wind, scarf flying, eyes sparkling.

Ryuko blinked up from her manga on the couch. “You look like someone who either got recruited by a magical girl agency or kissed a stranger.”

Rin flopped dramatically onto the cushions beside her. “Neither. But also maybe both.”

Ryuko raised an eyebrow.

Rin launched into the whole story—Camie’s wink, the number exchange, the glittery audacity of it all. She spoke in all caps and exclamation marks, waving her arms like a conductor of chaos. Ryuko listened with one of those mom-expressions that balanced concern, amusement, and mild horror.

“She wants me to consider Shiketsu,” Rin admitted at the end, quieter now.

Ryuko nodded, careful. “And?”

“I told her I’d think about it,” Rin said. Then: “But I already know the answer.”

“And what is it?”

“I want U.A.,” she said, firm and glowing. “Because it’s where I’ll be my best self. And also—Shiketsu doesn't have you.”

Ryuko reached over and ruffled her hair. “You’re gonna be terrifying when you grow up, you know that?”

“Already am,” Rin said with a wink.

The fireworks outside started with a bang, painting the windows with gold and crimson. Rin turned to watch them, heart full.

New year. New spark. And maybe—even a little bit of love.

The fireworks had faded into trails of smoke by the time Rin and Ryuko curled up on the couch under a shared blanket, a leftover slice of strawberry shortcake on the coffee table between them. The TV played a quiet romcom marathon—some Western classic with a lot of mistletoe and emotionally repressed leads. Rin had seen it before, but this time, something about the way the girl in the red dress stared at the clueless boy felt different.

“I don’t get it,” Rin said, chewing thoughtfully on a forkful of whipped cream. “Like, she clearly wants to kiss him. He clearly wants to kiss her. But instead, they do this weird banter dance for forty-five minutes. Just… make out already.”

Ryuko snorted. “That’s the plot, Rin. Without that, it’s just kissing.”

“But I like the kissing parts,” Rin said dramatically, sinking deeper into the blanket. “The rest feels like waiting for the good stuff.”

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t been in love yet.”

Rin pouted. “I’ve been adjacent to love.”

“Camie doesn’t count.”

Rin flopped her head back. “She so counts. She called me angel. You can’t just erase a shrine flirt.”

Ryuko laughed, reaching over to steal a bit of her cake. “Fine, you’ve brushed hands with romance.”

They fell quiet, the TV characters now confessing their feelings in the middle of a snowy airport terminal. Rin watched them, eyes soft.

“Do you think love is different here?” she asked after a while.

Ryuko tilted her head. “Here… like Japan?”

“Yeah. Compared to the West. Like, culturally.”

Ryuko shrugged. “Maybe. Western media makes it big and loud. Love as fireworks. You said so yourself. Grand gestures. Chasing someone through the rain. Japan leans quiet. More… small moments. Holding an umbrella over someone. Remembering how they take their tea.”

“Which one’s better?”

“Neither,” Ryuko said. “They’re just… flavors. You’ll find the one that tastes like you.”

Rin smiled at that, leaning against her aunt’s shoulder. “I think I want both.”

Ryuko kissed the top of her head. “That tracks.”

Outside, Musutafu hummed into the early hours of January 1st. A few distant pops of lingering fireworks cracked the sky like fire spirits refusing bedtime. Inside, Rin sat warm and safe, full of cake and dreams and infinite, crackling maybes.

“You know what I’m hoping for this year?” she asked softly.

Ryuko looked down at her. “What?”

“I want to pass the exam, of course,” Rin said. “But also… I want something real. Real connections. Real spark. I want to feel like I’m not just floating anymore.”

“You want your life to start,” Ryuko said, knowingly.

Rin nodded. “Yeah. Like I’m finally in the story.”

Ryuko tucked the blanket tighter around her and held her close.

“Then it’s starting, baby. Right here.”

And Rin believed her.

Because magic wasn’t just for movies or shrines. Sometimes it was in the quiet glow of romcom reruns, or the soft promise of strawberry shortcake shared at midnight.

And sometimes… it was just knowing that your heart still wanted things.

Even after everything.

---

Valentine's Day arrived in a flurry of pinks and reds and the sickly-sweet scent of department store perfume. Middle school's hallways were a battlefield of homemade chocolates, love letters folded like origami, and teenage nerves stretched thin like taffy. Rin was not prepared.

It started small. A neatly wrapped box appeared in her locker before homeroom. Then another. And another. By lunch, her desk looked like it belonged to a confectionery heiress.

"Am I being pranked?" she whispered to Chikuchi, who was peeling a heart-shaped sticker off her bento.

"Nope," Chikuchi chirped, smug. "You’re the main character, remember? This is what happens when you glow like a magical girl dipped in star syrup."

Rin groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I’m wearing gym sweats."

"Yeah, but your hair did that floaty thing when you laughed during English, and three people gasped. I saw it."

By mid-afternoon, the confessions began.

In the hallway. On the roof. Even in the library, where a boy from 3-B knocked over a globe trying to bow too fast.

Rin was gracious—always—but internally, she was short-circuiting. Every time someone blurted out a nervous ‘I like you!’, her brain went static. She hadn’t even thought about dating. Not since everything. Not really.

Rin shut herself in the bathroom after lunch, locking the door and sitting on the closed toilet lid like it was a therapist’s couch. Her cheeks were still flushed from the chocolate ambush at her desk—some anonymous admirer had left a heart-shaped box of handmade sweets with a glittery note that read: To the girl who makes thunder feel like music.

What the hell did that even mean? Rin rubbed her forehead, torn between laughter and panic.

Her phone buzzed again. Another text. From Camie.

Camie: heard ur school was drowning in drama today lol valentine’s tsunami???

Rin: I'm not surviving. SOS. Drowning in sugar and hormones.

Camie: wish i could see it live haha… too bad i’m stuck w/ Osaka uniforms and sad vending machine cocoa

Rin: Tragic. You deserve better.

Camie: i do. come transfer to shiketsu so i have someone to bully lovingly

Rin: you’re bad for my health

Camie: u like it

Rin stared at the screen for a long moment. She did like it. But not in the way she thought she might when they first exchanged numbers. There was no ache in her chest when Camie texted. No flutter. Just this sweet, fizzy feeling of a friend who liked to poke at her. A friend who made her feel cool by association.

Her phone buzzed again.

Camie: anywayyyy did u say yes to any of the 800 love letters yet?

Rin: no. most of them were just... valentines. not confessions. I think? And the actual love notes were too anime. Someone quoted Ouran. I panicked.

Camie: iconic. pls send pics next time

Rin laughed quietly, tucking her phone away. Camie was good at reminding her that not everything needed to be so serious. That sometimes, it was just chocolate and glitter glue.

"Do I have... aura or something?" she mumbled to herself in the bathroom mirror.

When Rin stepped out of the bathroom, the hallway was blessedly empty. Maybe everyone had moved on to gym class or awkwardly hiding in corners. She exhaled.

Whatever spark she thought might ignite with Camie—it wasn’t there. But something was. A kinship. A silly, flirty connection that didn’t need to be more.

Still, she could feel the weight of Camie’s earlier suggestion.

Come to Shiketsu.

The words echoed louder than any valentine.

She’d have to think about that. But not today.

After school, Rin sat with Ryuko on the couch, pink-frosted cupcake in hand. The TV played a rerun of some old magical girl show, sparkles and transformation sequences lighting up the room.

"I got confessed to," she said bluntly.

Ryuko raised an eyebrow. "Just once?"

"Like... five times. Maybe six. I lost count. I think I’m in shock."

Ryuko chuckled. "You’ve always had that glow. People respond to it. Doesn’t mean you owe anyone an answer right away. Or ever."

Rin nodded slowly. Her heart was still racing. Not from romance—but from the strange, dizzying power of being wanted. Of being seen.

And then, Camie texted: You’d look hot in the Shiketsu uniform.

Rin stared at it. Then laughed. Then panicked. Then laughed again.

She showed Ryuko, who just sipped her tea and said, "Recruitment’s getting bolder."

"What if I did go to Shiketsu?" Rin asked. "Wouldn’t that be kind of... dramatic?"

"You’d miss out on everything here," Ryuko said softly. "The people you’ve fought for. The people you’re meant to fight beside. You don’t have to decide tonight, but think about what kind of hero you want to be."

Rin didn’t answer. Not right away. She watched the sparkles on the screen. Watched the pink icing smear on her thumb. Watched the horizon of her future shift like constellations in a shaken snow globe.

Somewhere inside her, a heart beat steady and wild.

Rin sat on the floor of her bedroom, pink cardstock hearts and glittery wrappers strewn around her like love notes from a candy-coated hurricane. The sun had dipped low, casting golden streaks across the room, lighting up her wall of hero posters and the hanging string lights that swayed slightly with every breath of wind from the cracked window.

The confessions had been…a lot.

They’d started before homeroom and hadn’t stopped until the final bell rang, echoing through the halls like a laugh track. Chocolate boxes shoved into her hands, letters slipped into her locker, whispered ‘I like you’s from red-faced classmates she’d barely spoken to. Some had stammered and run off. Some had lingered hopefully. A few had even cried. And through it all, Rin had stood there—stunned, sweetly smiling, feeling like someone had hit the fast-forward button on her life.

“Why now?” she murmured, poking at a lacy card with a doodle of her healing quirk on it. “I’ve been sparkly and chaotic for years. Y’all just noticed?”

Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from Camie lit up the screen:

Camie:

yo valentine girl

u still hot or did u melt?

(also how many hearts did u break today)

Rin snorted, thumbs already flying.

Rin:

idk I think I started a school-wide heart attack

also I’m keeping all the chocolate. sorry not sorry.

Camie:

ruthless. I respect that.

remind me to flirt better next time we meet irl

Rin grinned, warmth flooding her chest like peach soda fizz. Camie was far away, in a different school, a different city—and that made everything feel safe. Sweet. A friendship wrapped in rhinestones and harmless sass.

She stretched, lying back on the floor, arms flung wide among the glitter and wrappers.

Popular? Maybe.

Ready for a high school full of chaos, crushes, and confusing feelings? Absolutely not.

But she’d be fine.

With her glitter, her girls, and her pulse loud in her ears like a promise, Rin closed her eyes and whispered,

“Let them fall in love. I’ve got things to do.”

[mimixis]

[ARC I: Core Memories] Chapter 5: Scars and Stormlight

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64873270/chapters/167498341

“You're not broken. You're just wounded. And wounds can heal.”

— Grey’s Anatomy

 “Forgetting is like a wound. The wound may heal, but it has already left a scar.”

— Monkey D. Luffy, One Piece

The rooftop mat was still warm beneath Rin’s back as she lay sprawled across it, limbs outstretched, catching her breath after the morning drills. Her sports bra clung to her ribs, hair damp and sticking to her temples, pulse still thudding in her ears like the rhythm of a war drum—or maybe a love song. The city below hadn’t quite woken yet, still yawning in the soft lavender light of early morning. Everything smelled faintly of ozone, concrete, and ambition.

She rolled onto her side, elbow propping her up, and spotted Chikuchi Togeike leaning against the far railing, her figure silhouetted against the sky, looking like a temple statue that hadn’t yet decided whether to bless or smite you.

Chi-chan’s hair was wound tight into a bun—severe, surgical. Not a strand out of place. Her practice uniform was spotless, the white sleeves rolled to the elbow in perfect symmetry. Even her water bottle sat beside her with purposeful elegance. But there was a tremor in her wrist. Barely noticeable. A twitch in the stillness.

Rin’s lips curved.

“Chi-chan,” she called softly, stretching like a sun-kissed cat. “You okay?”

Chikuchi startled—just a little—but didn’t open her eyes. “Fine,” she replied, breath cool and composed. “Just... winded.”

Rin sat up, brushing glittering quirk residue off her shoulders with exaggerated flair. “Come on, let me feel it.”

Chi-chan’s brow creased, a flicker of hesitation there. “Feel what?”

“Your pulse,” Rin said, already reaching out with one hand, eyes playful, teasing. “I bet you’re over 150.”

“You’re obsessed,” Chi-chan murmured, cheeks going ever-so-slightly pink. “One of these days, I’ll install a wristband that zaps you when you try.”

Rin’s grin widened. “You’d have to touch me to do that, babe.”

And with a barely-audible sigh of defeat—or was it surrender?—Chikuchi offered her pale wrist.

Rin’s fingers hovered for a moment, reverent, then brushed down to the soft skin just above the joint. Her fingertips were still tingling with leftover quirk energy, faintly electric. Chi‑chan’s pulse fluttered beneath her skin like a startled bird.

“Mmm…” Rin’s voice dropped into something warm and delicious. “163 and climbing.”

Chi-chan’s breath caught. “Sh—stop that, Rin,” she muttered, voice hushed and rough-edged.

But she didn’t pull away.

And Rin didn’t stop.

Their friendship began like that: not with an explosion, but with a spark.

It was a strange pairing to most people. Rin—bold, sparkly, dramatic—stormed into rooms like she belonged in every corner of them. She wore glitter eyeliner to study sessions and spoke in soliloquies when describing a new training combo. And Chi-chan—methodical, thoughtful, surgical—moved like she was trying not to take up too much space, as if she feared her very presence might interrupt the fabric of the world.

And yet they collided like tides and moons: inevitable, natural, gravitational.

That morning became routine. After sunrise drills, Rin would flop on the mat and wait for Chi-chan to finish her final set of balance poses. Then she’d crook her fingers and say, ‘Let me feel it,’ and Chi-chan, always with that exasperated sigh and faint blush, would offer her wrist.

Sometimes they didn’t speak. Sometimes Rin would just press two fingers gently to Chi-chan’s pulse point and breathe. Sometimes Chi‑chan would stare out across the rooftops and murmur facts—about quirk compression ratios, or blood oxygen saturation during adrenaline spikes, or the evolving ethical debates around support gear that could manipulate emotions.

Rin always listened.

And sometimes, Chi‑chan would listen, too.

They studied together in the library, their table by the window reserved with sacred consistency. Rin’s notebooks were chaos incarnate—sketched with glittery hearts and erratic diagrams, full of arrows and annotations in pinks and purples and violent oranges. Chi-chan’s were monochrome and pristine, her margins sharp enough to cut.

More than once, a teacher paused to comment. Mr. Yamashita once stopped mid-stride to watch Rin explain the rescue simulation strategy to a group of flustered first-years. She was clear, kind, commanding—without any edge of condescension. Just pure, radiant presence.

“She’s a natural leader,” Yamashita had said aloud, tapping his clipboard. “Strong, decisive, compassionate.”

From across the room, Chi‑chan watched him write the note. She didn’t say anything. But her eyes shone like twin stars, bright with unspoken pride.

They were different in almost everything, and yet, their dreams tangled.

Chi-chan never wanted the spotlight. She’d confessed it one night, curled beside Rin under the stars after a long theory session. “I’m not sure I have the right... hero aptitude,” she said, voice hushed, like she was admitting to murder. “I’m too... cautious. I freeze in high-pressure simulations. I don't want to hurt anyone.”

Rin had frowned—deep and serious—and reached for her hand.

“Your caution saves lives,” she’d said simply. “Don’t belittle it.”

Chi‑chan’s eyes had gone wide, like maybe no one had ever framed it that way before.

“You’re brilliant,” Rin added, gently squeezing her hand. “And hey… you’ve got heart.”

Chi‑chan had smiled then. Bone-soft. Fragile. Real.

Every evening, after library time and meditation or training or both, they’d meet on the rooftop again. Even if they didn’t say it out loud, they’d sit shoulder to shoulder and watch the city lights flicker on.

And in those quiet moments, sometimes Rin would reach again for her wrist.

“Steady…” she’d whisper, her voice like a heartbeat. “We’ve got this.”

By the third week of rooftop check-ins, Rin had learned the exact moment when Chikuchi’s heart would stutter. Not from nerves or anything romantic—no, this was battle anticipation. The flicker before a fight. The pause before a decision. A rhythm that belonged only to Chi-chan, built from years of calculating consequences before leaping.

They weren’t in a fight now—just training—but Rin had her fingers pressed to that familiar spot on Chi-chan’s wrist again, humming softly like a tuning fork.

“You’re anticipating,” Rin murmured. “What’s going on in that beautiful murder-calculator brain of yours?”

Chi-chan exhaled through her nose. “That last combo you did,” she said, pulling back slightly. “Your landing was too open. The delay between the elbow and the sweep leaves your flank vulnerable.”

“Ugh, I knew it.” Rin fell back onto the mat, groaning like a drama queen freshly stabbed. “I felt it. I felt the opening and just… left it there. Like an invitation to be punched.”

“You’re lucky your aura is so damn loud,” Chi-chan said dryly, stepping over Rin’s flailing legs. “Most people are too distracted by the sparkle trail to notice your weak spots.”

Rin popped up on her elbows. “I weaponize aesthetics. It’s a core pillar of my personal combat strategy.”

Chi-chan snorted. “And how’s that working out for you, Barbie Brawler?”

Rin gasped. “Excuse me—Barbie would destroy in hand-to-hand. Don’t disrespect her again or I’ll make you do synchronized kicks to the Sailor Moon theme.”

The corners of Chi‑chan’s mouth twitched—her version of a full-body laugh.

That rooftop became something sacred. Not planned, not formal—just theirs.

They talked about weird things, the kind you don’t say out loud unless you’re with someone who already knows you’re weird. Chi-chan would casually muse about combat gear that could read biosignals and adjust pressure in real time. Rin would sprawl and spin whole narratives about how her quirk might evolve—like what if her electrical healing developed a feedback loop that could borrow time from her own lifespan?

“Dark,” Chi-chan said once, sipping from her thermos. “But honestly? I’d believe it. You’re too dramatic to die quietly.”

Rin beamed. “Put that on my gravestone.”

“Only if you die first.”

“Rude. I’m eternal.”

They sparred, sometimes. Not often—Chi-chan didn’t enjoy the hand-to-hand chaos like Rin did—but when she did, it was precise, brutal, brilliant. Her quirk made her hands into memory banks, her body into a pattern-reading machine. She could dissect Rin’s movements in seconds and build counters on the fly.

And Rin? Rin adapted. On instinct. On feeling. Where Chi-chan saw probability trees, Rin felt pulses—heat, pressure, timing.

They were terrifying together.

One training afternoon, Yamashita actually stopped them mid-spar.

“You two,” he said cheerfully, not holding back from looking impressed, “are either going to save a lot of lives or break a lot of egos. Possibly both.”

Chi-chan bowed respectfully. Rin threw a wink like a glitter bomb.

There was a night—late, too late—when they snuck up to the rooftop after curfew. They weren’t supposed to be out. But Chi-chan couldn’t sleep, and Rin had spotted the light beneath her aunt's bedroom door.

So they sat in silence, both in oversized hoodies, sharing a bag of wasabi popcorn and watching the city pulse in warm, blinking colors.

“You ever think about how fragile this all is?” Chi-chan asked, voice quiet.

Rin tilted her head. “The world?”

“No. Us. This place. What we’re training for. One mistake, one mission gone wrong, and we’re headlines. ‘Promising Hero Wannabe Dies in Tragic Miscalculation.’”

Rin didn’t answer right away. She just passed over the bag of popcorn, then leaned her head against Chi‑chan’s shoulder. Not heavy—just there. A steady presence.

“We’re not here to be perfect,” she said eventually. “We’re here to be ready.”

Chi-chan exhaled. “But what if we’re never ready?”

Rin turned her face up to the stars. “Then we go down swinging. Preferably in something glittery.”

Chi-chan gave a huff of amusement. “You would.”

There were mornings when Chi-chan found Rin already waiting on the rooftop, lying on her back with her eyes closed, headphones in, mouthing along to lyrics only she could hear. Sometimes she looked like a girl trying to be a storm, and sometimes she looked like a storm trying to be a girl.

“You’re vibrating,” Chi-chan said once, watching her. “Are you okay?”

Rin cracked one eye open. “I have too many feelings and not enough time to scream them all into a void. So I came up here instead.”

Chi‑chan sat beside her, crossed her legs, and pulled out her data pad. She didn’t say anything more. Just sat. Read. Existed beside her.

And somehow, that helped.

The rooftop wasn’t just a place to train anymore. It was a confessional. A retreat. A war room and a sanctuary and a stage.

When Rin cried—just once, after a harsh call-out from a teacher during a feedback review—Chi‑chan didn’t say I told you so. She didn’t try to solve it. She just sat down beside her, opened her first aid kit, and silently started wrapping Rin’s scraped knuckles. One by one. Gentle. Thorough.

When Chi-chan got a rejection email from a tech company she’d applied to for mentorship, Rin didn’t let her spiral into logic loops about her worth. She brought three donuts, a sparkly sticker sheet, and her absolute best pep talk voice.

“Listen to me, goddess of intellect,” Rin said fiercely, tapping her forehead. “Your mind is a fucking sword. And they? Are spoons. Tiny, plastic, disposable spoons. You deserve better.”

Chi‑chan smiled behind her thermos. “You’re so weird.”

“Thank you.”

The day Rin finally broke her own record—seven consecutive pulse-checks during rooftop cooldowns without Chi‑chan batting her hand away—she celebrated like she’d won a sports festival.

“Okay, tell me,” Rin said, flopping across the mat beside her best friend. “Why do you let me do this?”

Chi‑chan didn’t look up from her notes. “Because I know it calms you down.”

Rin blinked. “...I thought you were the one being monitored.”

“I am.” Chi-chan glanced sideways. “But watching you concentrate so hard on a single heartbeat? That’s when you stop overthinking. You breathe. You focus. And for a second, you’re quiet.”

Rin stared.

Then she threw her arms around Chi-chan and squealed, “You do love me!”

Chi-chan groaned. “Regret.”

“Too late! You’re in too deep!”

And like that, the rooftop became more than a meeting spot. It became proof.

Proof of effort. Of growth. Of friendship stitched not with grand declarations, but with steady hands, soft words, and one quiet pulse at a time.

---

Twice a week, like the ticking of some careful clock, Rin stepped into the quiet office tucked away behind Ryuko’s agency. The walls were honey-colored and warm, lined with shelves of soft-spined books, plants trailing from high ledges, and a mobile of origami birds spinning lazily in the filtered light. Here, time didn’t shout. It pulsed—steady and low, like a heartbeat in a cocoon.

Dr. Sakurai didn’t wear a lab coat. Just soft sweaters and quiet eyes behind round frames, hands always cradling a steaming mug like it held secrets. She never greeted Rin with clinical distance. Just a gentle nod, a small smile. “Welcome back.”

Rin would sink into the corner of the plush green couch like she belonged to it. She did not always speak first. Sometimes, silence stretched between them, and Dr. Sakurai let it. The air wasn’t impatient. It waited with them.

"How’s the pulse?" Sakurai would eventually ask, and Rin always knew she didn’t mean the quirk. Not really.

"Volatile," Rin said one Tuesday, pulling at the fraying sleeve of her sweater. "Like... a firework factory during a lightning storm. But no fire yet. Just pressure."

Dr. Sakurai hummed and jotted something down with her pale blue pen. “What lights the match?”

Rin shrugged. "Everything. Nothing. A dumb look from a teacher. A smell. A song Mama used to hum when she was cooking." Her voice trembled but held. "Sometimes I think I could burn the whole damn city just for looking too peaceful."

"Because the world kept turning while yours fell apart?" Sakurai asked gently.

Rin nodded once, and the room held her in that ache. It didn’t try to fix it. Just let it echo.

They talked about rage—not as something to shame, but something to know. They mapped it like an emotion made of muscle: where it lived, how it pulsed through her ribcage like thunder looking for sky.

"Your emotional anatomy is still forming," Sakurai said, sketching a figure on her notepad. "Like bones after a break. You’re rebuilding."

"It feels like stormfire in my lungs," Rin admitted. "Like if I speak too loudly, I’ll incinerate everything."

"That’s okay," Sakurai said. "Storms don’t apologize for thunder. But they can choose where to strike."

Sometimes Rin came in talking too fast, her hands darting like startled birds. Sometimes she came in slow and quiet, curled inwards with grief coiled tight in her chest. Once, she sat with her knees pulled up, silent for twenty minutes, and then said, “I miss them so much it feels like I swallowed the sun, and now everything in me is scorched.”

Dr. Sakurai didn’t answer with platitudes. She nodded like she’d seen the same sun before, felt its burn. “That’s grief. It burns, yes. But it also fuels things. You’re made of starlight, Rin. Even if it hurts.”

Sometimes Rin cried. Not always because of her parents. Sometimes because she couldn’t stand the way Ryuko looked at her with both pride and sorrow. Sometimes because Chi‑chan had looked exhausted and hadn’t said why. Sometimes because the world was too much.

But always, Dr. Sakurai listened.

“You’re not a storm that needs caging,” she told her once, when Rin worried she’d become too dangerous. “You’re the eye. Everything fierce around you bends to your will. Learn to stay centered.”

So Rin did. Or tried. She started breathing exercises again, even if they made her dizzy. She began journaling—loud, messy entries with purple glitter pen and angry doodles of monsters with little hearts in their chests. She practiced letting the storm crackle, not consume.

She’d walk the empty streets near the agency at night, whispering hero mottos into the wind like incantations: ‘Go hard or go home.’ ‘Plus Ultra.’ ‘I am my own rescue.’

Sometimes she said them to the stars like her parents might be listening. Sometimes she said them to the shadows just to remind herself they weren’t her.

One night, under a flickering streetlamp, she stood with her hands on her hips and shouted, "I dare the world to underestimate me!" Her voice cracked, and her quirk pulsed under her skin—heat lightning without a storm.

She laughed, loud and bright, until she cried.

Rin wasn’t the same girl who once floated through life on glitter and kindness alone. She was something sharper now. Her kindness had teeth. Her softness had steel beneath it. The grief had carved her hollow in places, but also wider—so more could live in her: rage, love, fire, compassion.

She didn’t want to be a hero just because she could heal. She wanted to be a hero because she had suffered, and still chose light.

Because she had felt the storm, and chosen to dance anyway.

The city didn’t pause for pain. It kept flashing and groaning and rushing on. And Rin, caught somewhere between girl and ghost, had to move with it. Her feet touched pavement and rooftop like she was made of lightning and old lullabies. Her hands shook less now. Her heart didn’t.

Each therapy session pulled her a little closer to the center of herself. Not the center others wanted from her—the neat, polite, polished girl who smiled through funerals—but the real one. The one who burned and shimmered and wept and dared. The Rin who was never meant to be quiet.

“Intensity isn’t the enemy,” Dr. Sakurai told her, drawing a spiral in the air. “What matters is direction. Fire cooks or destroys. You get to choose which.”

So Rin trained.

Not just with her fists, though those found new power with every strike. She trained her empathy like a blade. Sharpened her instinct. Practiced whispering soothing words to herself the way her mother once had. She wrote affirmations in glitter ink and scrawled warnings in red marker. She memorized hero stats and cried over tragic case studies in the dark. She wasn’t just learning quirk control.

She was learning herself.

And every night, as she curled into bed beneath fairy lights and vinyl records and hopeful chaos, she reminded herself: You are not broken. You are blooming.

Ryuko noticed.

“You’ve been different lately,” she said over tea one morning, watching Rin with the gaze of someone who had known storms and survived them. “Not quieter. Just… more contained. Like a fuse that knows how long it is.”

Rin smirked, sipping from her chipped mug. “Containment’s an illusion. I’m not shrinking. I’m aiming.”

Ryuko raised her brows, clearly impressed. “Damn right, sparkler.”

Still, some days clung heavy to her skin.

Like the morning she found her father’s old journal in the back of a drawer Ryuko had been too afraid to touch. It was scuffed, smelled faintly of ash and cedar. His handwriting was messy and alive. The entries short, scattered. But on the last page, beneath a smudged coffee stain, he’d written: Rin is fire. Gentle, terrible, necessary. We are so proud.

She read it five times, knees drawn to her chest, face wet and breathless.

The next session, she showed Dr. Sakurai the page. “I don’t want to be terrible,” she said. “I don’t want to destroy.”

“You don’t,” Sakurai replied. “You transform. That’s what fire does in the hands of someone who loves.”

So Rin transformed. Grief into power. Guilt into courage. She even began to guide Chi‑chan during rooftop drills, gently correcting her form, cheering her on with a voice that knew exactly what kind of praise Chi‑chan responded to. Her leadership wasn’t bossy—it was magnetic.

“Steady now,” she murmured during one sunset sparring session, hands guiding Chi‑chan’s wrist into a more balanced stance. “You’ve got more in you than you think.”

Chi‑chan smiled, flushed from effort. “I’m not you.”

“No,” Rin said proudly. “You’re you. That’s better.”

Her words weren’t flattery. They were sacred. Rin had learned the weight of words that healed.

That week, she made a new section in her journal—Hero Voice Training. She listed every word that had ever made her feel stronger, warmer, steadier. Then she wrote her own. Bold ones. Kind ones. Some were silly. Some were heartbreaking. Some were just hers.

“I’m not sorry for my spark.”

“I can burn bright and still be safe.”

“They are gone. I remain. That is holy.”

Her motto shifted.

‘Plus Ultra’ still hummed through her bones, but now she added her own fire to it.

‘Heart first. Always. But don’t forget your fists.’

Ryuko started calling her Stormfire behind closed doors. It stuck, even if Rin groaned every time. “You’re such a dork,” she complained, face pink.

“Takes one to raise one,” Ryuko teased.

Fat Gum came by again. He noticed Rin’s steadier gait, her sharper focus, the heat in her gaze. “Damn,” he said, holding out a fist for her to bump. “You’ve been forging steel in the quiet, huh?”

Rin grinned. “You’ll see.”

Later that night, when the agency quieted and Ryuko had gone to bed, Rin stood on the balcony beneath the stars. She stretched out her hands, feeling the low current of her pulse quirk spark to life, warm and humming.

“I’m not a weapon,” she whispered to the sky. “I’m a storm with purpose.”

She closed her eyes and let it course through her—not to explode, not to lash out, but to steady. To remind herself: she was still here. She could feel everything and still move forward. Her power didn’t have to be rage. It could be resolve. It could be a promise.

She thought of her mother’s lullabies. Her father’s journal. The breathless ache of the hospital. The weight of Chi‑chan’s trust. Ryuko’s endless cups of tea. Fat Gum’s laughter. Her own words echoing in therapy.

It all wove into something fierce and luminous.

That night, she dreamed of standing on a battlefield made of light. Her pulse danced in her hands like silk fire. The world roared—but she did not flinch. She walked forward, barefoot and shining.

When she woke, she whispered, “I’m ready.”

And for the first time in months, she believed it.

The air was thick with summer’s heat, clinging to Rin’s skin like memory. She stepped out onto the apartment balcony barefoot, her tea cup trembling just a little in her hands. The stars above Musutafu blinked through the city’s haze, patient and distant. Below, the city pulsed with light, a living, breathing thing. She liked to think the heartbeat of it matched hers.

The sliding door rasped open behind her. Ryuko emerged, graceful as ever in a loose linen robe, her hair unbraided and heavy with sleep. She carried her own mug—green tea, as always—and a softness in her gaze reserved only for these late hours.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

Rin shook her head. “Too many voices. Too much storm.” Her voice was raw velvet.

They stood in companionable silence, leaning on the railing, watching the traffic wend its way through the veins of the city. Ryuko didn’t push. She never did. She knew Rin would speak when her heart tipped just right.

And sure enough, Rin did.

“Do you think… they would’ve liked this version of me?” Her voice cracked at the edges, like stained glass under pressure.

Ryuko didn’t look at her. She stared out into the night, eyes glossy, ancient. “They would’ve loved you. Every piece. Even the stormfire.”

Rin exhaled sharply. “It keeps growing. This rage. This electricity. Like I can’t hold it all.”

“You’re not meant to,” Ryuko murmured. “You’re meant to wield it. Like a blade, not a wildfire.”

“I’m trying,” Rin said, clutching her cup, “but it wants to spill over. All the time. I can’t even walk past a hero news broadcast without crying or wanting to scream. Dr. Sakurai says I have to feel everything to find balance, but what if balance isn’t built for me?”

Ryuko turned now, steady and solemn. “Balance doesn’t mean silence. Or softness. You can be made of storm and still stand steady.”

That landed somewhere deep in Rin’s ribcage. She closed her eyes.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I feel like I’m a thundercloud pretending to be a person.”

“That’s okay.” Ryuko sipped her tea. “Some of the best people I know are thunderclouds.”

They laughed softly. It was not a full sound, but it was real.

Then Ryuko straightened, as if remembering something.

“Entrance exams are coming,” she said gently, but there was steel beneath the silk. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Rin stiffened.

Ryuko kept her tone neutral. “I can write you a recommendation. One word from me, and U.A. lets you in before the ink dries. I know people. I trained with some of the admissions officers. It wouldn’t be cheating. You’re more than qualified. It’s just… a boost.”

Rin didn’t move for a long second. Then she placed her teacup down, careful and deliberate, as though the porcelain were made of dynamite.

“No,” she said.

Ryuko blinked. “Rin—”

“No,” Rin repeated, voice firmer, chin lifted. “I won’t take it. I need to do this as me. Not as Ryuko’s niece. Not as the girl with connections. I need to earn it.”

Ryuko inhaled through her nose. “Rin. No one would see it that way. You’ve trained harder than half the pro heroes I’ve known. You’re brilliant. You’re powerful. This isn’t a shortcut—it’s recognition.”

But Rin’s eyes had gone molten.

“It would feel like cheating,” she said. “Even if it isn’t. I need to look at myself in the mirror and know I fought my way in. I need that for Mama and Papa. For me.”

There it was—the ache that never truly left her voice. The ghost she carried in every spark.

Ryuko’s expression softened. She set down her own mug and turned fully toward her niece.

“Then I trust you,” she said. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. But Rin…”

Rin looked up, bracing.

“You are worthy. Recommendation or not. Don’t confuse the means with your worth. You’re not the girl in the shadow of anyone. You’re already shining.”

Rin swallowed hard, biting the inside of her cheek.

“I know,” she said. “But I still want to do it this way. My way.”

Ryuko nodded. “That’s fair. Just promise me if something changes—if it gets to be too much—you’ll tell me. We’ll face it together.”

“Promise,” Rin whispered.

They leaned on the railing again. A breeze kicked up, warm and citrus-sweet, curling around them like a blessing. Musutafu glittered below, and for a moment, the pulse inside Rin matched the one beyond.

They didn’t need to say more.

But Rin, ever dramatic, ever hers, tilted her face to the stars and declared softly, “I’ll make them proud the only way I can—by standing on my own. Not as a legacy. As Rin.”

Ryuko smiled beside her, eyes wet but shining. “Then go burn bright, sparkler. I’ll be right here when you need to recharge.”

The night wrapped around her like gauze—cool, quiet, and humming with distant city life. Musutafu was always glowing, always alive, and yet up here, Rin felt like the last spark left burning. She gripped the balcony railing, fingers curled tight against the wind, her knuckles pale in the moonlight. The buildings below were stoic silhouettes, unmoved by her turmoil.

Ryuko stepped out with a blanket folded over her arm and a small cup of something that steamed faintly in the air. She didn’t speak at first—just draped the blanket around Rin’s shoulders and stood beside her, their breaths fogging up in tandem.

"You always come out here when you’re thinking too loud," Ryuko said softly. “Figured you’d be cold.”

Rin clutched the blanket tighter, heart still turbulent from the storm earlier—memories clashing like thunder inside her ribs. “I’m not cold,” she muttered, even as the chill bit at her ears. “Just… everything’s too quiet inside.”

Ryuko leaned on the railing beside her, not pushing, just present. “That quiet’s important, Rin. That’s where decisions grow.”

Rin exhaled shakily, eyes scanning the horizon. “What if I make the wrong ones?”

“Then you learn. And you make new ones.”

Easy. So easy for her to say. Ryuko, with her poise and her legacy. Ryuko, who had already proved herself a dozen times over. Rin’s throat tightened.

“I keep wondering if I’m just chasing ghosts,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Like, if I’m doing all this for them, or for me. If I want to be a hero, or just... want to feel close to Mama and Papa again.”

Ryuko took a slow sip of her tea. “You don’t have to know yet. Wanting to be close to them doesn’t cancel out the rest. Missing them is part of who you are, not a detour.”

“But I don’t feel like a hero,” Rin said, bitter. “I feel like a kid with a temper and a power that short-circuits when I’m scared.”

“You are a kid with a power,” Ryuko said. “But you’re also a kid who survived. Who’s training every day. Who listens to her heart, even when it hurts. That’s more than most adults manage.”

Rin laughed dryly. “And yet, here I am, crying over Inside Out and screaming at therapy homework.”

Ryuko grinned. “Hey, Shrek is a modern-day epic. I’ve seen Fat Gum cry over Inside Out’s dinner scene.”

Rin’s laugh came easier that time, pushed up by surprise. “No way.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s his Achilles’ heel. That, and tapioca pudding.”

The wind kicked up, teasing the loose curls at Rin’s temples. She turned her face into it, blinking back sudden wetness in her eyes.

“I just… I need to make something good out of all this,” she said. “I don’t want to be someone people pity. I want to be someone who saves people. Who matters.”

“You already matter,” Ryuko said simply. “You don’t need a hero license for that.”

“But I want one,” Rin admitted, fierce and trembling. “I want to get strong. Not just power-strong—heart-strong. I want to protect people before they break. I want to be the reason someone makes it through.”

Ryuko nodded. “Then we’ll train. We’ll study. You’ll keep going. And when U.A. opens their gates, you’ll walk in not because you were given a shortcut, but because you earned it.”

Rin’s shoulders straightened, the words anchoring her. “I’m not going to ask for your recommendation,” she said again, quieter this time but no less certain.

“I know.” Ryuko’s smile was proud and aching. “And I’m still going to be cheering you on with everything I’ve got.”

They stood like that for a long while—two silhouettes against the sky, tethered by blood, loss, and stubborn love. The moon was high and unapologetic, bathing the balcony in silver resolve.

Rin stepped back inside, shedding the blanket but not the warmth. The room was still hushed with cake crumbs and the lingering echo of Totoro’s lullaby.

She picked up her notes from the table—diagrams half-finished, scribbles tangled with question marks and emotional detours. Hero theory, quirk stress maps, little hearts drawn in the margins like nervous confessions.

She sank onto the couch and pulled the blanket around her again, curling into the corner. No kitten. No distractions. Just her and the chaos of a life she was trying to make sense of with glitter pens and too much feeling.

Rin exhaled, slow. Then picked up a pen and underlined the phrase she’d written hours ago: Pain doesn’t mean broken.

Life was still weird. Still loud and messy and raw.

But maybe, just maybe, she could keep writing her way through it.

She would clean it up. Organize it. Build from it.

Not because she had something to prove to the world. But because she had something to become.

---

The scent of garlic bread and melted cheese hit Rin before she even heard the knock. She spun on her socked heel in the hallway, her messy bun bouncing as she skidded to a stop in front of the door.

Ryuko had already opened it.

And there he was—wide as the doorway itself, wearing a bright-orange hoodie and carrying three pizza boxes like they weighed nothing. Taishiro Toyomitsu. Fat Gum. The walking sunbeam of Osaka. Rin had mostly seen him in pro-hero documentaries and Auntie’s old battle footage before, but now he was here, in the actual flesh, beaming like he’d just won a raffle to hang out with them.

“Hope you’re hungry!” he grinned, handing over the stack.

Rin’s stomach answered for her with a loud growl. “You brought garlic crust?” she asked, peeking into the top box with reverence.

“Only the best for Ryuko’s girl,” Taishiro said, ruffling her hair like they’d known each other forever.

“Ugh,” Rin groaned. “You sound like my PE coach when I still believed in Santa.”

“You don’t?” he gasped.

“I stopped believing when he didn’t bring me an electric violin with retractable blades.”

Taishiro choked on a laugh. “Guess that’s fair.”

They settled in the living room, the coffee table quickly overtaken by pizza boxes, soda bottles, and Ryuko’s fancy mismatched plates. Rin sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes already wide as Ryuko and Fat Gum slipped into easy conversation, catching up like old teammates do—shorthand, laughs, a few shared glances that said more than words ever could.

Rin watched with a soft smile. She loved seeing her aunt like this. Not as Dragon Hero: Ryukyu, not as her grief-weathered guardian, but just… a woman catching up with an old friend. There was light in her that had been dim for weeks now. It flickered, but it was there.

“I still remember the first time I saw your name on the roster,” Taishiro was saying, mouth full. “Ryukyu. Sounded like a hurricane married a dragon and had a kid.”

Ryuko smirked. “Accurate.”

Rin snorted into her drink.

“And this one,” Taishiro said, nodding toward Rin. “She’s got that same look you had. Fire in the belly. Won’t stop ‘til she breaks the damn sky open.”

Rin blinked, cheeks warming. “I’m just trying not to pass out during rooftop drills.”

He gave her a knowing look. “Uh-huh. And I’m just trying not to eat a fourth slice. We all tell lies.”

Ryuko laughed, then gestured at Rin with her chopsticks. “Tell him what you’ve been working on.”

Rin hesitated, then perked up. “I’ve been stabilizing my quirk output during high adrenaline spikes. It’s a lot of micro-control. Pulse mapping, basically. I’m trying to track not just the rhythm, but intent. Emotional resonance.”

“Like a heartbeat lie detector?” Taishiro asked, eyes sparking with interest.

“Kind of,” Rin said, shoulders lifting. “But also… like an emotional fingerprint. Everyone’s heartbeat changes in its own way. I want to get good enough to read that.”

Taishiro leaned back, visibly impressed. “Damn. That’s big-league thinking. You’re not just training to pass—you’re thinking legacy.”

Rin’s throat tightened at that word. Legacy.

She pushed a smile up anyway. “Gotta make Mama and Papa proud.”

Ryuko’s chopsticks paused. Her eyes met Rin’s, and something soft and aching passed between them.

But before silence could stretch too long, Taishiro, like a seasoned emotional firefighter, changed the subject.

“Speaking of pride,” he said, smirking. “Let’s talk family names.”

Rin groaned. “Not this again.”

“I’m just saying,” Taishiro said between bites, “you’re Hanabira, but your dad took your mom’s name. That’s badass. Not everyone could.”

Rin nodded, thoughtful. “Papa always said names carry weight. And that hers held more safety than his ever could.”

Taishiro's gaze softened. “It’s not shame. It’s survival.”

Rin met his eyes. “I know. I just wish survival didn’t always have to feel like hiding.”

That silenced the room for a moment. A sacred hush, not heavy—just real.

Then Ryuko stood and declared, “We’re watching Shrek.”

Taishiro let out a whoop. “About damn time.”

Rin blinked. “Wait—you guys planned this?”

“Oh, sweet summer child,” Ryuko grinned. “There’s a reason you’ve been hearing All Star at random intervals for the last week.”

“You monsters.”

“No,” Taishiro corrected solemnly, remote in hand. “We’re ogres.”

The living room lights dimmed. Shrek queued up. Pizza disappeared at an alarming rate as the first chords of Smash Mouth’s anthem blasted from the speakers.

They quoted every line, of course. Taishiro did a perfect Donkey impression, complete with dramatic gasps and exaggerated hoof claps. Ryuko had apparently memorized the entire “Duloc” song. Rin laughed so hard during the mirror scene she choked on her crust.

It was—absurd. Warm. Ridiculous. Perfect.

And when Hallelujah played, soft and haunting, Rin found herself quieting. Her laughter folded inward. Her gaze dropped to the pillow in her lap, fingers absently brushing against the fabric.

She remembered Mama humming that song once. In the kitchen, when she thought no one was listening.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

She just watched.

Watched Donkey build a friendship. Watched Shrek push people away then pull them back in. Watched a story about monsters who weren’t really monsters, about heroes who weren’t perfect, about love that looked nothing like a fairytale—but still counted.

Somewhere inside her, a quiet part of her heart sighed.

---

By the time Shrek 2 rolled around, Rin was fully horizontal, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with her head on Ryuko’s thigh and a slice of cold pizza in one hand. Taishiro was reclined like a sun-drunk lion across the beanbag chair, snoring softly through the romantic climax. Ryuko, of course, was wide awake and emotionally invested like it was Oscar season.

“Look at him,” she murmured, gesturing at Shrek dancing in his freshly polymorphed human skin. “This man would literally break a fairy godmother’s wand for his girl.”

“I think that’s the standard now,” Rin mumbled. “No wand-smashing, no date.”

“I’ll let future prospects know,” Ryuko teased.

Rin squinted up at her. “I don’t like anyone that way yet.”

“Uh-huh. But you will. And your vibes are already fighting for dominance through time and space.”

Rin tossed a pillow at her, half-laughing. “Shut up, woman.”

Ryuko caught it with one hand, grinning. “You sound like Emi.”

Rin blinked.

That name—still so tender it crackled when spoken. But Ryuko said it without the hushed reverence others used. No eggshells. Just Emi. Whole, sun-warmed, and mischievous.

“Really?” Rin asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

“Oh yeah,” Ryuko said, reaching for a soda. “She used to chase me around with a water pistol full of soy sauce when we were kids.”

Rin gawked. “I thought you didn’t grow up together.”

“We didn’t, not fully.” Ryuko’s tone shifted—still gentle, but shaded with complexity. “Same mom. Different lives. She was already almost a teenager when I was born. Fierce as hell. I worshipped her. She thought I was annoying.”

“She probably loved you so much it made her feral,” Rin said quietly, a smile playing on her lips.

“God, yes,” Ryuko whispered, eyes glinting. “She once put a kid in a headlock for calling me a dragon reject.”

Rin’s chest ached in that slow, glowing way—the grief-syrup way, sweet and heavy.

“Why didn’t she tell me that?”

Ryuko looked down at her, brushing a stray hair from Rin’s forehead. “Because your mama always wanted to be your shield, not your backstory.”

That landed deep. Rin didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

They let Shrek 2 play on, half-watching, half-napping, until the end credits rolled and Taishiro snorted awake like a startled bear.

“I dreamt I was dancing with a frog prince,” he said, blinking.

“Honestly,” Rin said, stretching, “that might’ve actually happened.”

They put on Shrek 3, not out of excitement but obligation. It was the weaker one, sure, but the ritual demanded it. And somewhere between Arthur’s reluctant hero arc and Prince Charming’s Broadway breakdown, something in Rin began to leak.

She didn’t even feel it coming. Just—one second she was staring blankly at the TV, and the next, tears were running down her cheeks in quiet, shimmering rivulets. No sobbing. No dramatic gasps. Just saltwater falling like it had been waiting all day for a chance.

Ryuko noticed first. She always did.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, curling an arm around Rin’s shoulder and pulling her close.

Taishiro sat up straighter, expression instantly sobered. He didn’t speak—didn’t try to fix it, bless him. He just passed over a crumpled tissue like it was the last relic of a noble kingdom.

“I miss them so much,” Rin whispered, the words wet and cracked. “It feels like swallowing lightning and having nowhere to put it.”

Ryuko squeezed her tight. “I know, baby. I know.”

“I keep waiting for it to get quieter,” Rin went on. “But it just—builds. And I feel like I’m gonna rupture.”

Taishiro exhaled slowly. “You’re allowed to rupture.”

“I don’t want to,” she admitted. “Not in front of people. Not even the nice ones.”

Ryuko kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to be composed to be brave.”

Rin nodded against her aunt’s hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline. “Mama used to cry at movies. But she always laughed after. Even if she was a mess.”

“She had this way of making you feel like being messy meant you were alive,” Ryuko said, voice hoarse with memory. “She never apologized for feeling everything too much.”

“She made grilled cheese with three kinds of cheese and said that counted as self-care,” Rin said, managing a laugh through her tears.

“She used to sing badly on purpose in public places just to embarrass me,” Ryuko added.

“She danced in the rain because she said umbrellas made her feel trapped.”

“She threw a bouquet into a tree once because it ‘looked lonely’.”

All three of them were laughing now, softly, like clinking wind chimes in a passing storm. There were still tears on Rin’s face, but they were warm instead of sharp now.

“She was a story,” Taishiro said, reverently. “One of those long, winding, magical ones you never wanted to end.”

Rin nodded. “And I’m the chapter that got left behind.”

“No,” Ryuko said firmly. “You’re the sequel. And you’re gonna wreck people in the best way.”

They sat in silence after that. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Outside, the city murmured—cars, wind, distant laughter. Inside, the Shrek credits rolled again, unnoticed.

Eventually, Rin sat up, wiping her face. “Can we make this a thing? Like—Pizza and Shrek Night?”

“Every damn week,” Taishiro promised.

“Only if we rotate toppings,” Ryuko added. “Last time I had this much dairy, I became a biological weapon.”

Rin snorted. “Agreed. Next time—stuffed crust and oat milk ice cream.”

“Done,” said Taishiro, already setting a reminder in his phone.

As they packed up the empty boxes and folded blankets, Rin felt something new nestled inside her grief. Not relief. Not healing. But company.

It didn’t fix the ache.

But it gave it a place to sit.

And tonight—that was enough.

—

The hallway outside Rin’s new bedroom was quiet, humming faintly with the electric hush of night. Ryuko had gone to bed an hour ago, murmuring goodnight with a kiss to Rin’s forehead. Taishiro had lumbered off like a sleepy mountain, whispering, ‘Dream good things, kiddo.’ And now, the apartment was breathing with that sacred stillness only nighttime brings—where even the city’s noise softened into lullaby static behind the windows.

Rin stood barefoot on the cool floor, her hoodie draping down to her knees, a half-eaten strawberry Pocky stick poking out of her mouth. Her eyes, rimmed faintly with the glimmer of dried tears and leftover mascara, scanned the softly lit living room.

Something moved by the sliding balcony door.

A tail flicked.

Rin blinked. “Oh my god,” she whispered dramatically. “Who is she?”

A dainty silver cat with a crescent moon patch on her forehead was perched on the rug like a little oracle. Fluffy. Serene. Regal. The feline blinked once—slow, unimpressed—and then turned away as if Rin were late to some appointment neither of them had scheduled.

“You’re Usagi,” Rin declared instantly, crouching low. “You look like you run a coven.”

Usagi didn’t answer, because she was a cat, but she did saunter forward and bump her head against Rin’s knee. It was the kind of affection that felt like an initiation. Rin melted.

“Oh, you’re trouble,” she whispered, scooping the cat into her arms. “Absolute witch-familiar energy. You were definitely human in a past life.”

Usagi settled in her arms with the haughty grace of a feline queen accepting a tribute. Her purring started slow, hesitant, then deepened into a warm, rhythmic thrum—like she’d finally found something worth trusting.

Rin padded back toward her room, gently swaying Usagi like a baby. The apartment’s dim light caught her in golden slices—bare toes, tousled curls, a comet of grief orbiting a quiet kind of healing.

Her room was still unfamiliar, though less so than yesterday. The fairy lights she’d strung up earlier cast soft pink and lavender halos across the ceiling. Plushies lined the window sill like sleepy guards. A few of her parents’ things had found homes—Mama’s perfume bottle on the dresser, Papa’s favorite poetry book tucked under her pillow like a secret.

She crawled onto the bed, Usagi curling immediately at her feet in a perfect crescent, tail flicking like punctuation.

It wasn’t a grand night. No battles. No declarations. Just the hum of a city that never truly slept and the weight of a new life slowly taking shape around her.

Rin reached for her phone and scrolled—not through social media, but through her voice memos. She had a hundred recordings of her parents: laughing in the kitchen, arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it did, obviously), singing off-key to old love songs. Tonight, she wasn’t ready for those.

Instead, she opened a new memo. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Shaky. Full of breath.

“Day twenty-four without them,” she whispered. “But day one of something else.”

She glanced at Usagi, now fully asleep, a paw tucked over her snout.

“I met a cat,” Rin said, smiling. “She’s probably immortal. She judged me with her whole soul and then decided I was worth cuddling. Honestly, that’s more healing than therapy.”

A pause. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her blanket.

“I’m gonna try. I don’t know for what, or who yet. But I’m gonna try. For them. For me. For Ryuko, who made this place feel like a home in less than a week. For Taishiro, who smells like BBQ chips and feels like safety. For the girl I might become.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it. “I don’t know what kind of hero I’ll be. Or if I’ll even make it into the damn school. But... I think Mama would say that the point isn’t getting in. The point is getting up.”

Silence stretched. The kind that held no pressure. Just presence.

“I miss you both,” she added. “So much I don’t know where to put it. But I’m gonna start here. In this room. With this cat. And this voice memo.”

She clicked her phone off, then rolled over to face the ceiling, her hand brushing the spine of her papa’s poetry book beneath her pillow. Outside, wind rustled through the trees on the balcony. A siren wailed far in the distance—more lullaby than alarm.

Usagi stretched, yawned, and repositioned herself on Rin’s chest, pinning her gently with warmth and vibration.

“I promise,” Rin whispered, placing a hand over the cat’s tiny, warm body. “I won’t give up.”

The promise wasn’t loud. Wasn’t magic.

But it was true.

And that, on nights like this, was enough to matter.

The night deepened, spilling ink across the sky. Moonlight slipped in through the blinds, sketching quiet shapes on Rin’s walls—gentle shadows, silver ghosts. Somewhere in the building, a faucet dripped. The city was still awake, just far enough away to feel unreal.

Rin lay very still, her hand resting lightly on Usagi’s back. The cat had gone completely boneless, a warm little lump of trust and fur. Her steady purring was like an anchor—grounding, rhythmic, honest. No expectations. No demands. Just there.

“I think she would’ve liked you,” Rin murmured sleepily. “Mama had a thing for cats that acted like they owned the place.”

Her voice cracked on the word Mama, but she didn’t flinch away from it this time. It hung there—raw, real, hers.

“She and Ryuko used to fight over who got to keep the last takoyaki. Like, every single time,” she added, her lips twitching. “Ryuko always pretended she didn’t care, but she definitely kept score.”

The thought warmed her. A little ember glowing in her ribs.

They had fought like sisters because they were sisters. Half-sisters, technically, but never in practice. Emi had always been the hurricane—laughing too loud, crying too hard, loving too much. Ryuko was quieter, steadier, the moon to Emi’s flame.

Rin wondered if that balance had ever made things easier for them. Or harder.

“Do you think I’m more like her?” she whispered. “Or like Ryuko?”

Usagi didn’t answer, obviously, but she lifted her head and stared at Rin with those impossible, knowing eyes. The kind of look that felt like it came from a hundred years ago.

Rin sighed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Her hand stayed resting on Usagi’s warm little body.

“I think… I want to be a little bit like both,” she said, half-asleep now. “Fire and moonlight. Noise and quiet. I want to save people the way Mama did—with light in her eyes. But I also want to hold people like Ryuko does. Like nothing’s too broken to fix.”

Her voice faded to a murmur.

“I want to be that kind of hero.”

The purring didn’t stop. Not even when Rin finally drifted off, lashes fluttering, breath evening out. Usagi stayed curled there on her chest, guarding dreams. The fairy lights glowed faintly above, stars in their own small galaxy.

And somewhere in the hush between grief and tomorrow, the quiet promise took root—

—not flashy,

—not loud,

—but true.

And that was enough.

For now.

[mimixis]

[ARC I: Core Memories] Chapter 4: Thread by thread

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64873270/chapters/167322892

“It gets easier. Every day it gets a little easier. But you gotta do it every day—that’s the hard part.”

—Bojack Horseman

It was warm.

Not the warmth of sunlight on skin or blankets tucked around tired legs. No, this warmth lived deeper—curling behind her ribs, humming beneath her skin, slow and honeyed. Like a childhood fever that didn’t hurt. Like being held.

Rin floated.

There was no ceiling above her. No floor. No up or down. Just golden air, pulsing gently, like the breath of a sleeping world. Her body didn’t feel like a body. It felt like a dream. Her edges had softened, her bones forgotten. She was light. She was sparkles in syrup. She was a memory smiling back at itself.

She drifted through the quiet with no hunger, no fear. Only stillness. Only warmth.

Everything was soft and golden and slow.

Like a lullaby from somewhere too far to follow. Like warm hands stroking her hair in the dark.

She was wrapped in something safe. Not quite arms, not quite blankets, but something that felt like both—like the quiet safety of a mother’s coat draped around her shoulders. Like her father’s hoodie still smelling like him. Like someone whispering, You’re alright, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.

And Rin—who had always sparkled, always fought, always wanted—sank into it like a child sinking into a dream. She didn’t ask where she was. She didn’t need to.

Here, the world was made of laughter.

Of green parks and the squeak of swings and the way dandelions made wishes possible.

She dreamed of popsicles melting down her hand. Of her father’s voice—twirl for me, sweetheart!—and the kitchen spinning with music and flour. Of her mother’s arms around her after nightmares. Of the way she used to be called miracle, like the word meant her and only her.

She dreamed of the moon. Of bedtime stories and bubble baths. Of being picked up, carried, kissed on the crown of her head.

And through it all was that light. That golden glow, stretching out around her like sunset trapped in amber.

She smiled in her sleep.

But slowly—so slowly she almost didn’t notice it—the gold began to bleed.

At first, just a tint. An undertone. Like a painter had accidentally dipped their brush in crimson before finishing the light.

Then more.

The warmth curdled. Not cold, exactly—just wrong. Like something had gone sour.

The air thickened, heavy and metallic. The kind of air you can’t breathe without tasting.

The golden light deepened into orange. Then rust. Then red.

Not in a flash. No alarms. No sudden terror.

Just a slow bleed. Like dye leaking into bathwater. Like a sunset soaking into blood.

Rin blinked—or maybe didn’t—and realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

There were hands in the red.

At first, they looked like they belonged to someone. Familiar. Comforting. But they didn’t move.

Still. Too still.

Like paper cutouts floating in the dark.

She tried to reach one. Tried to call out.

But her voice—her glorious, bright, alive voice—didn’t come.

There were eyes, too. Floating. Wide. Open. Staring at nothing. As if they’d once known her but had forgotten how.

And lips—her mother’s lips, she knew them—moved soundlessly.

Rin tried to scream.

No sound came.

Not even breath.

The red pressed in tighter. Closer. It wasn’t a color anymore. It was a thing. Wet and seeping and too heavy to carry.

She saw her father’s chest. Not rising. Not falling.

Her mother’s fingers, curled like petals at the edge of a grave.

The word miracle echoed somewhere—but without a voice behind it.

And then, like lightning slicing a dream in two, came the taste.

Iron.

Like a mouthful of coins.

Like biting your tongue and not stopping.

Like a wound deep inside that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

It coated her throat. Her tongue. Her teeth. The dream cracked. The warmth snapped like a bone.

And Rin—tiny and trembling and choking on memory—plummeted.

She didn’t fall far. Just enough.

The golden red dissolved into a sterile white, and she wasn’t floating anymore. She was heaving.

There were hands again—but these weren’t gentle.

They were panicked. Human. Real.

A voice shouted something she couldn’t catch. She was choking, she was burning, she was waking up.

Not gracefully. Not gently.

Violently.

Rin gasped—and the air hurt. Her lungs shrieked as they stretched, raw and unused. Her back arched, her fingers spasmed, her whole body spasmed—

—and she vomited.

The basin found her just in time, or maybe the nurse shoved it into her hands without warning. Either way, it caught most of it. Bitter bile and mucus and the taste of iron that hadn’t left.

She coughed so hard she saw stars. She gagged until her ribs screamed.

Someone was saying something. Soft. Urgent. Too fast. Too loud.

She didn’t understand any of it.

The warmth was gone.

The dream was gone.

There was only light. Bright, white, buzzing hospital light. The kind that hurt behind your eyes. The kind that makes everything feel worse.

Her breath came in ragged sobs. Her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

Her chest ached like it had been split open and stitched closed by trembling hands.

She opened her mouth to ask Where’s Mama?, but nothing came out.

Only air. And salt. And the taste of blood.

She lived.

And she would never be the same.

There was a heartbeat in her ears.

Not hers.

Not steady.

Just a wet thud-thud-thud echoing somewhere behind her eyes, like her brain was still underwater and someone far above was banging on the surface, trying to get her out.

She couldn’t tell where she was.

Everything was too bright. Too fast. The lights hummed like wasps. The air stung her throat. There were shapes—people maybe—shifting at the edges of her vision, but her eyes wouldn’t focus. Couldn’t. Her body had weight again, and it was crushing her.

The dream had ended, but her brain hadn’t caught up. She kept looking for the golden glow, the soft warmth, the hands that promised, You’re safe now.

All she found was a sour taste on her tongue and the burn of bile in her throat.

A voice broke through the fog.

Female. Firm. Kind, but tight with alarm.

“She’s awake. Get Dr. Yamaguchi—tell him now.”

There was a shuffle of movement, the swish of a curtain, the beep of something electronic trying to pretend it was a heartbeat.

Rin tried to speak. The syllables broke apart before they reached her lips.

The nurse—short hair, round glasses, hands steady despite the chaos—pressed a hand to Rin’s shoulder, gently pushing her back as she fought to sit up.

“Don’t move. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

The words were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Safe didn’t taste like vomit.

Safe didn’t feel like this cage of wires and antiseptic and the unmistakable emptiness blooming in her chest.

Safe wasn’t this grief-shaped silence.

She shook her head—or tried to. Her neck gave the effort of a whisper. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung dry and left to rot in the sun.

She caught a glimpse of her hand.

Her nails were chipped. There was dried blood in the creases of her knuckles. Her fingers trembled like leaves in a thunderstorm.

She remembered lightning.

Not real lightning—hers.

The crackle of her quirk, the burning buzz in her veins, the light pouring from her fingertips like a prayer she never stopped whispering.

She remembered her parents.

Her mom’s voice calling out—sharp, urgent.

Her dad’s silhouette through smoke.

The weight of both their bodies—too much, too still—cradled against her shaking frame.

“Don’t leave me,” she’d whispered into her mother’s chest, as if words could be bandages.

“Stay,” she’d begged her father, even as the heat surged up through her arms, desperate, electric, wild.

She remembered the light.

The healing.

The trying.

And then—

Nothing.

Not even gold.

Just a drop. A fall. A fade to red.

Rin tried to breathe, but her chest rebelled, clenching hard around a sob that escaped anyway.

The nurse leaned closer. “You’re going to be okay, sweetheart. You’ve been through a lot. Try to rest, alright?”

Rin turned her head toward the voice, even though it felt like lifting mountains. Her lips parted, trembling with the need to ask—

Where are they?

But the words stuck, thick and sharp. She couldn’t get them past the grief swelling up her throat like a second heartbeat.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling.

There was a crack in it. A hairline fracture. Tiny. Barely visible.

But it was there.

Her eyes locked on it like it could hold her together.

Because nothing else did.

The nurse murmured again, this time into a comm. Something about vitals. About sedation. About trauma response. Like Rin was a file to be reviewed, a case to be managed.

She was alone.

The nurse was kind. The room was clean. The machines beeped faithfully.

But Rin was alone.

There were no arms pulling her close, no fingers brushing her cheek, no voice calling her miracle.

No footsteps. No familiar laugh down the hall. No scent of jasmine and kitchen spices. No father’s jacket folded on the chair. No mother’s hand stroking her forehead.

Nothing.

And everything.

Because her whole body remembered.

The electricity. The pain. The effort. The choice. The way she had poured every flicker of power she had into her parents like she could will them back to life.

She’d drained herself. Burned herself out. Given it everything.

And still… still…

The red had come.

Rin curled her fingers into the hospital sheet, too weak to cry properly. The tears came silently, trailing into her hairline, cooling fast against her skin.

She didn’t remember blacking out.

She didn’t remember being brought here.

She didn’t know how long it had been.

But she knew, deep in the marrow of her small, broken body—

Something was gone.

Something that wasn’t coming back.

The machines kept humming. The nurse kept moving.

The world kept turning.

But Rin lay still, drenched in absence, tasting blood and electricity and grief.

Alive.

And utterly, entirely changed.

---

She heard them before she saw them.

Muffled voices, low and careful, like people whispering at the edges of a funeral. One was steady. One was hesitant. One tried too hard to sound casual, like this was just another day in the life, another broken girl in another broken bed.

Rin didn’t move. She kept her eyes closed, barely breathing.

She could feel them there—three shadows pressing at the corners of the sterile hospital room. Pro heroes. The ones who’d pulled her out. The ones who were alive.

The ones who hadn’t saved her parents.

She opened her eyes when the door clicked shut and one of the voices stepped closer.

The doctor wore a white coat and a calm mask, crisp and practiced. But Rin had grown up watching her mother handle frightened patients and desperate families. She knew a polished lie when she saw one.

“You’re awake,” he said softly. “That’s good.”

His clipboard trembled just a little in his hands. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

Rin blinked. Three days. Time felt like something that had stopped existing.

“You’re safe,” he added, as if that meant anything anymore. “You’re under protection. No one can get in unless we say so.”

Her throat ached like it had been scraped raw. “Where’s my aunt?”

The doctor hesitated—just a beat. “She’s on her way. We reached her right after you stabilized. She’s… she’s been informed of everything.”

The everything curled behind her eyes like smoke.

She swallowed hard, her voice scratchy. “My parents?”

That did it.

The calm mask didn’t crack. It crumbled.

The doctor stepped back like the question burned.

And the pro heroes stepped forward.

There were three of them, standing at the foot of her bed like monuments. Their costumes had been replaced with dark jackets. All business. All solemnity. All failure, painted in dignity.

The first, a woman with steely eyes and cropped silver hair, spoke. “I’m Arakida. This is Meijin, and that’s Haruto.”

They all bowed slightly. Professional. Reverent.

Rin stared.

Meijin—the youngest of them—looked away first.

“You brought your father back,” Arakida said quietly. “But he wasn’t… himself.”

Rin’s heartbeat crawled up her throat. “What do you mean?”

“There was no pulse,” Meijin added. “No brain activity. No awareness. But his body—”

Haruto took over, his voice a rasp. “—moved.”

Rin sat still. Her eyes were dry. Her soul wasn’t.

Arakida’s voice lowered. “He stood. He blinked. His heart started again. But there was no response to stimulus. No signs of self.”

Rin looked down at her hands.

“My mother?”

Silence. The long, unbearable kind.

“She was gone before we arrived,” Meijin whispered. “There was nothing we could do.”

Nothing we could do.

Nothing she could do.

Except raise the dead and fail anyway.

Rin stared at the IV in her arm like it might drip answers into her blood.

“I did that?” she asked softly. “I made him… move?”

The heroes exchanged glances.

Arakida finally nodded. “Your quirk activated on instinct. We think the surge you gave him was… unprecedented. It jump-started his body.”

“Like a battery,” Meijin murmured. “But not the soul.”

Not the soul.

Rin’s breath hitched. Her chest tightened.

She wasn’t crying.

She couldn’t.

Her body felt too full of nothing.

“Your quirk is evolving,” Haruto added. “It’s not just healing anymore.”

The word felt like poison. Healing? What a fucking joke.

Rin clenched the sheet beneath her fingers. “Then why didn’t it work?”

Silence again.

Her voice rose—hoarse, cracked. “If it evolved, if it’s stronger now—why didn’t it work?!”

“You brought him back,” Meijin said gently. “But there was no one left to bring back.”

Just a body. Just an echo.

A shade in his skin.

Something inside Rin twisted, cold and sharp.

She remembered her father’s hand in hers, limp and too warm. She remembered screaming into his chest, willing her power into him like a last breath.

And he had opened his eyes.

But there had been nothing behind them.

“I made a puppet,” she whispered.

“No,” Arakida said firmly. “You tried to save him. That’s not the same.”

Rin didn’t answer.

She couldn’t decide which was worse—being powerful and failing, or being powerful and creating something unnatural.

Either way, she had crossed a line.

A trembling breath escaped her lips. Her arms felt too long, her body too heavy, her head too hollow. Her skin buzzed faintly, like the static left behind after a storm.

Her quirk had evolved.

She had raised the dead.

And still lost everything.

Rin sank back against the pillows like they might swallow her. She wished they would.

The room was too quiet now. The hum of machines, the beep of her heart, the faint buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead—it all felt loud. Too loud. Like it was mocking the silence in her chest where her family used to be.

Her hand twitched against the bedsheets, aching with phantom memory. Her father’s fingers had curled around hers when she was little. Big, warm, safe. She used to think they could catch the sky together. She used to think her quirk was for making things better.

Now she wasn’t sure if it was a gift or a fucking curse.

Haruto was the one who finally stepped closer, voice low and worn. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

She didn’t look at him.

“People freeze in their first crisis. You didn���t. You acted. You tried. That’s more than—”

“I didn’t save them,” she snapped.

The words ripped out of her throat like claws, raw and bitter.

“I didn’t save anyone.”

Meijin looked like he wanted to say something. He didn’t.

Instead, Arakida came closer. Her boots were nearly silent on the tile, but Rin could feel the weight of her presence. “You did save people. Your neighbors. The civilians. The building didn’t collapse because you pushed energy into the structure after it was hit.”

Rin blinked. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were already overusing your quirk,” Meijin said softly. “It looked like instinct. Like you were trying to hold the world together.”

But the world had broken anyway.

Rin squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t care about the neighbors.”

The words tasted cruel in her mouth. They weren’t true. Not really. But they weren’t what mattered.

“I wanted them.”

The silence that followed felt like a slap.

“You were found surrounded by arcs of electricity,” Haruto murmured. “You drained yourself. Nearly burned out your nervous system. Your brainwaves were off the charts—we thought you might not wake up.”

Rin flinched.

“You were trying to restart them both at once,” Meijin added.

She swallowed, throat tight. “I didn’t even know I could do that.”

“We don’t think you can. Not fully. Not in the way you wanted.”

“But I did,” she whispered. “Part of him came back. Not the right part.”

That truth haunted her more than the loss. She had touched something she wasn’t meant to touch. She had stepped past the edge of her power and reached into the void—and something had answered.

She had seen it in her father’s empty eyes. Something soulless wearing him like a suit. Something that wasn’t him.

That wasn’t anyone.

A puppet. A shell. An echo.

The guilt bloomed, thorny and wide, pressing into her lungs. “If I was stronger… smarter… if I’d used my quirk differently—”

“You were a child in a war zone,” Arakida interrupted, her voice steel wrapped in velvet. “No one expects you to play god.”

“But I did!” Rin shouted, her voice splintering at the edges. “I tried to play god and I failed.”

The room froze around her. The machines kept beeping. Her tears finally broke loose.

“I thought—” She shook her head, chest heaving. “I thought if I just poured enough of myself into them, I could undo it. I didn’t care what happened to me. I didn’t care if it killed me. I just… I just wanted them back.”

Meijin’s mouth moved, then closed again. He looked helpless. Haruto turned away.

Only Arakida met her eyes.

“You’re not the only one who’s ever tried to reverse the irreversible,” she said quietly. “You won’t be the last.”

Rin bit her lip until it bled. “Did anyone else see him?”

“Only us,” Meijin said. “We handled it privately. There’s no record. It’s not in the official report.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“He collapsed a few minutes after we got you stabilized,” Haruto added. “No brain activity ever returned. We… made sure he was treated with respect.”

Those words felt like bandages on broken glass.

Rin curled onto her side slowly, wrapping her arms around her knees. The movement tugged at the IV, made the machines beep. The nurse peeked in and left quickly, sensing the weight in the room.

They were treating her like a bomb. Fragile. Dangerous. Half miracle, half monster.

“I want to see my aunt,” she said hoarsely.

“She’s on her way,” Arakida repeated gently. “She was dealing with the arrangements. And the press. The cover story is in place—it was reported as a robbery gone wrong. There are… rumors, of course, but we’ve locked it down.”

“And I’m under protection now.”

“Yes. Round-the-clock surveillance, encrypted communications, facial blockers for press. You’re not just a grieving civilian anymore, Rin. You’re something else.”

Rin turned her face into the pillow. “I don’t want to be something else.”

None of them replied.

She wanted to scream. To tear the IV from her arm, to shatter the machine, to run. But she couldn’t even lift her own heartbeat without that machine tracking it. Her body was full of wires. Her soul was full of ghosts.

A miracle.

That’s what they called her.

What kind of miracle vomits up the dead?

The room emptied slowly, like a tide pulling back from shore.

Arakida was the last to leave. She gave Rin a look that wasn’t pity, but something stranger—like she saw a storm forming and didn’t know whether to stop it or kneel to it.

Then the door clicked shut.

Silence.

Not peace. Not quiet.

Just silence, thick and pressing and sharp around the edges.

Rin lay there, staring at the ceiling. At the little cracks in the paint. At the spot where the light flickered, just barely, like a heartbeat trying to steady itself.

She couldn’t tell if she was cold or hot. Couldn’t tell if the tremble in her limbs was from fear, rage, grief, or whatever strange current still danced under her skin.

Her quirk had always been gentle.

Soft pulses of warmth. Buzzing palms. The flicker of electricity as comfort, not weapon. Not resurrection. Not madness.

But something inside her had changed. Grown teeth. Spilled over.

And now she couldn’t stop wondering:

What if it happens again?

What if next time she wakes something worse?

What if next time it’s her who comes back wrong?

She turned her head and saw her reflection in the glass of the window. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Static-haired.

She didn’t look like a miracle.

She looked like a girl the lightning forgot to burn up all the way.

The nausea hit without warning.

She lurched upright, fumbling for the basin too late. Her stomach twisted violently, and she retched over the side of the bed, sobs tearing through each spasm like broken notes in a song no one should ever hear.

A nurse rushed in—quiet, quick, practiced—and held her steady while her body betrayed her.

Rin clung to the edge of the mattress like it might keep her from falling apart completely.

When it was over, when her stomach was empty and her throat was raw, the nurse wiped her face gently with a damp cloth. Her hands were kind. Wordless. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer praise. Just cleaned up the mess Rin had made of herself and said softly, “I’ll get you some water.”

And then she was alone again.

Alone with the taste of bile and grief. Alone with a heart still sparking in a chest full of ghosts.

Alone with the horrible, wondrous truth:

She had touched the line between life and death.

And it had answered.

---

Ryuko sat at Rin’s bedside, the low hospital light softening the sharp lines of exhaustion carved into her face. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her hero coat draped over the back of the chair like armor set aside in surrender. She looked so unlike the dragon everyone else saw—no fierce power, no indomitable strength. Just a woman, worn thin, trying not to fall apart in front of a child she loved.

She took Rin’s hand gently, her palm calloused and warm.

“I miss them,” she said, and her voice broke like something delicate dropped on tile. “So much.”

Rin didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in hours. Her body had dried out like a wilted flower, nothing left to give. The grief was still there, though—settled behind her ribs like a stone that refused to move.

Ryuko squeezed her hand. “We can stay here in China. Or go back home to Japan. It’s your choice, sweetheart. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.”

Rin nodded, but it felt like nodding through water. Her thoughts drifted slow and strange. Home. Where even was that now? Tokyo felt like a memory from someone else's story. This hospital room, with its sterile walls and the quiet hum of machines, was the only world that felt real.

They didn’t decide that night. There were too many other things.

Too many calls to make. Too many people to inform. Too many pieces of her parents’ lives to wrap up and put away.

The first time Ryuko broke down wasn’t over the death certificates or the calls from the embassy—it was over flowers.

“They hated lilies,” she said, voice cracking as she scrolled through arrangements on her phone. “Everyone thinks lilies are funeral flowers, but your dad said they smelled like death. Emi liked cherry blossoms. Said they were... poetic.”

“She said they were like me,” Rin murmured. “Beautiful and doomed.”

Ryuko looked up sharply, eyes shining. “She never said that.”

“She did,” Rin whispered. “When I got sick in first grade. She was holding me on the couch and told me I was a sakura girl. Beautiful. Soft. But... blooming too fast.”

They didn’t say anything after that for a long time. Just sat in the silence of the hospital room with their grief curling around them like fog.

When the paperwork was cleared and the necessary lies were told— ‘robbery gone wrong,’ ‘wrong place, wrong time,’ ‘not worth investigating further’—the funeral was planned.

Simple. Quiet. Just how her mother would have wanted.

They held it under a cluster of early-blooming cherry trees in a tucked-away garden at the embassy. Petals drifted down like snow, settling in Rin’s hair and catching in the folds of her aunt’s black kimono. There was no priest. No grand speech. Just Ryuko reading a letter she wrote at 3 a.m. and a playlist Emi had made once for a road trip, her voice occasionally cutting in between songs to give commentary.

Rin didn’t speak.

She sat there, still as glass, as people whispered condolences and patted her shoulder and told her she was ‘so brave.’

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to claw at the dirt and drag them back. She wanted to shake the petals off the trees and demand they stop falling so beautifully, so gently, like this was all some kind of fairytale ending.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak.

After the funeral, she watched Harry Potter on repeat. Then The Lord of the Rings. She latched onto characters like a lifeline, mouthing their lines before they spoke, reciting them in whispers under her breath.

“I’m not going home, not really,” Harry said, and she whispered it with him.

“I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you,” Sam said, and she mouthed it like prayer.

She clung to those stories like they were her own. Found herself in the orphans, in the broken, in the heroes who lost too much and kept going anyway.

Her hospital room became a shrine of quiet distraction—screens playing movies on loop, a stack of books Ryuko brought from the embassy library, a blanket that smelled like her mother. She didn’t want visitors. Didn’t want calls. Didn’t want people telling her things would get better.

She didn’t want better. She wanted before.

Ryuko sat with her most days, paperwork in one hand, tea in the other. She never pushed. Just existed quietly at Rin’s side, like a lighthouse refusing to dim.

Sometimes she’d tell stories—funny ones, mostly. About Emi’s first patrol, or how Kei once mistook a villain’s smoke bomb for an air freshener and set off the alarm at a shopping mall. Rin would smile faintly, but it never reached her eyes.

One night, Ryuko said, “They were so proud of you, you know. Kei kept a screenshot of your quirk test scores in his wallet. Like it was some kind of badge.”

Rin didn’t respond. She just stared at the TV where Frodo and Sam were climbing a mountain of fire.

“They were proud of me too,” Ryuko added, almost like she was reminding herself. “I just… didn’t get to hear it enough.”

Rin didn’t move.

She felt like her soul had been locked in amber. Preserved. Untouchable. Trapped.

She was the girl who lived, like Harry. The one who watched her world burn, like Frodo.

The one who’d carry the ring alone if she had to.

---

Time became strange.

It no longer moved in hours or days, but in rituals. In the scraping sound of nurses checking vitals. In the clink of Ryuko’s tea cup against the side table. In the pause between movie credits and the autoplay countdown to the next.

She lived in those pauses.

The world outside her hospital window kept existing—cars passed, birds sang, people laughed somewhere—but it all felt like someone else’s life. Not hers. Hers had ended in that red-tinted moment between silence and screaming, in that split second when her quirk overloaded and something inside her snapped.

Some days, she imagined her parents walking into the room, smiling like they’d just come back from groceries. Emi would be carrying too many bags, as usual. Kei would have snacks she claimed she didn’t want, then immediately steal bites of.

But no matter how long she stared at the door, it stayed shut.

The embassy sent food. Ryuko brought her favorite pastries. Nurses offered snacks. None of it mattered. Rin ate because she had to, not because she wanted to. Her body felt like borrowed machinery—moved only by commands, not instinct. Not hunger. Not hope.

Ryuko tried her best. She really did.

She asked if Rin wanted to take a walk around the garden. Rin shook her head.

She offered to do her hair. Rin shrugged.

She suggested they plan something—a trip to the mountains, maybe, or the beach. Rin blinked slowly, her face blank.

Eventually, Ryuko stopped suggesting and just sat.

One night, the silence between them grew too thick to ignore.

“I don’t know how to help you,” Ryuko said quietly. She wasn’t wearing her hero uniform. Just leggings and a hoodie, sleeves rolled up, hair loose. She looked more like a tired aunt than a pro hero.

“I don’t think I can be helped,” Rin said, her voice raw from disuse.

“That’s not true.”

Rin finally turned to her. “I brought him back, didn’t I? My dad. I used my quirk and pulled him back and he… he wasn’t even him anymore.”

Ryuko didn’t flinch. She looked at Rin the way you look at someone standing on a ledge—steady, careful, present.

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Rin’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “I rewired a corpse. Made a puppet of my own father. And I didn’t even mean to.”

“You were trying to save him,” Ryuko said, soft and sure. “You loved him.”

“But I failed.”

Ryuko reached for her hand, but Rin pulled away, clutching her blanket like armor.

“You didn’t fail, Rin. You survived.”

The word landed like an insult.

Rin turned her face toward the window, jaw tight. The cherry blossoms were fading outside, petals browned by the wind. Another season had passed without her noticing.

She wanted to scream again. Or break something. Or dissolve.

Instead, she whispered, “I don’t want to be a hero anymore.”

Ryuko didn’t respond right away.

When she did, it was with a breath and a nod. “Okay.”

That surprised her. No protest. No speech about destiny. Just… “okay.”

“I’m not saying forever,” Rin said quickly, defensively. “I just—I can’t right now. I can’t even think about training or saving people or smiling for interviews when I don’t even know how to stand up without shaking.”

“I understand.”

That cracked something in her. Because she did. Ryuko understood. Not just the surface pain—but the depth. The guilt. The helplessness. The bitter irony of being called a miracle when your miracle cost you everything.

Rin wiped at her eyes. The tears came without warning this time. Quiet, steady, different from before. Less like collapse and more like surrender.

“I keep thinking—if I’d been stronger, faster—if I’d used my quirk better—”

“Then what?” Ryuko said gently. “You’d be dead too?”

Rin didn’t answer.

Ryuko leaned in, brushing Rin’s hair from her face the way Emi used to. “Your parents didn’t raise you to destroy yourself over what-ifs.”

“They raised me to help people,” Rin said, a sob slipping into her voice. “To save them. And I couldn’t even save them.”

“No,” Ryuko said, voice firm now, hands warm on Rin’s trembling shoulders. “They raised you to love people. And you did. You do. That’s why it hurts so damn much.”

That did it.

Rin broke.

She cried until her throat burned, until her shoulders shook, until there was nothing left but exhaustion and the strange relief of having finally let go.

Ryuko held her the whole time.

They stayed like that until the hospital lights dimmed into night mode and the only sound in the room was the low murmur of movie credits rolling.

Later, as Rin lay curled beneath her blankets, half-asleep, she whispered:

“I feel like I’m fading.”

Ryuko, sitting at her side, ran a gentle hand down her back. “Then we’ll paint you back in. Bit by bit.”

That night, Rin dreamed of cherry blossoms and heartbeat monitors.

Of hands that held, even in the dark.

---

Back in Japan, Ryuko’s apartment was everything Rin didn’t know she needed. And everything she didn’t know how to hold.

The elevator dinged softly, and they stepped out into a quiet hallway that smelled like fresh laundry and warm wood. The ride from the airport had been a blur—blinking city lights, humming tires on rain-slicked pavement, the constant throb of her own heartbeat in her ears. Now it was just her and Ryuko and a set of keys that clicked too loud in the lock.

The door opened.

Warmth met her.

The apartment was quiet, but not empty. It had presence. A soul. The kind that wrapped around you like a quilt on a cold night, even when your heart was bleeding out under your ribs.

The kitchen was sleek but homey, a contradiction Rin found oddly comforting. Brushed steel appliances gleamed like armor, but everything else—the warm wood cabinets, the ceramic spice jars labeled in calligraphy, the little ivy plant reaching toward the sink—softened the space into something human. Lived-in.

She barely registered it.

Ryuko gave her a quiet tour. Living room: soft earth tones, a low, plush couch that looked like it could swallow someone whole, an oversized knit blanket folded with care. Candles in wall sconces. Framed sketches of dragons and flight paths. A wall-mounted TV with a gaming console neatly stacked underneath.

"You always said you wanted one," Ryuko murmured, gesturing to the controller. "For movie nights."

Rin nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.

The bathroom smelled like sea salt and eucalyptus. Stone tiles underfoot. Rainfall showerhead. A fresh set of fluffy towels folded like origami on a bamboo shelf. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Too pale. Eyes ringed in violet shadows. A ghost.

Ryuko’s room was minimalist. Clean lines. White bedding. A single photo of her sister —Rin’s mother —smiling from a bedside table. The frame was cracked at the corner. Like it had been dropped. Like someone had clutched it too hard.

And then there was Rin’s room.

The door creaked open on a space that looked like magic incarnate. A fever dream of softness and sparkle.

Fairy lights tangled with faux ivy trailed down the walls, casting gentle constellations across pale pink paint. A delicate lace canopy draped from the ceiling like spun sugar, its edges catching the glow like stars in a net.

There was a mezzanine loft with a ladder leading up to the sleep space. The mattress was huge, buried in a forest of pillows and plushies—some old, some new. She spotted the fox she’d carried through kindergarten. A battered Moomin plush her mother had won at a festival game. A sparkly unicorn still with the tag on.

Books lined floating shelves on the walls. Classics. Manga. A shelf just for magical girl series. Her favorite, lovingly arranged in order, complete with color-coded bookmarks. Vinyls displayed in matching frames—some vintage, some clearly picked just for aesthetics. And there, nestled between them, was a vintage gramophone with a stack of records beside it.

There was a desk by the window. Organized. Inviting. A soft lilac lamp. Pens in rainbow jars. A planner with post-its already scribbled in Ryuko’s neat hand: First day of school! Don’t forget your lunch!

And hanging on the wardrobe was her school uniform.

Clean. Pressed. Waiting.

A hand-stitched patch with the symbol she wanted to use as a hero —heartline—had been sewn gently onto the inside collar. She reached for it with trembling fingers.

Rin stood at the threshold. One foot in the real world. One still in the dream. She stared. Hand still on the doorknob.

And the tears came.

Not the messy, gasping kind. These were silent. Slow. Like snowmelt running down her cheeks.

She wasn’t ready.

This room was made for someone who survived. Someone who would smile again. Someone who still belonged to the world of light.

She wasn’t sure she was that girl anymore.

“I thought maybe you’d want a place that felt like you,” Ryuko said from behind her. She didn’t come closer. Just let the words hang like breath on glass.

Rin swallowed. “It’s perfect.”

It came out cracked.

Ryuko’s hand touched her shoulder. Warm. Solid. “You don’t have to love it yet. Or even like it. But it’s yours. Whenever you’re ready.”

Rin nodded.

She stepped inside. Each step felt like trespassing. Like she was walking into the future meant for someone else.

She touched the books. Let her fingers trail the fairy lights. Sank down into the mattress until it cradled her, the plushies falling into her lap like soft, silent witnesses.

She curled up there, in her clothes, in her grief.

The room didn’t fix anything.

But it didn’t hurt.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

---

That night, Rin didn’t sleep.

She just lay there, wrapped in the arms of plushies and moonlight, her eyes wide open beneath the canopy of fairy lights. The ceiling projector flickered above her—an old black-and-white film playing with the volume off. She couldn’t tell what it was. Something vintage. Romantic. People in love, smiling in a world that didn’t look like it had ever known war.

She watched their mouths move without sound.

Maybe it was better that way.

Down the hall, Ryuko padded quietly through the apartment. Lights clicked off one by one. A kettle hissed, then silenced. A door shut with the soft finality of exhaustion.

Rin didn’t move.

She couldn't stop hearing the machines in the hospital. Couldn’t stop seeing her father’s eyes, open and empty. Couldn’t forget how the nurse had looked at her like she was a miracle and a monster in the same breath.

Her fingers twitched under the covers.

There was too much quiet now. No monitors. No beeping. No footsteps outside her door. Just the breathy hush of Musutafu at night and the occasional low murmur of a train in the distance. The world was still spinning. Still going. Still here.

How dare it.

At some point, her body gave in. Not to sleep, but to something like it—half-consciousness, floating just above the edge of rest. In that space, she dreamed of rain. Of rooftops and blood. Of cherry blossoms falling in reverse.

The next morning, she didn’t speak much. Ryuko made breakfast—miso soup, soft rice, grilled fish. Rin picked at it. Ate a little. Forced her body to function even though everything inside her still felt like it was turned to ash.

Ryuko didn’t push. She just sat across the table with her own bowl and her quiet, watchful eyes. The hero who used to lift entire buildings with her dragon strength now held her teacup like it was made of glass.

“We don’t have to plan anything right now,” she said gently. “But we can. When you’re ready.”

Rin nodded.

She wasn't ready.

Still, the world didn’t stop waiting.

The calendar mocked her in pastel. April 22nd, circled in heart-shaped stickers, still glowed on the wall like her parents had planned it. Rin didn’t cross it out. She just stared at it some mornings, like maybe if she stared long enough, it would blink first.

Ryuko knocked gently, then opened the door with that quiet hush she’d mastered since everything. She had balloons in one hand and a glittery party hat dangling from the other like it was ashamed of existing.

“I was thinking we could invite a few classmates—maybe make it small, just—”

“No.” Rin’s voice was steady, but her fingers trembled in the blanket. “I don’t want a party.”

Ryuko nodded. She didn't ask why. Didn’t press. Just left the balloons outside Rin’s door like hopeful little ghosts.

That night, it was just them. The cake was pink-frosted red velvet—Emi’s recipe, carefully dug out of a dented, flour-dusted binder. Ryuko lit thirteen candles anyway. Rin didn’t make a wish. Wishes felt too much like lies.

They ate on the floor in their pajamas, wrapped in a big fuzzy blanket, watching My Neighbor Totoro like it was holy scripture. Rin cried during the scene with the mother in the hospital. Ryuko didn’t say a word. She just passed the tissues and offered her shoulder like a quiet harbor.

“I don’t feel thirteen,” Rin whispered later, eyes swollen, voice small.

“I don’t think birthdays care how we feel,” Ryuko murmured, brushing a crumb from Rin’s cheek. “They just show up.”

Outside, Musutafu blinked in sleepy neon. Inside, the cake was half-eaten, the room smelled like sugar and tears, and Rin curled into Ryuko’s side, holding her warmth like a heartbeat.

And for one quiet night, that was enough.

The next few days blurred.

She wandered the apartment like a ghost in her own body. She watched Harry Potter on repeat. Frodo, too. Stories about loss. About chosen families and broken kids who still saved the world. She memorized scenes. Whispered the lines under her breath like prayers. Harry standing at the Mirror of Erised. Frodo on the mountain, asking why.

They’d lost their people. Their homes.

She was one of them now.

She didn’t cry again.

She didn’t scream.

She just… faded.

Ryuko gave her space but didn’t vanish. She left little things. A favorite snack on the desk. A cup of tea steaming on the windowsill. A folded note with a doodle of Rin’s favorite magical girl character. No pressure. Just presence.

One night, she found a box waiting on her bed.

Inside: a pair of combat boots in Rin’s size, laced up with lavender ribbons.

A note tucked inside the left shoe read:

“For when you’re ready to stomp the world again. Love, Aunt Ryuko.”

Rin sat there for a long time, holding one boot in her lap like it might answer the ache in her chest.

She didn’t put them on.

But she didn’t throw them away either.

Somewhere in the stillness of the apartment, grief curled up and made itself at home. It didn’t roar or wail. It just was. In the smell of the shampoo Rin couldn’t bear to use yet. In the sight of her school uniform hanging by the door, untouched. In the phantom weight of her mother’s kiss and the memory of her father’s laugh.

The hardest part wasn’t the pain. It was the quiet.

The cruel, unbelievable truth that there was no going back. No fixing it.

Just surviving.

---

They sat in the quiet.

No TV. No music. Just tea cooling between them on the low table, its steam rising in slow, ghostly spirals. The apartment still smelled faintly like incense from the memorial, like burnt cherry bark and dried plum, as if the air itself hadn’t figured out how to be normal again.

Ryuko’s living room had changed. Or maybe Rin had. The fairy lights strung along the ceiling blinked gently, dim and tired. Plushies stared from the corner like tiny witnesses. A blanket pooled on the couch beside Rin, heavy with a sleep she couldn’t find.

Ryuko finally spoke. Her voice sounded like someone else’s—a hero’s voice softened by mourning. “They loved you more than anything.”

Rin’s fingers curled around her cup, its ceramic still warm. She stared into the tea like it might whisper back.

“I know.”

Silence again. Not empty, but full of ache. Full of everything they weren’t saying—of how Ryuko had to sign paperwork no one should ever have to sign. Of how Rin had woken up screaming. Of all the ways the world had shifted and shattered and gone on spinning anyway.

“We can grieve,” Ryuko said, looking at her not like a child, but like someone carrying something breakable. “But we also have to move.”

“I’ll get into U.A.,” Rin said. Her voice was flat, but her jaw was set like iron. “I swear it.”

Something flickered across Ryuko’s face. Pride. Grief. Something molten and maternal. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Rin’s cheek like she used to when Rin was small and afraid of thunder.

“I believe you,” she said. Her smile was broken. But it was still a smile.

She pulled her hand back, and for a moment it trembled.

“You need a therapist,” she added, more quietly. “Promise me you’ll go.”

Rin didn’t argue. She just nodded, like a soldier accepting orders.

The therapist’s office smelled like lavender and rainwater. The windows were wide and open, and wind chimes clinked gently outside—too gently, Rin thought. Too calm. She sat on a chair that felt like it might swallow her whole and stared at a painting of a bird flying over a sea.

Her therapist had a soft voice and softer eyes. She didn’t prod. Didn’t ask about the hospital. Didn’t say their names. Just asked, now and then, ‘What was the dream like?’ or ‘What does hope look like today?’

Sometimes Rin answered. Sometimes she didn’t. But she always came back.

She started studying again, one subject at a time. At first, it felt stupid. Like learning fractions or memorizing battle case law could matter when your whole life had fallen off a cliff. But her father had once told her that knowledge was a sword too, and she wasn’t about to show up to U.A. with anything less than a full arsenal.

She kept her notes in color-coded stacks. Made flashcards. Quizzed herself until her eyes burned.

She trained, too.

Not with Ryuko. Not yet. Just alone, in the apartment’s tiny backyard or in the mirror-lined dance studio down the street. She practiced first aid until it was muscle memory. Pushed her quirk until her fingers ached and her breath hitched. There were moments she thought her heart might give out from how hard it pulsed in her chest—but she always stopped just short.

She hadn’t stopped in time before.

The guilt was a weight she wore like armor.

School was different now. The whispers didn’t stop entirely, but they changed shape. When kids found out her aunt was Ryuko, the tone shifted. The teasing dried up like spit on concrete.

CPR Barbie faded.

Rin was still quiet, though. Quieter than she’d ever been. Her laughs were rare things now, soft and small and slow to arrive. But when they came, they felt real.

One morning, someone slipped on the stairs. A second-year— tall, wide-eyed, barely out of childhood. She stumbled on thin air and tipped backwards, arms flailing.

Rin moved before she thought.

She caught the girl by the wrist, grounding her with a quick jolt of her quirk—not enough to shock, just enough to stabilize, like a heartbeat passed hand to hand. The girl didn’t cry. She just blinked and whispered, ‘That felt weird,’ like she’d brushed a ghost.

And then she grinned.

They became friends.

---

Rin didn’t feel like herself yet. Not really. Sometimes she woke up thinking she could hear her parents humming in the kitchen. Sometimes she thought she saw their shadows in her dreams.

But she was moving.

And that was something.

Her therapist, whose name was Dr. Maruki but who insisted on being called Saya, didn’t act like a fixer. She didn’t hand out platitudes or tell Rin that time healed all wounds.

Instead, she asked soft, specific questions that stuck with Rin hours after she left the office.

“What do you miss the most today?”

“What do you think your mom would’ve said about that nightmare?”

“Who are you angry at right now?”

The anger part surprised Rin. She hadn’t realized how much of it lived in her bones—anger at the spies, at the world, at the funeral director who smiled too politely, at the neighbors who crossed the street instead of saying, ‘I’m sorry’.

At herself.

She hated herself some days. For not being stronger. Faster. For using her quirk too late. For not knowing how to bring back the dead. For surviving.

She admitted it once, in a whisper, to Saya. “Sometimes I wish it had been me.”

Saya didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for her like people always did.

She just nodded. “That’s a very heavy wish to carry.”

Rin looked at her lap. “I don’t want to die.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

That was the thing with Saya. She didn’t twist Rin’s words. She just held them like something fragile and true, and let Rin decide what they meant.

At school, things didn’t magically become easier—but they became bearable.

The girl she’d saved—her name was Chikuchi Togeike—started walking with her in the mornings. She had a gap between her front teeth and smelled like apples. She talked a mile a minute and never expected Rin to keep up. Nervous habit, Rin suspected. 

“I made you something,” she said one day, holding out a friendship bracelet made of pastel string. “You don’t have to wear it if you think it’s lame.”

Rin blinked down at it. It looked like cotton candy, uneven and looped too tightly in the middle.

She put it on her wrist anyway.

“It’s not lame.”

And it wasn’t. It was the first gift she’d gotten since the hospital. Since them. It mattered.

Some classmates still kept their distance. Grief was contagious in middle school. No one wanted to sit next to the girl who didn’t talk much and had eyes like they’d seen ghosts. But Rin didn’t care the way she used to. There was a strange power in it—being unapproachable. It gave her space to observe. To grow.

She caught herself watching other students train during gym class. Analyzing footwork, memorizing mistakes. She started scribbling down combinations in a little notebook she kept in her jacket pocket.

One afternoon, she asked a teacher if she could practice alone in the backfield during free time.

“I just… need space.”

They let her.

That day, she trained like she was made of fire and lightning. Her body moved on instinct, swift and coiled. Her quirk buzzed at her fingertips like static caught in skin.

She didn’t overuse it.

She didn’t let herself.

But when she finished, panting and trembling and sweat-soaked, she felt something spark deep inside her. Not joy—not yet—but something close. Something alive.

---

Ryuko watched her without hovering. She didn’t treat Rin like she was broken, but she also didn’t pretend nothing had changed.

Sometimes, late at night, they’d sit at the kitchen table, sipping miso broth and flipping through old photo albums.

Ryuko would point at a blurry picture of Rin as a toddler, grinning with a mouthful of tofu, and say, “You used to insist on feeding your dad with chopsticks. Wouldn’t let him eat otherwise.”

Rin would smile, slow and sideways. “He always acted like it was a game.”

“Because it was.”

They laughed then. Small, sharp bursts. Like birds startled into flight.

One night, Ryuko brought home a training dummy. Set it up in the living room like it belonged there between the houseplants and the TV.

“What’s this?” Rin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ryuko grinned. “Consider it your new roommate.”

They took turns hitting it, trading form critiques between jabs. Ryuko didn’t go easy on her, but she didn’t push either. She knew the difference now—between testing Rin’s strength and testing her endurance.

Afterward, they collapsed on the floor with sore knuckles and sore ribs, sweaty and breathless and a little bit lighter.

Rin rolled her head to the side. “You think I can do it?”

Ryuko didn’t ask what it was.

“I know you can.”

There were days it still hurt too much to breathe. Days Rin curled up in bed and stared at the wall, the bracelet from Chikuchi looped loosely around her wrist, her textbooks untouched.

She allowed those days.

Didn’t fight them. Didn’t punish herself.

But they became less frequent.

She was still soft. Still a mess of pain and promise and electric grief. But she was becoming something else, too. Sharper. More focused. Ready.

She didn’t laugh as often.

But she moved.

And sometimes, when she moved, she felt her parents in every step.

Like maybe they were walking with her.

Still.

[mimixis]

[ARC I: Core Memories] Chapter 3: To Keep the Spark Alive

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64873270/chapters/166902391

“Power comes in response to a need, not a desire.”

— Son Goku, Dragon Ball Z

"Why?" Rin's voice cracked like glass underfoot. "Why now?"

They stood in the living room that had once echoed with laughter and cartoons and clumsy family dances. Now it was filled with the sterile quiet of impending departure. Boxes stood like little tombstones, some still gaping open, others taped shut like sealed fates. Her favorite blanket was folded neatly on the couch—too neatly, like a goodbye letter tucked into the corner of a life.

Her mother knelt in front of her, hands soft but steady on Rin’s shaking arms. "Sweetheart," she said, her voice threaded with guilt and steel. "We’re not doing this to take anything away from you. We’re doing it to keep you safe."

"I am safe!" Rin snapped, yanking her arms back. Her feet planted like roots on the hardwood floor. "I have friends here. I have school. I was going to apply to U.A.!"

Her voice pitched up, raw and fierce, trembling with the force of a dream teetering on a cliff.

Her father stood near the hallway, arms crossed but not angry—just bracing, like someone watching a ship pull away without him. "There’s an international school in the capital," he said gently. "You’ll keep training. You won’t be behind. You won’t even need to worry about Chinese yet—we’ve got tutors lined up. But Rin…"

"I don’t want to go!" she shouted. Her chest heaved. Her nails dug crescents into her palms. "I don’t want a new school. I don’t want new friends. I don’t want to be safe! I want to live!"

Something inside her surged—an invisible pulse, like static snapping through her veins. The air buzzed faintly. The nearby lamp flickered. Her parents exchanged a glance. Her mother’s hand twitched, as if to reach out, but didn’t.

They didn’t say it aloud.

Not about the villains. Not about the bounty her Quirk could fetch. Not about the nightmare Ryuko  had painted, blood-slick and all too real.

But Rin could feel it, all the same. That unspoken thing pressing down on the room like gravity. Like guilt. Like fate.

Her voice dropped. "You’re not telling me the whole truth."

Her mother’s face crumpled for half a second, then reassembled into something calm and maternal. "You don’t need to carry it all right now."

"But I do, don’t I?" Rin said. Her eyes shimmered but refused to spill. "Because it’s about me. It’s because of me."

Her father stepped forward. "No. It's for you."

And that was worse.

Because it meant there was no argument. No bargaining. Just a decision already carved into stone.

They had their first real fight that night.

Rin had stormed into her room and slammed the door so hard the walls trembled. Her mother followed, knocking softly, then firmly, then not at all.

Rin curled up against the door. Not crying. Not screaming. Just breathing too fast, like her lungs were trying to climb out of her chest.

She hated the silence more than the shouting. The way everything felt like it was moving without her. Like she was just luggage being packed.

From the hallway, muffled voices tangled:

"—too much for her—"

"—we don’t have a choice, Emi—"

"—she’s just a kid—"

The door might as well have been a dam. Every word filtered through like pressure building behind it.

Rin stood suddenly and swept everything off her desk. Books, papers, pens—they flew, clattered, scattered. She didn’t even feel better afterward.

Eventually, she lay in bed with her back pressed to the wall, staring at the ceiling.

The moonlight painted soft stripes through the blinds. Her posters were still up—her magical girls, her favorite bands, that one glossy photo of Ryuko  mid-flight, all muscle and majesty.

Would she have to take them down?

Would she have to become someone else just to survive?

Her heart ached with something bigger than sadness. It was grief.

And the most terrifying part was that nothing had actually happened yet.

She was mourning a life that hadn’t even ended. A life that hadn’t yet been stripped away. But already, it was unraveling. Already, her future had forked, and the path she wanted was being swallowed by a fog she couldn’t fight.

She pressed her fingers to her sternum, felt the faint buzz of her own pulse beneath the skin. Her Quirk stirred like a whisper in the dark.

What are you saving people from, it seemed to ask, if you’re the one who needs saving now?

Down the hall, her parents sat in the living room—awake, silent. Her mother held a cup of tea she hadn’t sipped from in an hour. Her father stared at the floor like it held an answer he’d missed.

They loved her. Desperately. That was never the question.

But love, it turned out, wasn’t always a gentle thing. Sometimes it was a steel gate. A leash. A choice made for you, wrapped in kisses and careful words.

Sometimes love looked like moving trucks and tutors and schools with fences.

Sometimes it felt like betrayal anyway.

In her bed, Rin whispered to the ceiling, "I won’t disappear. No matter where you take me."

She wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a threat.

- - -

The new home was bigger. Sleek. Sterile. Full of polished edges and untouched surfaces, like the kind of place you tiptoe through rather than live in.

It smelled like ginger and fresh paint and something faintly chemical—like lemon-scented cleaner. Rin stood in the doorway, sneakers squeaking against imported wood floors, and tried not to feel like she’d just been transplanted into someone else’s life.

The kitchen was pristine: white marble countertops that seemed too cold to ever knead dough on, a chrome fridge that reflected her face like a warped mirror, and a backsplash of mosaic tiles that glittered when the light hit just right. It was beautiful. Impressive. And entirely too quiet.

The living room opened into tall windows framed by silk curtains, the color of stormclouds before rain. There were too many throw pillows. Too many sleek, modern furniture pieces that looked like they’d break if you sat on them wrong. It was the kind of home people designed to impress guests, not cradle memories.

The bathroom had heated floors and a soaking tub Rin could practically swim in. Her parents had clearly gone out of their way to make this move seem like an upgrade. A step forward. A new beginning. But all Rin could feel was the sharp sting of something left behind.

Then there was her room.

Lavender walls. Floating white shelves arranged with symmetrical precision. A loft bed with built-in stairs that doubled as drawers. A reading nook by the window with the kind of cushions you saw in catalogues. It was… perfect.

Too perfect.

Like a museum display labeled: Happy Child.

Everything looked like it had been designed to prove she was fine. That the move wasn’t a loss—it was a gift.

But Rin wasn’t fine.

She missed the creaky stairs of their old apartment. Missed the way the sunlight poured in slanted through her bedroom window. Missed the hallway where she used to practice spins when she thought no one was watching. She missed familiarity. She missed the sound of her mom humming during breakfast. She missed knowing every crack in the sidewalk of her old neighborhood.

Now she just had… space. Endless space. But no warmth.

School, of course, was worse.

They called it an accelerated hero program. Students from all over the country, all top scorers, all chosen for their potential. It was supposed to be prestigious. Rin’s mother had read the pamphlets like scripture. Her father had looked relieved when they mentioned on-site security and monitored dorms.

But none of that helped when Rin walked in on her first day and instantly felt like a glitter bomb in a military camp.

They mocked her hair first. Bright, pink-streaked, full of personality.

Then her clothes—too colorful, too bold, too loud.

And finally, the whispers about her quirk.

“So what? She glows and fixes boo-boos?”

“She’s like a walking band-aid.”

“Bet she cries if you touch her.”

At first, Rin tried to hold her head high. She smiled through it. Tossed her hair. Pretended she didn’t care.

But the comments wore down her glitter like sandpaper. Every lunch alone chipped another piece off her shine. Every whispered laugh when she walked past made her shoulders curl a little tighter inward.

Then came the training yard incident.

She had been cornered behind the target dummies, three older kids looming, grinning in that way that said they weren’t here to play fair.

"Let’s see what your sparkles can do."

They didn’t hit her. Not really. Just blocked her way. Tossed her bag around like a toy. One of them nudged her shoulder with mock-concern, fake crying sounds echoing in the chilly air.

“Fix me, nursemaid,” he’d sneered.

And Rin—exhausted, furious, heart racing—felt it.

That pulse.

Her quirk didn’t just react to injury anymore. It reacted to emotion. To fear. To threats.

The static swelled in her chest like thunder behind glass. The air around her buzzed.

Then—

Crack.

One of the boys staggered back, clutching his arm. Not burned. Not hurt. But clearly shocked.

Literally.

The others froze. For a moment, so did Rin.

Then she realized: she hadn’t healed anyone. She hadn’t glowed.

She had fought back.

The electricity in her veins wasn’t just meant for mending.

It could be a weapon.

And suddenly, the rules had changed.

Rin didn’t say anything when the boy scrambled away. She didn’t apologize.

She didn’t need to.

She stood still, breathing hard, pulse thrumming like a war drum in her chest. The scent of ozone lingered faintly in the air, barely detectable—but unmistakably hers.

The others stared at her like she had grown fangs. One of them—bigger, older—took a step back and muttered, “Freak.” But it lacked the bite it had carried before.

That night, she lay awake in her picture-perfect room, the lavender walls dim in the glow of the moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains. She stared at the ceiling and thought about what had happened. Not with shame.

With power.

The next day, no one mocked her quirk.

The boy she’d shocked avoided eye contact. Rumors started, yes, but they were laced with caution now. They said she had some kind of surge quirk. Said she could fry your nervous system if she wanted. That she was unpredictable. Dangerous.

Rin didn’t correct them.

She smiled a little more when she walked into class. She tossed her hair with intention. She let the whispers twist and stretch the truth until it cloaked her like armor. Maybe she wasn’t the strongest. Maybe she wasn’t the flashiest.

But she wasn’t fragile.

They would learn that.

Still, she didn’t tell her parents about the incident. She couldn’t stand the thought of the worry on their faces, the gentle voices, the questions she didn’t know how to answer. They were already strained, already watching her like she might crack or shatter from the pressure of this move, this city, this life.

Instead, she trained harder.

Rin poured herself into movement—kicks, blocks, precision throws. She stayed after class. She pushed herself in conditioning drills until her legs trembled. She wasn’t just learning techniques anymore.

She was crafting her own control.

And she began experimenting.

At night, she would close the door to her room, turn off the lights, and press her palms together. Concentrating. Waiting. Feeling.

She focused on that pulse inside her. The one that had once only healed but now hummed with potential.

Small sparks danced along her fingertips. The glow in her chest flickered with more range now—pink to white to gold, depending on her focus. She could direct it. Maybe not perfectly, not yet. But enough.

She shocked a pillow by accident once. It singed the corner. She turned it to the wall before her mother could notice.

Weeks passed.

The weather grew colder, and Rin grew quieter. Not withdrawn—but watchful. Intentional. She studied others in training, watched the way they moved, how they reacted. How they used their quirks in tandem with their bodies.

She made note of her limits. The headaches when she used too much energy. The tremors if she tried to split her focus between healing and defense. She began logging everything in a secret notebook tucked into the hollow behind her bookshelf.

Note: Surge output triggered by fear = stronger than triggered by anger.

Note: Healing pulse still most stable through skin contact. New goal: project without touch.

Note: Electricity disperses if grounded. Must learn to redirect, not just release.

Rin’s room began to change, too.

The reading nook was now a base camp for her journals and training plans. The lavender walls were slowly getting covered with self-made diagrams, sticky notes with questions, sketches of her own quirk flow. The floating shelves now held books about biology, nerves, electricity, reflex response theory.

She still kept the stuffed jellyfish her aunt had given her. But now he sat beside a hand-made dummy she practiced her aim on.

Her sanctuary had become a lab.

Then came the test.

A field day simulation—mock rescue and combat situations, a favorite at her new school. They trained in a special building in a simulation, X-Men style.

Rin was assigned to Squad 3. A mix of unfamiliar names and faces: a boy who could generate sonic pulses, a girl with reinforced skin, and a telekinetic who refused to talk above a whisper. She didn’t know them. They didn’t know her.

That was fine.

The instructors set up the challenge in an abandoned training zone in the mountains. Their mission: recover the ‘hostages,’ neutralize the ‘villains,’ and avoid triggering the traps.

Her squad moved fast. Too fast. The sonic boy kept charging ahead without strategy. The whispering telekinetic was stuck dragging rubble while the other girl kept taking hits to shield them. Rin found herself filling gaps without being asked.

A twisted ankle. A cut arm. A blown eardrum.

She healed each one, pulse surging smooth and focused, despite the chaos. When they finally reached the center of the field and came face to face with the instructors posing as villains, it was Rin who stepped up first.

When the telekinetic was pinned, she threw a shock that stunned the ‘villain’ long enough for him to escape.

When the others hesitated, unsure whether to go for the hostage or keep fighting, Rin shouted orders like she’d been born for it.

And they listened.

Squad 3 finished third overall. Not bad.

But what everyone remembered was the moment one of the instructors—a pro hero who specialized in pressure quirk suppression—tried to grab Rin from behind.

She didn’t flinch.

She ducked low, drove her elbow back into his ribs, and sent a pulse of energy up her spine into his hands.

He let go.

The glow in her eyes didn’t fade for nearly a minute.

They made her run through a diagnostics check after. Her readings came back stable. No anomalies. No threat detected.

But the buzz had started again.

Not taunts this time. Whispers of respect. Of curiosity. A few of awe.

And Rin—still only eleven years old—walked through the hallways with her chin high and her spark quietly humming beneath her skin.

Her parents noticed a shift. She smiled more at dinner. She asked to train extra on weekends. She even started helping cook again, taking care to mix the sauces just right the way her mother liked them.

One night, her father asked gently, “Do you like it here now?”

Rin paused, stirring the soup. She didn’t look up.

“I don’t hate it anymore,” she said.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the full truth, either. But it was a start.

Later that week, she got a letter from Ryuko . Handwritten. A rarity in their world of digital everything.

Sparklebug,

Keep pushing. Power doesn’t mean anything without direction. You’ve got both. You’ve just got to keep choosing who you want to be.

Love,

Ryu

Rin tucked it into the front cover of her quirk journal and whispered, “I’m choosing.”

And beneath the moonlight, when she trained in secret, her sparks no longer sputtered.

They danced.

---

The new apartment had high ceilings and cold floors, but warmth still lived there.

It came in flickers—her mother’s voice humming low as she stirred noodles in sesame oil, her father’s distant singing echoing from the hallway like a half-forgotten radio tune. Rin dropped her schoolbag by the door and kicked off her shoes, wiggling her socked toes against the cool tile.

“Movie night!” her dad shouted from somewhere down the corridor.

Her mother, Emi, didn’t look up from the stove, but her lips curved. “You think he ever tires of announcing that like it’s breaking news?”

Rin snorted and leaned on the kitchen counter, watching the steam rise from the wok. “What’s for dinner?”

“Leftover noodles. With emergency dumplings.” Emi’s eyes slid sideways. “Because someone forgot to shop. Again.”

“I’m a man of spontaneity!” her dad called, already thumping down the hallway with a stack of DVDs.

Emi raised a brow at Rin. “A man of poor grocery planning.”

But when he entered the room, balancing a bowl of popcorn the size of Rin’s torso and fanning out their battered Ghibli collection like sacred scrolls, Emi gave in with a grin.

They stacked the movies across the floor: Spirited Away, Howl’s Moving Castle, Nausicaä, and Princess Mononoke.

“Strong girls,” Emi said as she flicked the covers. “Girls who bleed and rise anyway.”

Rin’s fingers lingered over San’s mask. “I want to be like them,” she said, voice soft.

“You already are,” her father said, handing her the popcorn, the scent spicy and sharp with chili flakes. “You just haven’t slayed your forest god yet.”

“I did fight a goat once.”

Emi turned, mock-stern. “Please tell me that’s not literal.”

Rin just smiled, curling into the couch as her father popped Princess Mononoke into the old DVD player. The TV’s light blinked to life, casting flickering shadows over the living room’s silk curtains and too many throw pillows.

Outside, the city buzzed low and distant. Inside, it felt like the world had slowed down just for them.

They watched San run through fire. Watched her scream and bite and refuse to break.

Rin’s chest hummed.

“She doesn’t flinch,” she whispered. “Even when it hurts.”

Emi reached over and squeezed her hand. “Neither do you.”

The film rolled on. Ashitaka bled. The gods raged. But Rin stayed curled between her parents, held together by warmth and movie-glow and popcorn crumbs.

When the credits rolled, her father leapt up and struck a dramatic pose. “Well! Clearly, this calls for a dance break.”

“No, it does not—” Emi began, already laughing.

But he was in full performance mode, brandishing the remote like a microphone. A second later, the stereo kicked to life with the sharp, iconic synths of Take On Me.

“Take meeeee on!” he wailed, skipping back into the living room with chaotic energy and a total lack of rhythm.

“Oh my god,” Rin groaned, but it was helpless. She was grinning. “Dad, you’re going to throw your back out.”

“Worth it!”

Emi rolled her eyes and handed Rin a scrunchie. “Hold this. If I’m going to make a fool of myself, I refuse to have my hair in my face.”

Rin took the scrunchie reverently, slipping it around her wrist like a charm bracelet. Her mother had always worn those when she worked late nights or danced in the kitchen. It smelled faintly of her shampoo—jasmine and wind.

Then Emi joined the chaos, hands in the air, mouthing lyrics and shaking her shoulders like an off-duty pop star. Her father grabbed a wooden spoon and held it up like a mic, belting into it like his life depended on it.

And Rin—Rin jumped in.

They didn’t dance well. They didn’t dance on beat. But they laughed like children and spun like planets, reckless and bright in the glow of the television light.

By the third verse, Rin’s face hurt from smiling. Her pulse beat in her ears, fast and golden. There was a moment—just a sliver—where the world felt full. Not perfect. Not pain-free. But full of light and people who would carry her if she fell.

When the song ended, they collapsed into the couch like survivors of something holy.

Her father clutched his chest dramatically. “If I die, tell the coroner I went out in glory.”

Emi rolled a pillow at him. “You’re not dying. You’re old.”

He gasped. “Rude.”

Rin tucked her legs under her and leaned into her mother’s side. “Can we do this forever?”

Emi kissed the top of her head. “As long as we’re breathing.”

That night, they didn’t talk about school. Or training. Or why Rin sometimes went quiet at dinner, or why her muscles still tensed when she heard Mandarin in the hallway at school. They didn’t ask how many friends she’d made, or how it felt to carry a quirk no one really understood.

That night, it was just noodles and laughter and the pink light from the city outside their windows.

When Rin finally curled into bed, the scrunchie still on her wrist, she stared at the ceiling in the dark. Her body felt warm, her heart steady.

The memory of the fight was still there.

But it no longer felt like a crack in the glass.

More like a scar. Smooth. Healed. Loved through.

She pulled the blankets up to her chin and let the quiet wrap around her like the silk curtains in the living room.

And as she drifted off, she thought maybe—just maybe—she’d be okay.

---

The kettle was just beginning to sing.

Steam curled like a ghost into the high ceiling of their apartment, catching in the soft kitchen light. Emi moved automatically—hand reaching to flick off the flame, movements practiced and slow. Her favorite mug waited on the counter, cream-colored and worn at the lip from years of tea and teeth.

Rin’s laugh still echoed faintly from the other room, a leftover from some half-finished joke. Her father was on the couch, flipping through a magazine he pretended to care about while secretly watching Rin try to dance along with a music video.

It was, for a breath, a normal evening.

Then Ryuko ’s name flashed on the screen.

Emi’s phone buzzed against the counter—sharp and sudden. She stared at it. Just stared. Her heartbeat ticked once. Twice.

“Hey,” her husband called lightly. “You gonna get that?”

She picked up.

The moment the screen lit up with Ryuko ’s face, Emi knew it wasn’t a social call.

Her sister’s expression was tight. Too tight. The braid over her shoulder looked frayed at the ends, like she’d been running her fingers through it all day. Behind her, the background was dim and sterile—either her office or a secure conference room. Hero territory. Business mode.

No makeup. No smile. Just storm.

“Is she with you?” Ryuko ’s voice was low, clipped.

Emi’s stomach dropped.

“She’s in the living room. What happened?”

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone,” Ryuko  muttered, then glanced off-screen. “But we don’t have time for ceremony.”

Emi’s husband appeared behind her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice already hardening.

Ryuko  exhaled. “Rin’s name and quirk appeared in a leaked database this morning.”

The room stopped breathing.

Emi gripped the edge of the counter like it could anchor her. “What kind of database?”

“Provisional registry—partial leak. It wasn’t supposed to have children listed, but Rin’s entry was there. Her name. Her photo. The quirk description.”

Her husband’s hand curled around the back of Emi’s chair. His knuckles went white. “How far has it spread?”

“We don’t know yet. I’ve already flagged it. Cybersecurity’s on containment. But someone accessed it—someone I can’t trace yet.”

Emi’s mouth was dry. “You’re saying her name is out there.”

Ryuko  nodded. “Not just her name. Her healing ability. And that puts a target on her back bigger than anything I can block with red tape.”

The kettle still whistled, now shrill and relentless. Emi’s husband moved to silence it, but she barely heard him. Her blood was rushing too loud.

“We were careful,” she said. “We took her out of the registry. We used middle initials. We—”

“She’s powerful,” Ryuko  cut in, more gently now. “You can’t hide sunlight forever.”

From behind the doorframe, a small sound.

All three adults froze.

Rin stood at the threshold between hallway and kitchen. Her socks were mismatched—one lavender, one teal—and her oversized sweater slid down one shoulder. Her knees were hugged up to her chest. Her eyes were wide and glassy, like she’d just wandered in from a dream she didn’t like.

“I don’t want to be sacred,” she said.

Ryuko ’s expression flickered—cracked. “Rin…”

“I don’t want to be special if it means I can’t walk home alone. Or laugh at school. Or eat melon bread without someone trying to steal me.” Her voice wavered. “I just want to be… normal.”

Emi started forward, but Ryuko  raised a hand from the screen.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know, baby girl. But you’re not normal. And that’s not a punishment—it’s a fact. You’re not just someone. You’re someone important. And the world is full of people who would rather break a miracle than let it exist freely.”

Rin looked away.

Her father crouched beside her, reaching out gently. “Hey. Come here.”

She moved into his arms like a leaf caught in the tide—silent, limp, vulnerable.

Ryuko  spoke again, more steel in her voice now. “She can’t walk alone. Not until we know who accessed the file. No more errands. No late training unless there’s a chaperone. I’m sending someone to sweep your building—your home, your exits, your routines.”

“We’re in another country,” Emi whispered. “We moved here to vanish.”

“And miracles don’t vanish,” Ryuko  said. “They shine. And they draw the wrong kind of eyes.”

There was a long pause.

“I’ll pull some strings,” Ryuko  added. “We’ll give her a false name on the school registry. A new alias. We’ll file her quirk under a weaker subtype until she’s licensed. Until she can defend herself.”

Rin’s head snapped up. “But I can defend myself. I shocked someone months. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

Her father blinked. “You what?”

“I was scared,” she whispered. “And my power reacted. He backed off. I didn’t hurt him—but he didn’t touch me again.”

Emi’s throat caught. Her daughter—her gentle, glowing girl—wasn’t just a healer anymore. She was changing. Evolving. Becoming the storm and the shelter in one skin.

“You want to live?” Ryuko  asked, voice low but burning. “Then let us protect you like you deserve to be protected.”

Rin nodded, trembling.

“I’ll try,” she said.

And outside the window, the city buzzed with neon and noise, unaware that a sacred name had been whispered into shadow—and that the girl who carried it was no longer just sacred.

She was dangerous, too.

They locked every door that night. Every window. Every digital footprint they could find. Emi reset their router and wiped all their devices. Rin’s father installed new biometric locks before dawn, his hands shaking, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

Rin stayed curled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. Her hair was slightly damp from a rushed bath, her eyes wide open, blinking too slowly. Not crying. Not asking questions.

Just watching.

“I didn’t even know what a database was until today,” she muttered. “Now I’m in one that makes people want to steal me?”

Her mother sat beside her, folding one leg under the other. “Not because of who you are,” she said gently. “Because of what you can do. That’s the part we’re trying to protect.”

“But who I am is what I can do.”

The sentence hung in the air like glass about to shatter.

Emi closed her eyes. “You’re more than your quirk, Rin.”

“Then why does it feel like it’s all anyone sees?”

She didn’t mean it as an accusation. She wasn’t yelling or crying or begging to be believed. That would’ve been easier. That would’ve been eleven-year-old tears in a eleven-year-old mouth.

But this was worse.

This was quiet truth from a kid who’d seen too much.

Her father crouched near the floor lamp and set down a tray with chamomile tea, honey, and a few star-shaped cookies.

He held one out. “Cookie?”

Rin blinked at it.

He made the cookie dance. “It has star power. Guaranteed anti-anxiety spell woven in.”

She rolled her eyes, but took it anyway. “That’s not how quirks work, Dad.”

“Magic is real until you’re old enough to pretend it isn’t,” he replied, tapping her nose.

She bit into it. Crumbs fell onto the blanket.

From the hallway, Ryuko ’s voice murmured through the still-open laptop. She was speaking with someone else now—low, hushed, full of jargon. Words like “shadow net,” “black market sniffers,” “firewall breach.” Words that didn’t belong in a child’s bedtime vocabulary.

Emi got up and crossed to the kitchen, lowering her voice as she leaned toward the screen.

“Who else knows?”

Ryuko  shook her head. “Too early to say. We got it early, but I can’t promise it hasn’t already been sold. The moment it hit that server, it became a liability.”

“Do we need to move again?”

“Maybe. But I’d rather build defenses here first. Displacement won’t stop this if it’s targeted.”

Behind her, Rin’s father joined Emi at the table. “We need a plan.”

“We have a plan,” Ryuko  said, tapping a folder in front of her. “Multiple. I’m sending my people. I’ve also got a civilian cover file we can use—new last name, digital backtrace, everything. She’ll be harder to track than smoke.”

“And if someone already knows her face?” Emi asked.

Ryuko  hesitated. “We train her. Harder. Smarter. Faster.”

“She’s eleven.”

“She doesn’t have to be a soldier,” Ryuko  said. “She just has to survive.”

In the next room, Rin was no longer listening.

She had curled deeper into her blanket, a quiet resolve forming like frost behind her ribs. She wasn’t thinking about cookies or magic or safety anymore. She was thinking about the boy who tried to corner her. About the spark that leapt from her hands without thinking. About how alive she’d felt in that moment—terrified, yes. But strong.

And the awful question rising in her chest like smoke:

What if this is what I was made for?

She didn’t want it to be true.

But it might be.

You want to live? Ryuko  had said. Then let us protect you.

What if she could learn to protect herself?

Later that night, when the tea had gone cold and the stars pressed against the windows like watchers in the dark, Rin found her mother in the study. Emi was sitting with her head in her hands, laptop open, forehead creased.

“Mom.”

Emi straightened, wiping her eyes quickly.

Rin stepped closer. “I want to train more.”

Emi’s lips parted. “Rin, you’re already—”

“I want to do sparring. Daily drills. I want to know what my power can actually do when I’m not scared.”

Her mother’s eyes filled again—but this time, not just with worry.

With something like awe.

“You sure?”

Rin nodded. “If I’m gonna glow, I want to be ready when someone tries to put it out.”

And from that moment on, something shifted in her house—not the fear, not the danger, but the direction of the fire.

The flame didn’t flicker smaller.

It leaned forward, ready to burn.

The days that followed moved like thunderclouds—slow, heavy, humming with storm warnings.

Ryuko ’s team arrived under the guise of a plumbing inspection and a home renovation consultation. But the tools they carried weren’t drills. They were scanners, signal jammers, and layered detection wards. The apartment turned fortress. Every window became smart-glass. Every hallway corner got a motion monitor. The fire escape got a retinal lock.

To Rin, it felt like they were building a castle around a girl too small to wear the crown.

“You’re a spark,” Ryuko  said when she arrived in person, crouching before Rin with a padded sparring glove extended. “You’re not helpless. You’re electric. We just need to sharpen the current.”

And so, the lessons began.

First: grounding. Her quirk had always been triggered by need, by feeling. Now they taught her how to control the pulse instead of being swallowed by it. Ryuko  made her hold her hands over water while they trained—learning to stop just before the surface shimmered, to push just hard enough to make it dance without boiling.

Then came the reflex drills. She caught tennis balls while blindfolded. Blocked foam batons mid-air. Practiced pivot turns, evasions, disarms.

“You’ve got healer instincts,” Ryuko  said, watching her block a strike with one hand and steady her attacker with the other. “But you’ve also got defender bones.”

“I don’t want to hurt people.”

“That’s good,” Ryuko  nodded. “But you can warn them. That’s what your spark did before, isn’t it?”

Rin nodded. “It just… knew.”

“Then let’s teach it to know with intention.”

She was only twelve, but she trained like someone older, someone with memories of war behind her. It didn’t make her colder. If anything, it sharpened her warmth like a blade that shimmered instead of slicing.

At school, she kept her head down—but her energy was different. Calmer. More alert. Like a wire pulled taut, waiting for voltage.

The whispers still came. “Sparkle freak.” “Lightning bug.” “Teacher’s radioactive pet.”

But no one dared corner her again.

Not after one of the more smug boys—cocky, tall, all bravado—got too close and flinched when he felt the air buzz. She hadn’t even moved. Just looked at him. Like a storm that might be coming.

That was all it took.

She had reclaimed silence—not as surrender, but as sovereignty.

One evening, after drills, Ryuko  stayed for dinner. Rin sat cross-legged on the couch, chewing tofu and seaweed rolls while Ryuko  spoke with her parents in low tones at the table.

“I’ve seen this before,” Ryuko  murmured. “Kids whose power matures faster than their freedom. They either explode or disappear.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Emi said fiercely. “We’ll move again if we have to. I’ll fight anyone.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Ryuko  said gently. “That’s why we’re building the net around her. So when the day comes that someone tries to test her limits, she already knows them.”

“Do you think it’ll come to that?” Rin’s father asked, eyes hollow.

Ryuko  paused. “It always does.”

Rin heard every word. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shrink.

She stood up and walked to the table, her bowl in both hands.

“I’m not going to disappear,” she said.

The grown-ups turned.

“I’m not going to explode, either.”

Her mother blinked fast. Her father opened his mouth to respond but found no words. Ryuko , for once, didn’t smile.

She bowed her head in respect.

“You’re already choosing your path,” she said. “That’s the most dangerous and the most beautiful thing a person can do.”

Rin looked at her. “Then teach me the rest of the way.”

And Ryuko , who had stood beside gods and monsters, who had watched cities fall and heroes break—felt something spark behind her ribs.

Hope. Sharp and golden.

---

It began like honey on toast.

The morning sunlight pooled across the floor in golden stripes, catching on the pale sheen of marble and warm wooden beams. The apartment smelled of jasmine tea and yuzu soap. A slow, living kind of peace. Rin twirled through the kitchen in slippered feet, her silk pajamas sparkling faintly as she spun.

In the background, her mother hummed—Nanairo—softly, stirring a pot of rice porridge. Her voice wasn’t strong, but it was steady, full of memories and notes passed from her own childhood. Kei sat at the table, glasses perched on his nose, flipping through a tablet while slicing persimmons into perfect stars. His hair was still rumpled from sleep.

“I think we should add miso soup to today’s lineup,” Emi said thoughtfully, reaching for the dashi. “It’s a soul day.”

“What’s a soul day?” Rin asked, hopping onto a stool.

Kei grinned. “It’s a day that fills you up from the inside. Even your bones feel warm by the end of it.”

Rin beamed. “Let’s have soul days every day.”

“You say that now,” Emi teased, handing her the soy sauce. “But if I make you eat natto again, you’ll start a rebellion.”

“It’s not rebellion,” Rin said loftily. “It’s self-defense.”

They laughed, the kind of deep-bellied, easy laughter that hung in the corners of a home like charms. Music drifted in from Kei’s old speakers—something 80s and synthy. He got up and started dancing with a wooden spoon, doing ridiculous shoulder pops that made Rin shriek with laughter. Emi joined in a moment later, swinging a towel like a lasso.

They sang off-key to Plastic Love. Rin stood on the kitchen chair and struck a dramatic magical girl pose, yelling, ‘Heartline, activate!’ as her parents cheered.

Their little family was strange and stitched together from so many careful decisions. But it worked. It glowed.

Later, as the food simmered and filled the home with warmth, Emi gently tugged Rin to the side.

“Let’s braid your hair before training, sweetpea.”

Rin groaned but sat obediently on the floor. “You braid too tight.”

“You flail too much,” Emi replied fondly, fingers nimble. “A girl’s gotta keep your scalp safe.”

Rin’s eyes fluttered closed as her mother worked. Each tug of the braid was grounding, a ritual that said: You are here. You are loved. We’ve got you.

Kei looked up from his tablet again, this time more serious. “I’ll pick up extra security layers this afternoon. Another sweep. Cameras got glitchy last night.”

Emi paused. “That’s the third time this week.”

“I know.”

Their voices had gone quiet. Not secretive—but heavy, weighted in the way grown-up conversations sometimes were. Rin kept her breathing even. She knew better than to interrupt.

“There was another incident downtown,” Kei added. “A tech firm. Confidential systems breached.”

“And the servers?”

“Burned out. Scrubbed.”

Emi’s hands stilled in Rin’s hair. “Ryuko ’s last message said we’re not the only ones being watched.”

“Any names?”

“No.”

But they both knew the implication.

Rin didn’t understand everything, but she understood enough. The way her parents tensed when the doorbell rang. The layered passwords. The late-night phone calls where names were never used. The hush behind her father's eyes when he locked the windows twice.

There was danger circling them like fog, soft and formless, just out of reach. But her parents did everything to keep it from her. Wrapped her in jokes and porridge and morning light. They built a fortress out of laughter and called it home.

“Mom,” Rin said suddenly, “can we stay like this forever?”

Emi cupped her daughter’s cheek. “We’ll stay like this for as long as we can. And when it changes, we’ll still be together.”

Rin pressed her forehead to her mother’s. “Promise?”

“Always.”

The doorbell rang.

Kei tensed, half-rising from his seat. He checked the camera on his phone—just a delivery, apparently. A sleek drone package hovered at the door. Still, his eyes lingered on the screen a little too long.

Emi met his gaze. “We train harder this week. She’s getting faster.”

“I noticed.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Outside, the wind picked up. The chimes on the balcony clinked against each other with a sound like distant bells.

Rin stepped away from her mother and into the light, humming softly as she moved through her stretching forms—shoulders rolled back, arms extended, pulse steady. Sparks danced along her palms like fireflies.

From the hallway, Kei watched her. “She’s a star.”

“No,” Emi murmured. “She’s a heartbeat.”

They didn’t say whose. They didn’t need to.

But across the city, someone was watching too. Far away, behind screens and frequencies, a red dot pulsed over a name. Rin’s. Her file tagged. Her location pinged.

Targets locked.

Tomorrow waited with bared teeth.

—

It began just after lunch.

Rin had gone back to practicing her forms in the living room, her sleeves rolled up and her braid bouncing with each movement. The sunlight was hotter now, the kind that made the marble floors warm beneath her toes. Emi stood nearby with a timer, calling out stances, while Kei adjusted the height of a balance pole.

“One more set!” Emi called.

“Ugh,” Rin groaned, flopping dramatically. “I demand snacks as compensation.”

“Complete this kata and I’ll make you mango mochi,” her dad said, voice a teasing purr.

“Deal,” Rin said, snapping to attention.

She didn’t notice the way her mother’s eyes flicked toward the hallway. Or how Kei moved a bit closer to the front door. It had been like this for weeks now—heightened senses, the constant vigilance of people who’d once lived normal lives and now trusted nothing.

Then came the first noise.

Not a knock. Not a voice. A click—deliberate, metallic. From the entryway.

Emi’s head jerked up. She moved to the console by the kitchen. The screen that usually showed peaceful CCTV feeds now flickered.

Scrambled.

“Kei,” she said quietly.

He was already reaching for the emergency panel behind the bookshelf.

Rin blinked. “What’s going on?”

“Go to the safe room,” her mother said gently. Too gently.

“But—”

“Now, Rin.”

Something in her mother’s voice—the way it tightened on the second word—made her chest clench. This wasn’t practice anymore. This wasn’t another drill.

This was real.

Rin ran for the hallway, barefoot on tile, heart thudding.

Then the windows shattered.

It happened so fast she couldn’t tell which direction the glass came from—just that it exploded inward like a scream. Three men, clad in matte black, their faces covered, burst through the frame, guns raised and pointed.

“DOWN!” Kei roared.

Emi shoved Rin behind the sofa. There was no time to hide. No escape plan that hadn’t already been predicted.

One of the men stepped forward, scanning the room. “Where is she?”

“She’s not here,” Emi lied.

But Rin’s quirk sparked at her fingertips. Fear did that. Her pulse hummed like electricity licking her skin.

One of the attackers tilted his head. “Found her.”

Emi didn’t hesitate. She launched forward, twisting the man’s wrist and knocking the weapon from his hand. Kei tackled the second one, slamming him into the wall with a force that cracked plaster. He was smaller than the man he faced, but he moved with the precision of someone who had once trained for war and never forgot how to win one.

Rin couldn’t stay behind the sofa.

Not when her mother was moving like lightning and her father was bleeding from his temple and the third man raised a gun straight at them both.

Her body moved before her mind caught up.

She dove between them, arms outstretched. Her quirk surged like a tidal wave—not to heal, not to soothe—but to stop.

The light from her palms exploded in a burst of gold and violet.

The man screamed, dropping his weapon, fingers curled and seizing as if hit by a defibrillator. Rin stood over him, shaking. Her palms sparked again.

“I’m not just a healer,” she said.

“Rin, move!” her father shouted.

She barely ducked before a flash grenade detonated against the wall.

Noise. Light. White-hot disorientation. A high-pitched screech rang in her ears, drowning everything else.

Her vision cleared just enough to see her mother, panting, kicking the last man’s gun across the floor. Kei grabbed a fallen curtain rod and used it like a staff, swinging wide. He hit one of them in the ribs hard enough to make him wheeze.

And Rin—

Rin moved like her quirk finally understood its second half.

She touched the floor, channeled everything through her fingertips, and pushed outward.

Electricity arced through the room like a net. Not strong enough to kill. Just enough to warn. To paralyze. The lights flickered. The television shorted. The apartment thrummed like it had a heartbeat of its own.

The attackers collapsed.

All three, breathing—but down.

Rin collapsed too. On her knees, breathing hard, eyes wide.

She turned to her parents.

Emi was swaying, bruised and scraped, clutching her ribs. Kei staggered toward her, blood streaming from his forehead.

“We need to leave,” Emi said, voice shaking. “More might come.”

“Take Rin—” Kei said, but then his knees buckled.

“Dad!” Rin screamed.

She ran to him, catching his head before it hit the floor. Her palms lit again, warm and bright, desperate. The healing came fast—but not fast enough. There was too much blood. Her quirk sparked, stalled.

Emi dropped beside her. “We have to move. Now. Rin, we—”

But the wall behind them blew open.

Rin screamed again, shielding her parents as dust and debris poured into the room.

Figures emerged through the smoke—but this time, they weren’t in black.

They were in colors.

One moved like a shadow but shimmered violet. Another glided forward, wrapped in flowing silks and crystalline armor. A third stood tall with a lion’s mane of red-gold hair and gauntlets shaped like dragon claws.

Chinese heroes.

“Get away from them!” Rin shouted, instinct sparking like fire.

But the tallest one raised his hands. “We’re here to help.”

Emi collapsed fully then, slumping into Kei’s lap.

And Rin… Rin felt her knees give out too.

The smoke hadn’t cleared, not really. The air still shimmered with heat and ozone. Chunks of the hallway wall lay cracked like brittle bone, splinters of wood jutting from the frame. The sharp scent of scorched electronics clung to the ceiling. Rin stood barefoot in the wreckage, her chest heaving, her ears ringing.

The world was too loud and too quiet all at once.

She took one step forward, then another, her limbs shaking with the memory of sound—gunshots, screams, her mother shouting her name. Kei’s voice barking orders. A crash. A crack. A silence that didn’t make sense.

“Mom?” she croaked, stepping over a shattered picture frame.

No answer.

“Dad?”

A breath caught in her throat as she spotted them—both crumpled on the floor of the kitchen. Not lying still. Not peaceful. Broken. Raw. Her father’s arm was bent wrong. Her mother’s eyes were open, glazed and staring. Blood spread beneath them in slow, blooming halos.

“No no no no no—”

She dropped to her knees between them, hands shaking as she reached for her mother first. Her palms glowed pale gold, crackling faintly, catching on every tiny wire of panic in her blood.

“Please,” she whispered, pressing her hands to Emi’s chest. “Please work. Please. I don’t know what to do.”

Her mother’s lips were parted. No breath moved through them.

Rin focused, funneling every drop of her quirk into her mother’s body. Every pulse of energy a prayer.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Come back. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

The light from her hands flickered, sputtered, surged. Her nerves screamed. Her heartbeat was a thunderclap in her ears.

Still no response.

She turned to her father next, sobbing now. “Daddy—” Her voice cracked like glass. “Please don’t go. Please…”

His chest rose. Barely. But it moved.

Her hands flew to his side, where the blood soaked darkest. She felt the crack of ribs, the jagged rip of torn skin. Her pulse danced faster, louder, brighter—blistering the space between hope and horror.

“I can fix this,” she told him, told herself. “I have to fix this.”

She didn’t hear the arrival. Didn’t see the figures land on the rooftop outside. Didn’t notice the blur of suits and capes descending. Her entire world had shrunk to the fragile, flickering forms of her parents and the dimming light in her veins.

Her body trembled as she poured herself out, glow stuttering. Too much. Too fast. Her breath caught. The walls spun.

And still she kept going.

Even when her nose began to bleed. Even when her fingertips sparked wild and uncontrolled. Even when her vision blurred at the edges.

A voice—distant and unfamiliar—cut through the static.

“She’s overloading—”

“Get her out of there—!”

Rin shook her head weakly. “No—I'm not done—I can save them—”

But her power surged wildly, no longer controlled. It lashed out, burning through her like lightning in a tree. A scream built in her throat but never made it out. Her body arched, spine bowing, and her eyes rolled back.

Then—

Darkness.

Not like sleep. Not like night.

Like being erased.

The last thing she heard before she slipped beneath was a voice—low, careful, full of awe.

“She tried to heal them both. All at once.”

Someone knelt beside her, gently pulling her limp hands away from her father’s wounds.

“Kid didn’t even hesitate.”

Then there was silence. A wide, swallowing hush.

The kind that comes after a storm when no one knows what’s been lost yet.

[mimixis]

[mimixis]

[ARC I: Core Memories] Chapter 2: The Spark Before the Storm

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64873270/chapters/166817716

“A lesson without pain is meaningless. That’s because you can’t gain something without sacrificing something else.”

— Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood

Sundays slowed the world.

Laughter rang louder. Ice cream melted faster. The sun felt warmer, closer somehow, as if the universe leaned in to listen. And for Rin’s family, Sundays weren’t religious—but they were sacred.

Not for gods. For love.

On this particular Sunday, six-year-old Rin soared. Her small sneakers dangled from her father’s broad shoulders as he strode through the zoo with the steady confidence of a man who had conquered morning tantrums and survived multiple outfit changes.

“Higher, Daddy!” she squealed, her arms stretched out like wings. “I can see everything from up here!”

Her face was sticky with strawberry ice cream, her cheeks sun-flushed and glowing. Her light curls bounced with every step. She was half sugar, half starlight.

Emi, her mother, laughed behind them—balancing two melting cones and a half-empty water bottle like a circus act. “Rin, hold still, baby,” she said, attempting to mop up her daughter’s cheeks with a napkin while still keeping the cones upright.

“Noooo,” Rin giggled, ducking the napkin like a dodgeball champion. “I’m a wild animal now!”

They’d already visited the lion enclosure—where Rin had pointed dramatically at the big cats and declared herself a jungle princess—and watched the capybaras lounge like exhausted office workers on a Monday. They had stared down an owl the size of a toddler that blinked at Rin with what she swore was ancient malice.

“That bird has murder in its soul,” she whispered gravely. Her father chuckled, shaking his head.

 “You’re ridiculous,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she replied proudly.

But it was the petting zoo that stopped her in her tracks. She gasped so loudly that a nearby toddler jumped and started crying.

The goats were tiny. Fuzzy. Vaguely judgmental.

Rin approached the fence with reverence, hands outstretched like a prophet nearing a shrine.

“Behold,” she said, solemn as royalty. “My people.”

A small black goat waddled up and licked her palm.

It was, to Rin, a sign.

She knelt down, practically vibrating with delight as she offered a handful of pellets to her new subjects. One goat snorted and walked away, unimpressed. Another let out a long, flat bleat that echoed across the enclosure like a complaint filed in triplicate.

And then—she wasn’t alone.

A boy stood beside her. Small, quiet, gentle. He didn’t make any noise as he stepped up to the fence, just watched the animals with wide, thoughtful eyes. He wore a shirt with a faded bunny on it.

One of the goats approached him, nosing at his pockets with casual determination. The boy didn’t flinch or squeal like most kids did. He just smiled, calm as moonlight, and made a low, clicking sound in the back of his throat.

The goat froze. Tilted its head. Then nuzzled against his hand like they’d known each other forever.

Rin blinked. What.

She scooted closer.

“Hi,” she said brightly, because subtlety was a future version of herself’s problem.

The boy looked at her, startled. He gave a small nod, then gestured toward the goat and made another soft sound—something between a hum and a whisper. A secret language. Not human.

But the goat understood.

Rin’s eyes went wide. “You talk to animals?” she breathed, stars lighting up behind her eyes. “That’s awesome!”

The boy hesitated, then nodded again. “Koda,” he said quietly.

She beamed. “I’m Rin. Wanna feed them together?”

And Koda smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. It didn’t light up his whole face like Rin’s did. But it was soft and real, the kind of smile that stayed with you.

They crouched side by side in the hay-speckled dirt, passing pellets back and forth. The goats swarmed them like tiny, stubborn deities demanding tribute.

“This one is plotting something,” Rin said, pointing at a shaggy gray goat who stared back at her with a judge’s cold eyes.

Koda giggled. “He’s the leader,” he whispered.

“Oh my god,” Rin gasped. “The goats do have a secret society!”

Koda nodded solemnly. “They meet on Tuesdays.”

They talked for nearly an hour. Well—Rin talked. Koda answered in soft bursts, his words simple but vivid. He didn’t say much, but what he did say felt important, like carved stones instead of scattered pebbles.

They debated whether goats had jobs. They speculated on goat royalty. They built a small kingdom out of hay and imagination.

Rin made a crown from dandelions and placed it on her own head with great ceremony. “From this moment forth,” she declared, “I shall be Queen of the Barnyard. All animals shall bow to me, or suffer the consequences.”

A chicken pecked at her shoe. She shrieked. Koda laughed so hard he nearly dropped his snack cup.

Nearby, Rin’s parents sat on a sun-warmed bench, watching them with soft smiles.

“She’s so bright,” Emi whispered, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“She’s her own universe,” he replied, voice full of quiet awe.

Emi leaned her head on his shoulder. “I hope she never loses that.”

And Rin, radiant in her self-declared royalty, knelt among the goats like a queen among her people. The sun caught in her curls, the joy clear in every dramatic gesture, every exaggerated gasp.

She was joy personified. Loud, wild, unfiltered joy. The kind that lit up everything around it just by being.

The kind you remember, even years later. When things are harder. Quieter. When the world has lost some of its sparkle.

Rin would carry that memory with her, tucked somewhere safe. A sunbeam folded into her heart. Not because it was grand or life-changing. But because it was theirs.

Because it was perfect.

—

Rin’s hands were pressed flat against the cool glass, her breath fogging the surface in bursts of awe. Beyond it, jellyfish pulsed through the water like floating stars. Ethereal. Electric. The tank was dimly lit, but the creatures glowed—soft blue, blushing violet, flickering gold. Each motion was slow, meditative. Like a lullaby, or a heartbeat.

“They look like spirits,” she whispered.

Her mother knelt beside her, arms resting on her knees, hair caught up in a messy twist that had started the day as a neat bun. “They're almost completely made of water,” Emi said, voice low and reverent. “No bones. No brain. No heart.”

“But they’re alive,” Rin said, wide-eyed. “So alive.”

Emi smiled. “Some things don’t need hearts to shine.”

Her father appeared behind them with a paper cup of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. “Everything okay here?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Rin turned, took the cup with both hands, and mumbled a distracted thank you before settling back in front of the jellyfish.

Kei chuckled. “She’s in love.”

She was. With the light. With the silence. With this strange blue room that felt like a cathedral. She didn’t even eat the ice cream right away—just held it like it was a part of the moment. Holy.

They stayed in the aquarium wing for over an hour. Rin moved from tank to tank like she was visiting royalty. The coral reef shimmered in rainbow ripples. The seahorses looked like sea dragons. And when she spotted the octopus—its eyes intelligent, its limbs curious—she pointed and whispered, “That one knows things.”

They made their way outside slowly, Rin’s small hand held in both of theirs. The sun felt warmer now, the sky stretched wider.

In the savannah enclosure, giraffes moved like ballerinas, necks sweeping through the air with such grace it made Rin want to spin. She did, just once—arms out, chin tilted up, the sunlight scattering in her hair like glitter. Her parents watched her, a little winded by love.

“She’s otherworldly,” Emi said.

“She’s ours,” Kei replied.

At the tiger enclosure, Rin fell into a hush again. The big cat was pacing, striped and silent, eyes golden and focused. Rin mirrored it, pacing alongside the glass like a ceremony. “If I was an animal, maybe I’d be her,” she said.

“No way,” Kei said. “You’re too soft.”

Emi raised a brow. “Have you seen her when she’s cranky?”

“Or hungry,” Rin added, giggling.

The tiger paused and stared right at her.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then the animal yawned and flopped into the grass like an oversized cat, and Rin laughed so hard she nearly fell over.

Later, when they stopped for lunch under the wide canopy near the koi pond, Emi handed Rin a rice ball shaped like a heart, packed in a bento box with little star-cut carrots and a hard-boiled egg with a smiley face drawn on it. Rin squealed.

“You made these?!”

“Last night,” Emi said. “You were snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

Kei snorted. “You absolutely do. It’s like a baby dragon having dreams.”

Rin pretended to be mortally offended, which earned her a forehead kiss and a hug from both sides. The warmth of them, the way they smelled like sesame oil and sunshine, wrapped around her like a second skin.

After lunch, they passed a man painting glitter tattoos for kids. Rin, of course, demanded one. “Make me look like a warrior princess,” she said, striking a pose.

“You already do,” the artist told her, brushing rose-gold stars onto her cheek.

And when they passed a gift shop, her parents bought her a small plush jellyfish with light-up tendrils that glowed softly in her arms as she dozed off in the back seat of the car, one hand clutching her mother's fingers even in sleep.

That night, as she curled beneath her mountain of blankets, she whispered into the darkness: “Thank you for today.”

Her parents didn’t answer. They didn’t need to.

The jellyfish glowed softly on her nightstand.

The stars outside twinkled like they knew her name.

And Rin drifted off dreaming of blue-lit water, glowing things, and the deep, unspoken hum of a world that was slowly—beautifully—becoming hers.

The dojo smelled of tatami mats and polished wood, lit by paper lanterns that flickered like stars trapped indoors. Rin, all eight years and unshakable fire, stood barefoot on the mat with her fists clenched and her gaze steady. She had bowed already, like the scene before, but now—now she was here, really present in the sacred pulse of the room. The breath-before-battle kind of presence.

Sensei Harada was a stern man with laugh lines hidden beneath decades of discipline. He regarded Rin like she was a comet, bright and dangerous. “Again,” he said simply, nodding to the older girl in front of Rin.

Rin wiped her brow with the sleeve of her gi. She was small, especially against this opponent—twelve years old, lean with a black belt already cinched like pride around her waist. But Rin was not afraid. She burned quietly, like the coal under a kettle.

They circled each other, feet whispering across the mat.

“Protect your center,” Harada called. “Balance isn’t just physical, Rin.”

“I know,” she mumbled under her breath—but it wasn’t petulant. It was passionate. A girl trying to get her soul to move fast enough to keep up with her heart.

The older girl struck first. A feint. A low sweep.

Rin dropped her weight instinctively and blocked, pivoting into a counter that made Sensei’s eyebrow twitch—not in disapproval, but approval so restrained it looked like a shadow.

The girl tried to press her advantage, but Rin’s body remembered what her mind barely had time to think. She spun, low and fast, and knocked the girl onto her back with a breathless thud.

Silence.

Then the soft, proud sound of clapping from the edge of the mat.

Emi and Kei stood by the shoe rack, still in their work clothes. Emi’s hair was up in a bun held with two glittery clips. Kei’s tie was crooked like he’d sprinted here.

“That’s my girl,” Emi whispered, but her voice cracked, and she didn’t care who heard.

Rin bowed again, cheeks pink and chest rising. She wasn’t cocky—never that. But she stood taller now, as if victory gave her permission to take up a little more space in the universe.

“Good,” Sensei said, dismissing the class. “But not perfect. Tomorrow, we improve.”

Rin beamed like someone had handed her a sword and a sunrise.

---

Later that evening, the three of them sat cross-legged on the floor in their modest living room, which smelled faintly of miso soup and lemon cleaner. Rin was still in her gi, hair damp from the shower, eyes sparkling.

“You were incredible,” Kei said, passing her a bowl of noodles.

“She wasn’t just incredible,” Emi added, poking Rin’s side. “She was unstoppable.”

“She was also late on the final block,” Kei teased, raising an eyebrow, and Rin made a face.

“She was eight,” Emi said dryly, tousling her daughter’s hair.

They laughed—loud and shameless. The kind of laughter that dared the world to break them.

Rin picked up her chopsticks, then paused. “I felt it,” she said. “Like… not the move, but something inside me that knew how to do it.”

Emi and Kei exchanged a glance. This was the second time Rin had described something like that—an instinct that bordered on premonition, like her heartbeat and her body were conspiring in secret to protect her.

“You’re learning to listen to yourself,” Emi said. “That’s one of the hardest things we ever do.”

“And one of the bravest,” Kei added.

Rin tilted her head. “Even braver than being a hero?”

Her parents looked at her—really looked. Emi reached for Rin’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Being a hero means being brave for the world,” she said. “But listening to yourself? That’s being brave for you.”

“And you deserve that,” Kei murmured, a little thickly, as if the words caught in the back of his throat before they landed in Rin’s tiny, storm-sure chest.

They stayed like that a while—three constellations, close and glowing. Rin didn’t know it yet, but this would become one of those memories she’d return to like a lighthouse: soft light, warm hands, the sound of noodle slurping and the safety of home.

And far beyond the windows, the sky was beginning to shift.

A storm brewing just over the curve of tomorrow.

---

Ryuko towered over most people. It wasn’t just her height—it was her presence. Her energy walked into a room before she did. Her shadow cleared sidewalks. Her silence held more gravity than most people’s shouting.

To Rin? She was a goddess in sneakers.

They sat on the rooftop patio that evening, the city humming faintly beneath them. The air was heavy with late-summer heat, but a soft breeze danced around their ankles, teasing the hem of Rin’s skirt and brushing Ryuko’s braid across her shoulder. A lazy cicada buzzed somewhere in the bushes. The sky was dipped in orange and gold, the sun folding itself behind glass towers like a bedtime story ending softly.

Rin mimicked Ryuko’s posture—legs crossed, back straight, chin tilted toward the horizon. She did it not out of habit, but reverence. A sort of quiet ritual.

Ryuko took a slow sip of iced tea from a sweating glass bottle. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that could only grow between people who shared long, honest days. There was comfort in it. Weight. Familiarity.

“I want to be just like you when I grow up,” Rin said, breaking the silence with a voice full of syrupy sincerity.

Ryuko turned, one brow arched. Her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite surprise. “That so?”

Rin nodded quickly. “You’re strong, and graceful, and smart… and your boots are awesome.”

Ryuko looked down at her scuffed, steel-toed combat boots, worn and patched from long patrols and longer nights. “They are pretty great boots,” she admitted.

“I tried to draw them once, but I gave up after the sixth buckle.”

“That sounds about right.”

Rin leaned forward on her hands, eyes wide. “How do you not get scared when people are hurt or screaming or on fire?”

Ryuko didn’t answer right away. She set her bottle down on the low patio table and exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the horizon like she was looking for the right words out in the distance somewhere.

Then, simply:

“I do get scared.”

Rin blinked.

“I get scared all the time,” Ryuko continued, voice calm but honest. “Anyone who says they don’t feel fear is either lying or not paying attention. Fear’s part of the job.”

“Then how—” Rin’s voice cracked slightly. “How do you do it anyway?”

Ryuko looked at her then. Really looked. Not just at Rin’s big, bright eyes or the shimmer on her cheeks or her glitter-painted nails. She looked at the fire hiding behind the sparkle. The storm tucked into the sugar.

“I move anyway,” Ryuko said. “That’s what makes it hero work.”

It landed like thunder in Rin’s chest. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry—but something inside her shifted. Broadened. Like her heart had grown a size, maybe two. She sat with that truth like it was a sacred offering. Turned it over in her mind. Felt the weight of it.

“I wanna learn to move anyway too,” Rin said at last, voice barely above a whisper.

Ryuko reached over and ruffled her hair. “That’s why we train, sparklebug.”

Rin sat bolt upright. “That’s it. That’s my new hero name.”

Ryuko blinked. “I was joking.”

“Too late. You spoke it into the universe. Sparklebug is born.”

Ryuko groaned dramatically. “God help the villain who has to say that with a straight face.”

“Oh, they won’t say it,” Rin said, eyes twinkling. “They’ll scream it while running for their lives.”

That earned her a laugh. Deep and warm and rare. Ryuko didn’t laugh easily—not because she was stern, but because she didn’t waste anything. Especially not joy.

Rin smiled wide, soaking it in like sunlight.

They sat in easy silence for a few minutes, watching the city light up below them. One by one, the windows of the apartment buildings flickered on, tiny constellations in a manmade sky.

Ryuko shifted slightly, stretching one leg out and cracking her knuckles. “You know,” she said, “when I was your age, I thought being a hero meant never making mistakes.”

Rin turned toward her, curious. “But you don’t make mistakes.”

“Oh, sparklebug,” Ryuko said with a huff of laughter. “I’ve made plenty. Once flew straight into a billboard because I wasn’t watching my angle. Had to explain to a very cranky sponsor why my forehead had crumpled their soda ad.”

Rin gasped. “You’re so cool.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She looked down at her hands. They were calloused, powerful hands. Hands that had caught people mid-fall, held up burning beams, pushed back against crumbling buildings. But they trembled sometimes. They bled. They’d held too many fading pulses.

“There’s always going to be fear,” Ryuko said quietly. “And pain. But there’s also joy. So much joy. When someone’s safe because of you—when a kid gets to run back to their mom because you got there in time? Nothing beats that.”

Rin was still, absorbing every syllable like scripture.

Ryuko turned to her, voice softer now. “You’ve got fire, kid. But fire without control burns the wrong things.”

“I know,” Rin said. “I just… sometimes I feel like I’m too much.”

“You are,” Ryuko said without hesitation. “And that’s good. The world needs ‘too much.’ We just gotta teach you how to aim it.”

Rin’s throat tightened. She blinked quickly and looked down, pretending to examine her shoelaces. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You will,” Ryuko said. “We all do. But you’ll get back up. That’s what matters.”

Rin nodded, silent, heart full and heavy in a way that made her feel braver just for holding it.

The sky above them turned indigo. A plane blinked red as it crossed the horizon. Somewhere below, a siren wailed faintly and faded.

Ryuko stood and stretched, joints popping. She offered Rin a hand. “Come on. You can’t be Sparklebug if you fall asleep on the roof.”

Rin took her hand and stood. Her legs felt shaky, not from exhaustion—but from the sheer bigness of everything inside her.

As they walked back toward the stairwell, Ryuko reached over and tugged one of Rin’s braids affectionately.

“You’ve got fire, sparklebug,” she said again. “Let’s make sure you’ve got control, too.”

And Rin, walking beside the woman she admired more than the moon itself, felt something unfold in her chest.

It wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t just hope.

It was resolve. Fierce, quiet, and infinite.

—

It started with a dream.

Rin woke before dawn, the curtains ghosting in the spring breeze, casting soft shadows over her bedspread of constellations and clouds. Her chest was still tight, breath uneven. In the dream, her hands glowed brighter than ever before—so bright the sky cracked open and swallowed her whole.

But morning didn’t care for nightmares. Morning brought toast, and sunlight on glass tiles, and her mother humming low as she stirred sesame paste into their congee.

Emi turned just as Rin entered the kitchen. “You’re up early, starlight.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Rin mumbled, climbing onto the stool beside the counter. “Too many lightning hands.”

Her mother gave her a soft look and brushed back her bangs. “Still dreaming about that?”

“It was stronger this time,” Rin whispered. “I think I was floating. I think it wanted me to do something.”

Emi paused. Not because she didn’t believe her daughter—but because she always did. “Your quirk is waking up in new ways. You’re growing.”

“Then why does it scare me?” Rin poked the table with one finger. “Shouldn’t it feel like… mine?”

Her mother set the spoon down and pulled her in for a warm, rice-scented hug. “Because powerful things always feel wild at first. Even hearts. Especially hearts.”

Later that day, after Kei returned from a grocery run and declared a dumpling night, Rin helped fold wrappers at the table. They made shapes—moons, stars, even a bunny—with sticky dough and clumsy fingers.

“Heartline,” Kei said as he shaped a dumpling with practiced fingers, “is a name that has to be earned. You know that, right?”

Rin tilted her head. “I thought I already was Heartline.”

“You’re Rin,” her mother said, tapping her on the nose. “Heartline is the hero you’ll choose to become. And you don’t have to be her yet.”

“But you call me that sometimes.”

“Because we see her already,” Emi said softly. “Even if the world doesn’t. Even if you don’t yet.”

Rin leaned her cheek into her mother’s hand and closed her eyes. For a moment, she let the fear go. She let herself believe she was made of something starlit and golden.

That night, Ryuko stopped by. Not in her hero suit, but in jeans and a hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, eyes tired but kind.

She handed Rin a tiny box. “Your first communicator.”

Rin opened it, gasped, and nearly dropped it. It was slim and rose gold with a single heart-shaped button.

“Only call in emergencies,” Ryuko said. “And only if you’re not with your parents.”

“I’ll keep it on me all the time!” Rin beamed, holding it like a sacred relic.

“Don’t just keep it,” Ryuko said, crouching to her level. “Know what it means. You’re important, Rinnie. You’re rare. People out there might want to use that. We won’t let them, but you have to help us by being careful.”

Rin nodded. She didn’t like the way Ryuko’s voice had tightened near the end. She didn’t like how her parents had gone quiet either. But she liked being trusted.

Later that evening, when the dishes were washed and the rice cooker sang its final beep, Rin curled up on the couch between her parents. They watched the old version of The King and the Mockingbird, a surreal, strange little film with talking birds and hidden rebels.

“I like how the bird just talks back to kings,” Rin murmured. “No powers. Just talks back.”

“That is a power,” her father said with a laugh. “You’re already very good at it.”

Rin grinned. She thought of her dream again, of glowing hands and broken skies. But this time, it didn’t scare her.

It felt like a beginning.

---

Rin bowed before stepping onto the mat.

The dojo was warm with the scent of polished wood, old sweat, and something faintly herbal—incense maybe, or the tea someone’s parent always brought in a thermos. The ceiling fans spun lazily above, doing more to stir the air than cool it. Sunlight filtered through high windows, casting long rectangles of light onto the floor.

Her gi was crisp, sleeves a little too long, belt tied just right. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun that threatened mutiny if she moved too fast. There was a strawberry sticker on her water bottle, a glittery bandaid on her knee, and absolute murder in her eyes.

She looked like a threat in tiny human form.

She was eight now. Her quirk had grown stronger—but so had she. Strong enough to accidentally fry the toaster one morning. Strong enough that when her hands sparked in the dark, it no longer scared her.

Martial arts were her mother’s idea.

“To ground her,” Emi had said, watching Rin bounce off furniture like a pinball.

“To give her confidence and structure,” she added, after Rin had cried about not being able to control her quirk during a school play.

Rin had resisted at first. The idea of a place without glitter, without music, without chaos, sounded boring. But she’d bowed at the threshold of the dojo on her first day, stepped onto the mat, and something inside her clicked.

It was like she’d walked into a poem written in movement.

She took to it like a spark to dry leaves.

At first, her smallness was a disadvantage. The older kids didn’t want to hurt her. The younger ones couldn’t keep up. She got flipped more times than she could count. Thrown. Swept. Locked. She’d landed on her back so hard she saw stars. Cried into her sleeve once, quiet and hot with shame, when she couldn’t break out of a hold.

But she didn’t quit.

She came back. Again and again. She studied. Memorized. Practiced with pillows at home, shadowboxed in mirrors, whispered names of moves like spells.

She trained in aikido for redirection. Flow and fluidity. Letting force pass through her instead of meeting it head-on.

Judo for balance. Knowing where to stand, how to fall, how to make your opponent’s strength betray them.

Taekwondo for power. Kicks that sliced the air like declarations. Precision like punctuation marks.

She made friends quickly.

There was Taro, a loud boy who tried to spin-kick everything from dummies to doorframes. He laughed too loud and cried when he was frustrated, and Rin liked him immediately.

There was Suzu, quiet and thoughtful, who learned twice as fast as anyone else but never bragged.

And the brother-sister duo, twins who moved like mirrored storms, graceful and deadly when they weren’t arguing over who ate the last snack bar.

They trained together like a pack of cubs learning how to pounce. Fell together. Learned together. Grew stronger together.

Rin found muscle where there used to be softness.

Agility where she once stumbled.

Grace where she once flailed.

And through it all—she still sparkled. Still wore pink socks beneath her gi, still bedazzled her water bottle, still gave her opponents nicknames like “Captain Elbows” and “The Spin.”

But now she moved.

Each motion had purpose. Breath led movement, movement shaped power. She could flip boys twice her size now. Could block with the precision of someone twice her age. She glowed—not just with confidence, but with control.

Her mom came to every class she could, watching quietly with a mug of tea in hand, eyes tracking Rin’s every move. She never shouted from the sidelines. She didn’t need to. When Rin looked over and caught her mother’s smile, it was enough.

And then, one day, Ryuko came.

Rin didn’t know until she saw her. There she was—standing in the corner of the dojo, a little too tall for the space, arms crossed, braid over her shoulder, presence like a mountain in a hoodie. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded when Rin’s eyes went wide.

Rin’s stomach did backflips. She was mid-drill, practicing a throw. Her palms were sweaty. Her throat dry. Her legs felt like noodles. But she squared her shoulders, took a breath, and focused.

Partner switch. Rin was paired with Yuto—tall, fast, solid as a tree.

They bowed.

The sensei gave the signal.

Yuto moved first, aiming low. Rin turned, pivoted, redirected. The mats thumped beneath them as he lunged again.

She breathed.

She remembered balance.

She flowed.

And then—she flipped him. Perfectly. Smoothly. He hit the mat with a surprised oof, and she followed through into a pin, hand on his wrist, knee at his side.

They held.

The sensei called it.

Rin bowed.

Her heart was hammering.

She dared a glance at the corner.

Ryuko was clapping.

Not loud. Not showy. Just three steady claps and a proud, warm smile.

Rin nearly floated off the mat.

After class, she found her aunt waiting outside by the vending machines, sipping a grape soda.

“You throw like a dragonfly,” Ryuko said.

Rin blinked. “Is that good?”

“It’s fast. Beautiful. You don’t look dangerous until it’s too late.”

Rin beamed so hard her ears turned pink.

Ryuko ruffled her hair. “You’ve got a fighter’s heart. And you’re learning to wield it.”

Later that night, Rin lay sprawled across her bedroom floor, still wearing her gi. Her limbs ached in a good way. Her face was sticky from grape soda and sweat. Her chest still hummed with pride.

She closed her eyes and replayed the flip, the bow, the applause.

She imagined being older. Stronger. Wearing boots like Ryuko’s. Maybe a glittery mask. Maybe with lightning dancing down her arms like silk ribbons.

She whispered to the ceiling:

“Sparklebug strikes again.”

And drifted into sleep with a smile on her lips and sparks under her skin.

---

The kitchen was warm with the scent of ginger tea and something faintly toasted. The windows were open to let in the late afternoon air, and through them came the sound of a child’s shout—sharp, joyful, confident.

Rin was outside, kicking at the air like it had insulted her ancestors. Each strike sent her braid whipping behind her. She counted aloud with every movement. Her voice rang like a bell.

Inside, no one smiled.

Ryuko sat at the small kitchen table, elbows on wood worn smooth by years of breakfast cereal and midnight snacks. Across from her sat Emi and her husband, Kei. A steaming teapot rested between them like a fourth, unwelcome guest.

“She’s sacred,” Ryuko said. Her voice was soft, but each word landed with force. “You know what that means.”

Emi nodded, lips pressed tight. Her face had gone pale, but her eyes didn’t waver. She didn’t look away.

“She’s not even ten,” Kei said quietly. His fingers traced the rim of his mug. “She still cries when the power goes out.”

“She also healed a fractured arm last week with nothing more than instinct,” Ryuko replied. “The kid didn’t even feel pain.”

Outside, Rin shouted, “Hi-yah!” and kicked with all the righteousness of a magical girl punishing evil.

Emi flinched.

“Healers are rare,” Ryuko continued. “They’re cherished. But also—exploited.”

Kei looked down at his hands. “I looked it up,” he admitted. “Just once. Just… to see. On those forums you told me to stay away from.”

Emi’s head turned sharply toward him.

He didn’t meet her eyes. “There are whispers about healers like her. Children. Black market rumors. Trafficking. Bounties.”

Ryuko nodded once. “Millions. Some of the worst villains wouldn’t want to use her. They’d want her gone. Permanently. No one wants to fight against someone who can reverse their damage with a touch.”

Emi’s hand trembled as she reached for her mug. The ceramic clinked against the table. Kei reached across and wrapped his fingers around hers. He was shaking too.

“She’s a baby,” Emi whispered. “She still thinks she can talk to bees.”

Ryuko’s face softened. “She’s your miracle. I know.”

“She’s our heartbeat,” Emi said fiercely. “We waited so long to have her. She was born with sparks in her blood and starlight in her lungs. We were just grateful she survived. We didn’t—” Her voice cracked. “We didn’t know she’d need to survive this.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and bitter.

“I hate that she needs martial arts,” Emi added. “I hate that she has to train to fight. She should be building fairy houses and naming her plushies, not learning how to break a wrist.”

“You did the right thing,” Ryuko said gently. “It bought her time. Space to grow strong without looking like a target.”

“She already is a target,” Kei said. “Even if they don’t know it yet.”

Ryuko hesitated, then leaned forward. Her braid slid over her shoulder, a golden rope of calm anchored in chaos.

“I have contacts in China,” she said. “Good ones. Hero schools that operate in secret. Government-backed, but anonymous. I’ve helped place at-risk kids before. If you relocate… she could grow up with protection. She’d still train. Still learn. But she’d be hidden.”

Emi stared at her. “You think that’s our best option?”

“I think,” Ryuko said slowly, “that if she stays here, it’s only a matter of time before someone notices. If they haven’t already.”

Kei looked at the floor. “We’d have to disappear.”

“She’d lose her friends,” Emi whispered. “Her dojo. Her room. Everything she’s building.”

“She’ll still have you,” Ryuko said. “That matters more than any of it.”

Emi’s eyes shimmered. She turned her face away, blinked hard. “Will she hate us for it?”

Ryuko exhaled. “Someday? Maybe. But she’ll be alive to yell at you. That’s the point.”

Outside, Rin laughed. She’d dropped into a split and was now dramatically punching upward as if smiting an invisible demon above her.

“She’s pretending she’s fighting evil butterflies,” Kei murmured.

Ryuko smiled, just for a second. “I believe in her. But belief doesn’t stop bullets. And miracles don’t protect themselves.”

“I want to give her everything,” Emi whispered. “Books, music, first crushes. Field trips. Cram school meltdowns. Sleepovers. Silly bracelets. Bad fashion. I want her to grow up to be weird and annoying and safe.”

“You can still give her that,” Ryuko said. “But you’ll have to fight for it. Not with fists. With decisions. With sacrifice.”

Kei’s jaw tightened. He looked at Emi. She looked back.

“We go,” he said simply.

Emi’s breath hitched. “We go.”

Ryuko nodded once. “I’ll start the process. It’ll take time. Quiet time. No one can know.”

Outside, Rin was doing cartwheels under the cherry tree, giggling every time she lost balance and flopped onto the grass. Pink petals stuck in her hair. Her hands glowed faintly with aftershocks of her quirk—static curling around her fingers like fireflies.

She was fierce. She was determined. She was glowing.

And inside, three adults quietly rearranged the entire future.

[mimixis]

[mimixis]

Combustion Rhythm: kiss me like a heartbeat bomb

Chapter 1: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64873270

“Some girls are born to make stories happen.”

— Rupi Kaur

The delivery room was too quiet.

Not in a sterile way—not the antiseptic hum of a hospital—but in the way the universe seemed to hold its breath. Time stretched thin, taut as a violin string. Nurses moved swiftly, monitors beeped in steady rhythm, doctors spoke in low, practiced tones—but the world itself felt hushed, reverent.

The final push came with a sound that tore through the silence like thunder cracking open the sky.

Then silence again.

Until the softest sound shattered it: a wail. Tiny. Raw. New.

Hanabira Emi’s heart clenched at the sound. Her breath caught in her throat, tears sprang to her eyes, and the dam inside her finally burst. A cry—not just from the baby, but from some place deep within her. Her hands trembled, still curled tightly around her husband’s fingers. His knuckles were white, his grip unsteady. He looked ghost-pale, and yet, he was grinning like the most foolish, luckiest man in the world.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse said, beaming as she wrapped the newborn in soft pink. “She’s healthy. And loud.”

Emi let out a wet laugh that broke into a sob. She reached out, chest heaving, arms aching with longing. And then—warmth. A tiny, impossibly warm weight was placed in her arms. Her daughter.

The baby’s eyes were closed. Her cheeks were flushed and wrinkly, her mouth opened in another fragile cry. Her hair was dark, damp, and already rebellious. She smelled faintly of something sweet and earthly—like new beginnings and heartbeat and rain.

“I waited so long for you,” Emi whispered, voice cracking, the words barely more than breath.

Her husband leaned over, kissed her temple, then lowered his head to brush his nose against their daughter’s forehead. He exhaled a shuddering breath.

“Welcome home, miracle,” he said.

They had tried for years. Had cried in sterile rooms and whispered through sleepless nights. Had given up once—no, twice. And then, somehow, impossibly—Rin.

Her name didn’t come immediately. They called her ‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart,’ ‘little bean’ for days. As if the right name was waiting in the air, just outside their reach.

Then one evening, in the quiet twilight of the hospital room, Emi sat cradling her daughter, humming something soft and tuneless. The fluorescent lights buzzed gently above, but outside the window, dusk painted the sky with lavender and gold.

Her husband stood beside her, fingers brushing the baby’s blanket. He watched them with a gaze like prayer.

“She’s going to change everything,” he said, wonder woven into every syllable.

“She already has,” Emi whispered.

The words felt like truth carved into stone. Her world was already unrecognizable. The ache of longing had turned into an ache of love, fierce and endless.

In Emi’s arms, the baby twitched her fingers for the first time.

A gentle, barely-there motion—like she was reaching for something just out of sight.

They named her Rin the next morning.

Simple. Soft. A name that felt like breath. Like rain on dry earth. A name that lingered, gentle but certain, in the corners of every sentence they spoke afterward.

Emi said it aloud a hundred times that first day.

Rin.

Rin.

Rin.

The nurses smiled each time. Her husband grinned like it was the first time all over again. He couldn’t stop looking at her—at both of them. He kept taking photos, kept saying Can you believe it? even though his voice kept breaking.

And Emi? She just held her daughter tighter. Every blink, every twitch, every sleepy sigh was a miracle made flesh.

They took her home three days later, wrapped in soft pink blankets, nestled in her mother’s arms as the car pulled away from the hospital. The world outside was loud again—honking horns, chattering crowds, the rustle of city wind through trees—but it all sounded distant, like background music to something sacred.

Rin slept the whole way, one tiny fist curled against Emi’s collarbone.

At home, sunlight poured through the curtains in golden streams. There were flowers on the table, gifted by friends who had cried with them, prayed with them, hoped with them. A crib stood ready, adorned with little stars and hearts, though Emi couldn’t bring herself to set Rin down just yet.

She sat in the rocking chair instead, holding her close. Breathing her in.

“Hi,” Emi whispered. “I’m your mom.”

And somewhere between heartbeats and hush, Emi knew—

This girl was going to be something extraordinary.

The sky shimmered like a bowl of wet ink, stars dripping across it in rivulets of silver. Somewhere in the deep hush between galaxies, a girl fell.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t afraid. She was radiant.

Rin arrived on Earth with the breath of stardust still tangled in her lashes. She landed not in fire or thunder, but in silence—a soft pulse, a hush that kissed the clouds and swept across a quiet field just beyond the city. The wind bent low in greeting. Trees rustled with reverence.

Emi reached her first.

She was barefoot in the dew, hair unbound, her white nightdress billowing like a banner. Kei followed, heart in his throat, a blanket over his arm. They saw her—a glowing child curled in the grass—and they knew her name before she spoke it.

“Rin,” Emi whispered, and it wasn’t a question. It was a truth unfurling.

She opened her eyes.

They gleamed electric blue.

The apartment smelled like jasmine and warm bread. Kei had rushed ahead to prepare a bath, the kettle whistling while Emi wrapped Rin in a towel and whispered stories like lullabies.

“She came from light,” Emi murmured, combing Rin’s hair with gentle fingers. “You’re our spark. You’ll change everything.”

Rin didn’t speak much. She looked. She touched. Her tiny hands moved over doorknobs and picture frames like she was reading a second language carved into the world.

She pointed to the window, wide-eyed.

“Do you want to see?” Kei asked. She nodded.

So they bundled her in a sweater ten sizes too big and took her to the rooftop.

The city spread beneath them like circuitry—veins of light, blinking, breathing. Rin climbed onto Kei’s shoulders, her fingers laced in his hair, and gasped.

“Home,” she said.

It was the first word she spoke.

That night, Rin slept between them, a star nestled in cotton sheets. Emi kissed her forehead. Kei switched off the lamp.

Outside, the sky turned violet with morning.

And the world held its breath, not knowing that a miracle had landed in someone’s arms,

She arrived under moonlight.

Not with sirens. Not with fanfare. Not with any clue of how much she’d change the world.

Just a soft, silver night and a baby girl blinking up at the stars like she’d seen them before.

Rin had always had a spark. Not just her quirk, which shimmered faintly beneath her skin even as a newborn—but something deeper. A pulse. A presence. Her first laugh knocked over a bedside lamp. Her first tantrum shorted out the baby monitor. And her first steps left static footprints glowing on the floor for an hour.

Her parents were gentle, wide-eyed scientists turned sudden guardians of a girl born glowing. Emi and Kei, in their modest apartment with too many books and never enough time, built a world around her that shimmered back.

They called her their little comet.

“She’s got galaxies behind her eyes,” Emi would whisper.

“Or an entire power grid,” Kei would add, half-joking as he repaired a flickering light.

By day, they fed her puréed carrots and poems. By night, they sat beside her crib and read her legends of sky spirits and warrior queens.

Rin soaked up the world like it was made of sugar and light.

When she touched plants, they vibrated. When she giggled, the air tingled. The first time she saw a playground, she declared it her kingdom and climbed to the top of the slide with the air of a conqueror.

“I am Rin the Radiant,” she declared at age three, wind tangling her curls.

“That’s my daughter,” Emi said proudly, sipping coffee on a bench below.

“She’s going to be dramatic,” Kei sighed, though the corner of his mouth lifted.

They spent hours on that playground. Rin negotiated peace treaties between ants and dandelions. She rescued imaginary princesses from mulch volcanoes. She demanded that all her plushies be referred to by rank.

“Sergeant Sprinkles, you are in charge of snuggles. General Taffy, you’ll lead bedtime strategy. Queen Marshmallow, this is your realm.”

Her parents played along with the seriousness of diplomats.

Evenings were slow and rich. They cooked together—Rin perched on the counter, cracking eggs and singing off-key to songs her parents played on vinyl. Emi taught her how to sprinkle salt with flair. Kei showed her how to stir without sloshing the soup.

“Cooking is just another form of science,” he said.

“It’s a kind of magic,” Emi countered, kissing Rin’s nose.

“It’s both,” Rin declared. “I’m a science witch!”

They laughed until tears welled up.

Bathtime was another adventure. The lights dimmed automatically when her quirk flared in excitement, and once she turned the water into a low-level current that made her rubber ducks float in a synchronized dance.

“Okay, Heartline,” Emi teased. “Let’s not electrocute the bathroom.”

Rin beamed. “That’s a good hero name.”

“You can pick ten,” Kei said. “You’ve got time.”

At bedtime, they curled up in a nest of plushies and blankets. Rin always chose the story: ancient myths, space explorers, warrior queens, or sometimes just made-up tales about a girl who healed things with a glowing heartbeat.

“One day,” she said sleepily, “I’ll heal people and make them feel like they’re made of stars.”

“You already do,” her mother whispered.

“You will,” her father promised.

And as Rin drifted to sleep, her fingers twitched with faint pulses of light—like little Morse code messages written in love and potential.

When it snowed for the first time, she tried to hug every snowflake.

When it rained, she wore her boots and her crown and declared herself Queen of the Storm.

When she first saw fireflies, she sobbed—not because they scared her, but because she thought they might be lonely.

“They’re not alone,” Kei reassured, scooping her up.

“They’re like me,” she said, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

“Yes,” Emi whispered. “Little lights in the dark.”

And they held her close, even as sparks buzzed gently against their skin.

Rin was magic.

Not the kind in fairy tales—though she adored those too—but the quiet kind. The kind that comes from love and curiosity and a heart too big for her body.

The world outside didn’t know her name yet.

But in one small apartment lit by nightlights and lullabies, a girl was being raised like a star.

By age five, Rin had declared herself ruler of the sandbox—a gritty, sun-warmed empire of plastic shovels, crumbling towers, and crushed dandelions. She wore a pink tutu over grass-stained leggings and a sunhat askew like a tilted crown. In one hand, a twig scepter; in the other, absolute confidence.

“You may build here,” she declared, chin lifted with practiced authority, to a wide-eyed boy gripping a red shovel. “But the east wall is sacred and under royal protection. No boys are allowed to knock it down. That’s the law—and I am the law.”

The boy blinked. Then grinned, like he'd been knighted. “Okay!”

Rin turned on her heel, curls bouncing, hands on her hips as she surveyed her kingdom. The air was thick with summer heat and the scent of bubblegum and sunscreen. A plastic bucket lay overturned near a moat she’d dug with solemn purpose.

Her mother sat on a nearby bench, sipping jasmine tea from a travel mug, eyes shaded by sunglasses she wasn’t really using. Emi was pretending not to laugh, but her gaze was fixed—soft, reverent—on her daughter’s tiny revolution.

Rin played like a storm in glitter shoes. She ran, climbed, twirled, tumbled. Her knees were a permanent patchwork of scabs and bandaids, her elbows bore the bruised badges of bravery. She never cried unless it was absolutely necessary—meaning, unless someone was watching and she could make it very dramatic.

But she was kind, too.

She helped up the younger kids when they tripped. She shared her crackers and juice boxes like they were provisions in wartime. Once, when a bigger boy tried to shove a toddler off the slide, Rin launched herself between them like a firework. Her voice, tiny but fierce, rang out across the playground.

“You leave her alone! I’m the general of this whole place!”

The bully backed down. The toddler sniffled into her sleeve. Rin, triumphant, returned to the sandbox with her hoodie fluttering behind her like a cape and declared, “Fear not. Justice has been served.”

Her mother clapped from the bench, biting back tears of laughter.

That evening, after the bathwater had turned milky with dirt and glitter, Rin emerged in fuzzy pajamas and damp curls. She marched into the living room where her parents sat reading, hands on her hips.

“I’m not a princess, Mama,” she said solemnly, as if it were a matter of national security. “I’m a general. Princesses wait around. Generals do things.”

Emi set her book down and beckoned her over. “Come here, General.” She scooped her into her lap, kissed her nose. “You’re everything, sweetheart. You can be a general and a princess. Or something else entirely. Whatever you want.”

Rin considered this seriously, like a soldier evaluating a new battle plan. Then she nodded. “Okay. But I want a dragon.”

Her father snorted into his tea.

“The world’s big, baby,” Emi said. “You never know.”

And Rin believed her.

She believed everything her mother said in those years. That the moon watched her while she slept. That wishing on dandelions could change the future. That scraped knees meant she was learning. That kindness was stronger than size. That rules were important—except when they weren’t.

The world was vast and soft and full of glittering possibilities. She twirled through it like a flower caught in the wind—bright, wild, and loud. Her heart was already learning rhythm, syncing to playground laughter and bedtime lullabies, to scraped-knee victories and whispered stories under blanket forts.

She was fearless in the way only children can be. She stood on tabletops to recite speeches. She asked strangers if they believed in unicorns. She once tried to befriend a crow and cried when it flew away—then decided it was probably on a mission and would come back with news from another land.

She didn’t want to grow up. She wanted to rise.

Rin lived every day like it had a theme song. Her mother said she was too much sometimes—but always with a smile, always with pride. Her father said she had fire in her bones. Rin believed that, too.

The sandbox eventually gave way to bigger stages—school plays, skating rinks, sidewalk chalk murals on the front walk. But that crown, invisible or not, never quite left her head.

By the time she was six, she told her parents she would be a hero when she grew up. Not like in stories. In real life.

Emi ruffled her hair. “Then the world better watch out.”

And Rin grinned—a gap-toothed, glitter-covered, scab-kneed grin.

Because deep in her chest, where her heart hummed its first brave songs, she already knew:

It would.

Rin learned Earth by heart.

She learned the way the city sighed when the trains passed overhead, and how rain tasted different depending on which street she caught it on. She memorized the sound her mother made when she stretched—soft and musical, like a cat waking up in the sun—and the way her father always tapped his thumb on the stove twice before turning it on.

Every day was a love letter to discovery.

Kei taught her to read from grocery flyers and magic girl comics. He made little voices for each cereal mascot. Emi took her on afternoon walks through the neighborhood gardens, pointing out names in both Japanese and Chinese.

"That's a peony," she said, brushing her fingers across a soft pink bloom. "It means bravery and honor."

Rin blinked. "Like a hero?"

"Exactly like that."

At home, the house grew warm with scent. Emi cooked with flair and soul, dancing between the stovetop and the sink in fluffy socks, singing old pop songs with a wooden spoon in hand. Rin would sit on the counter, legs swinging, head tilted like a sunflower toward the sun.

She asked questions endlessly.

"What’s tofu made of?"

"Beans, sparklebug."

"Why do cats knock things over?"

"To remind us they are gods."

Her father came home with snack cakes and science books, scooping her up into bear hugs that made her laugh until she hiccupped. They built Lego cities together. And when she knocked them over in dramatic kaiju fashion, Kei would throw himself onto the floor with theatrical horror.

"My taxes!"

Rin declared her bedroom the capital of her imaginary kingdom. Her plushies had ministries. Her tiara changed hands depending on how heroic she felt that day. And every night, her parents kissed her forehead and called her their star-born empress.

But it wasn’t just love that filled her days. There was purpose, too.

Her pulse shimmered brighter now. Sometimes, when she got a paper cut, her skin closed itself before her eyes. Her parents watched her, a mix of awe and worry threading their expressions.

They didn’t speak of danger yet. Only preparation.

Once a week, Emi took her to a community gym, where a retired hero taught children the fundamentals of defense. The mats smelled like rubber and triumph. Rin learned how to fall. How to roll. How to move like wind instead of stone.

She wasn't the strongest. She wasn’t the fastest.

But she noticed.

Where feet landed. Where balance lived. Where force met intention.

The teacher watched her closely. Said little. Smiled often.

"You’ll go far, little spark. Just don’t forget your breath."

She never did.

Even when she leapt from the swing set like she could fly. Even when she tried to climb the cherry blossom tree in the park and got stuck halfway, laughing too hard to call for help.

Emi found her like that—dangling and proud, eyes full of mischief.

"You’re going to give me gray hairs," she said, reaching up to guide her down.

"Then we’ll match!"

They picnicked that day under the blooming branches. Rice balls, mandarin slices, fizzy drinks that Rin always tried to burp after. She lay on her mother’s lap, full of sun and stories.

Emi braided her hair with care. "One day," she murmured, "you’ll braid mine. When you’re big and I’m old and your hands are even stronger than they are now."

Rin squinted up at her. "You’ll never be old. You’re the strongest woman in the world."

Emi kissed her forehead. “Only because you made me that way.”

It was golden, all of it. A season of warm things—sunlight, soup, small victories. Rin didn’t just feel loved. She felt chosen.

She didn’t yet know what would be asked of her.

But she knew this: she belonged.

To Earth. To her parents. To the rhythm of wonder.

And she was ready to protect it.

Even if she didn’t know how just yet.

Earth tasted like strawberries.

That was Rin’s first conclusion.

She had eaten them before—dried, powdered, sealed in the sterile foil packets of her early life. But fresh ones? Plucked from their green cradles in the tiny rooftop garden Emi had built? That was magic. They burst in her mouth like sunbursts, like sweet comets. She stained her fingers red and declared herself queen of summer.

Her mother, laughing, crowned her with a daisy chain.

In those early weeks, Rin treated everything like it was alive and watching. The rain was a gentle god. The toaster had moods. The wind was a messenger. She bowed to houseplants and gave names to lampposts. She whispered to puddles and asked the moon for advice.

“Are all kids this dramatic?” Kei teased.

“No,” Emi said, brushing soil from Rin’s knees. “She’s a storm in glitter boots.”

They took her to the zoo. Rin stared at the tiger and the tiger stared back like it knew her, like it saw the same wild thing curled behind her ribs.

They took her to the supermarket, and Rin gasped at the towers of color, the bright packages, the humming fluorescent lights. “Is this a temple?” she whispered.

“No, baby,” Emi chuckled. “It’s capitalism.”

Evenings were wrapped in golden softness. Her parents cooked side-by-side, swaying to old Earth songs, their elbows bumping, their movements rehearsed and full of laughter. Emi sang while she stirred—half lyrics, half lullaby. Kei hummed bassline harmonies. Rin set the table like it was a spell, placing each utensil with care, her small hands deliberate and serious.

She called every dinner a feast. It didn’t matter if it was takeout or soup from a can. There were candles. There was music. There was love.

They taught her Earth things—how to use zippers, how to braid hair, how to swat flies and open jars and blow on hot drinks. They let her pick her own clothes (which resulted in many days of glitter tutus over pajama pants). They let her paint her ceiling with glow stars. They let her choose her bedtime stories—always the ones about witches and warriors and girls who saved worlds.

“She sees everything like it’s sacred,” Emi whispered once, when Rin was asleep, curled like a comma between them on the couch.

“It is,” Kei said. “To her, it is.”

They went to the park.

And that—that—was where it happened.

Rin stepped onto the playground like it was a battlefield. Like it was a throne room. Like the sand beneath her shoes answered to her heartbeat.

Children ran. Screamed. Climbed. Laughed.

And Rin walked through it like a queen through her court—observing, radiant, glittering.

Some kids stared at her bright barrettes and glowing bracelet (a side-effect of her still-learning quirk). Others just watched her walk, sensing something big beneath the soft.

She climbed to the highest point of the jungle gym. Balanced like a hawk on the top bar. The wind caught in her braids.

“She’s gonna fall,” a kid muttered.

“She won’t,” another said.

And Rin didn’t.

She jumped. Twirled. Landed in the sand with a giggle and a puff of dust.

Later, she would befriend those kids. She’d trade stickers and teach them double-dutch. But in that moment, she wasn’t a child. She was a comet in sneakers. A wild thing with warm hands and a mother who called her sunrise.

And Earth?

Earth watched her back.

The air shimmered like a mirage.

The hottest day of summer pressed down on the house like a heavy, invisible hand. Fans hummed uselessly. Ice melted too fast. Shadows clung to the edges of rooms like they were trying to hide from the heat.

Rin was six.

Her hair was stuck to the back of her neck, her knees sticky with popsicle juice. Her mother had been quieter than usual all morning—pale, slower, eyes distant. She’d smiled, but not the real kind. Not the kind that made her whole face shine.

Rin noticed.

She noticed the way Emi sat down too carefully. The way her hand kept pressing to her side, like something hurt and she didn’t want anyone to see.

Something felt off. Like the day was holding its breath.

Then came the sound.

A sharp crash—glass on tile.

Rin ran into the kitchen barefoot, heart already racing. Her mother was on the floor, curled sideways, one hand still reaching for the counter.

“Mama?” she cried, skidding to her knees, hands shaking. “Mama!”

Emi’s breath was shallow. Sweat glistened on her forehead. Her lips were pale.

“Mama, wake up! Please—please wake up!”

Rin’s vision blurred. She didn’t know what to do. She was only six. But something in her—something buried in the deepest part of her bones—knew.

Instinct took over.

Her trembling hands hovered, then pressed gently against her mother’s chest. Her fingers tingled. Her pulse raced. Somewhere inside her, something shuddered awake.

There was a flicker—an ignition, a click, a jolt—and her heart beat so loud it felt like it echoed in the air around her.

Her palms began to glow.

Soft gold light bloomed from her skin, warm and steady. The air buzzed like a tuning fork striking glass, then ringing outward in ripples.

A pulse.

A surge.

The light flowed into her mother’s body like breath returning to the world.

Emi gasped, chest rising sharply. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Rin…?”

Rin blinked, wide-eyed, her whole body buzzing. The glow from her hands was already fading, but the warmth remained.

“I—I fixed you?”

Emi blinked at her in wonder. Her color was returning. Her breathing steadied. She reached up and cupped Rin’s cheek.

“You saved me,” she whispered.

The ambulance came. The medics checked vital signs and found them bafflingly stable. At the hospital, the doctors said it was heatstroke, worsened by dehydration. Dangerous. But they couldn’t explain how quickly Emi recovered.

Or why, when her vitals should’ve been tanking, they’d spiked back to normal within minutes.

Tests were run.

At first, everyone assumed Rin’s quirk hadn’t emerged fully yet. Six was early. But the evidence was impossible to ignore. The incident had triggered something. A latent power, bursting out in desperation.

Emi’s quirk was low-level bioregulation—enough to speed healing slightly, given time and rest.

Rin’s father had a quirk that stabilized electric energy. Not flashy, not combat-grade—useful in storms and for maintaining household gadgets.

But Rin?

She was born with something new. A mutation, the doctors said. A blend of inheritance, yes—but something else, too. Something rare.

Her quirk accelerated biological repair using a conductive bioelectric pulse. It worked by syncing to another person’s rhythm—heartbeat, breath, the quiet language of the body—and then kickstarting their healing like jumpstarting a heart.

“She heals people,” one doctor said. “With light.”

Emi wept when she heard it.

“My miracle,” she whispered, cradling Rin in her arms that night in the hospital room. “You’re my miracle.”

Everyone said it.

Rin, the child who saved her mother’s life. Rin, the little girl who glowed. Rin, the miracle.

But Rin didn’t feel like a miracle.

That night, back in her bed, she lay awake staring at her hands. The glow was gone, but her fingers still tingled. Her heartbeat still thudded too hard in her chest, like it hadn’t figured out how to slow down.

She didn’t feel holy or magical or special.

She felt like lightning—buzzing under her skin, too big for her body.

She didn’t know how it worked. Didn’t know if it would come back. Didn’t know what else she could do. Her stomach flipped every time she thought about the light. About the way her mother had looked—so still, so quiet, so gone—until Rin had touched her and something had happened.

She didn’t tell anyone that it had scared her.

That it still did.

Everyone wanted her to feel proud. Wanted her to smile and nod and say, “Yes! I saved her!”

But the truth was quieter. More complicated.

She had saved her mother, yes. She would never forget the relief that crashed over her like a wave when Emi’s eyes opened. But something had shifted inside her in that moment. Something vast and unknowable.

She didn’t feel like a superhero.

She felt like a live wire waiting to snap.

A little girl with thunder in her chest, and nowhere to put it yet.

The airport was too loud. Rin’s fingers curled tighter around her dad’s arm as announcements crackled overhead, carts beeped, and rolling suitcases bumped against her sandals.

She was seven. She had a new dress. It had stars on it. She’d picked it herself.

And she was about to meet her.

There.

Stepping off the plane like it was a movie set—long cream coat swishing behind her, sunglasses perched on a face Rin recognized from magazines and news reports and late-night hero documentaries.

Even with her hair pinned up and her boots practical, she looked like she belonged somewhere else. Somewhere higher. Shinier. A place with marble floors and secret missions and dragons in the sky.

“That’s her?” Rin whispered, breath catching.

Her father smiled, a little nervous. “That’s your Aunt Ryukyu.”

Ryukyu. The Ryukyu. The Pro Hero. Ranked, respected, relentless.

Rin had seen her breathe fire. Had watched her transform—wings slicing the air, scales catching light like jewels, her roar rolling across city rooftops. Rin had memorized the sound.

Now she watched her aunt walk across the terminal with smooth, deliberate grace. Not a single hair out of place.

Rin’s heart jumped into her throat.

Ryukyu stopped in front of them, slid her sunglasses off, and tucked them into her coat. Her eyes were golden. Sharp and quiet.

“Hello, Kei,” she said, nodding at Rin’s father. Then her gaze turned, curious, assessing.

So did her smile. “You’ve grown.”

“I’m seven,” Rin declared. “I have a quirk.”

A perfectly delivered line, practiced all week.

Ryukyu’s brows lifted. “Do you now?”

“I healed Mama when she fainted,” Rin said, chin high. “I glowed.”

There was a pause. Then a laugh—deep, warm, and very real. Ryukyu leaned down slightly, hands in her coat pockets, amusement sparking in her eyes.

“I see the drama runs strong in this one.”

Rin blinked.

Then grinned.

“You’re… so cool.”

“I know.”

The grin broke wide open. Rin wasn’t even embarrassed. Her stomach was fluttering like a trapped balloon, her brain barely functioning, but oh, she meant it. Ryukyu was effortlessly cool in the way cartoon heroines were—unbothered and brilliant.

But it was more than that.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t just awe.

It was something else.

Rin didn’t have a word for it yet. But she knew what it felt like:

She wanted to be her.

Ryukyu came to stay for the week.

She took her coat off eventually. Tied her hair up with a scrunchie. Let Rin sit at the table with her while she read briefing documents and annotated strategy maps. She moved through the house like she belonged there, but something about her still shimmered with distance—like she was always partly elsewhere, tethered to bigger things.

Emi smiled more with her sister around. The two of them traded looks Rin didn’t understand, old jokes and half-hushed memories that made her feel both fascinated and excluded.

But Ryukyu didn’t ignore her.

She asked questions. She watched closely.

And when Rin pulled out her sketchpad and showed her drawings of herself as a hero—complete with sparkles, wings, and a glitter-cape—Ryukyu studied the page like it was important.

“She’s a healer,” she said softly to Kei, later that night. “That kind of power… it’s rare. And it’s going to change things.”

“She wants to be like you,” Rin’s father replied.

Ryukyu didn’t answer right away.

Outside, the sun was melting into the horizon.

That evening, Rin watched from the upstairs window as Ryukyu practiced sparring with her dad in the backyard. She hadn’t transformed—no dragon tail, no wings—but she didn’t need to.

Even in human form, she was a force. Quick. Balanced. Each movement efficient and sharp. She shifted her weight like a dancer and struck like she was sculpting the air itself.

She didn’t move like a person.

She moved like a promise.

Rin pressed her palms to the glass. Her breath fogged it slightly.

Her heart ached in a strange, bright way.

She didn’t want to be saved by her aunt. Didn’t want to sit on the sidelines. She wanted to be out there too—moving with purpose, glowing with strength, standing tall.

Not as a child.

Not as a niece.

But as an equal.

A hero.

Later, when Ryuko came inside, her forehead damp with sweat, she paused in the hallway outside Rin’s room. The door was cracked open.

Rin was lying on her stomach in bed, feet kicking lazily in the air, sketchpad open. Her pencil moved in slow, focused strokes.

“You still awake?” Ryukyu asked.

Rin nodded. “I’m drawing you.”

“Oh?”

Rin flipped the page and held it up.

It was messy. Lopsided. Too many sparkles. The wings were too big and the claws looked like noodles.

But Ryuko smiled.

“I like the flames,” she said, pointing to the background. “Very dramatic.”

Rin sat up. “Do you think I could… be like that? A hero?”

Ryuko knelt beside the bed. Looked her in the eye.

“I think you already are.”

Rin’s throat went tight.

“But you’re so good. You fight villains. You protect people. I just… I glowed one time.”

“That glow saved your mother’s life,” Ryuko said gently. “And one day, it might save a city. Don’t underestimate the small beginnings, Rin. Sparks start fires.”

Rin didn’t say anything. Just nodded and curled into her blankets.

But as Ryuko turned to go, Rin whispered:

“One day, I’ll stand beside you.”

The hallway light flickered.

Ryuko paused, then glanced over her shoulder.

“I’ll be waiting.”

[mimixis]

[mimixis]

[mimixis]

The White Knight: Part 0:03

Nothin' to say

And everything gets in the way

Papa and Daddy bought her a studio apartment in Oxford.

It had a high ceiling and huge windows. They chose the furniture and decorations. Mischa felt at home. The only thing missing were her belongings, which now stood in boxes in the entryway.

Papa took out the purchased kitchen utensils, cutlery, and dishes. He took over the entire kitchen. Daddy arranged textiles in the closet, made her bed, and hung her clothes on hangers in the dressing room. Chiyoh took care of arranging books and ornaments on the shelves. Mischa organized documents in the dresser, her electronic equipment, notebooks, and textbooks needed for college. When she was done, she went to replace her daddy so he could go take care of something else.

She didn't want him to see something a parent should never know about their child.

When they sat down at the table, they ate—to her papa's despair—fish and French fries bought at the nearest restaurant. Mischa and Papa's fingers were grease-stained. They grinned at each other.

Two days later, they left. Chiyoh went to Japan, and her parents went to France, where they had just moved. Mischa escorted them to a cab and hugged one more tightly than the others.

That same evening, she painted the ceiling of the studio apartment to be a faithful copy of the one in her bedroom in Japan. A week later, she began her studies.

♦♦♦♦

Mischa met Daniel in the library.

She was taking notes for class with headphones in her ears. She was swinging her leg under the table to the rhythm of a song when she felt someone patting her on the shoulder. She turned around and raised her eyes. She pulled out her left earpiece and waited for the boy to speak.

He smiled sassily and asked if she was using the book she happened to have open. She raised both eyebrows in a dismissive gesture. He laughed and sat down next to her without asking. He was a tall brunet with a handsome face and a chatterbox. He told her about his studies—he studied veterinary medicine—for half an hour before they introduced themselves to each other.

Mischa didn't finish her studies until she returned home late that evening. She spent hours with Daniel in a coffee shop, discussing their lives. They met once, twice, six times. Eventually, Daniel asked her out. Three months later, she met his friends, and another two months later, she met his parents.

A year had passed since she moved to Oxford. Mischa didn't visit her parents during a single break, using her studies as an excuse, so they finally visited her themselves.

It was summer.

Rare rays of sunshine streamed into the apartment. Mischa was drawing an original character for someone's fanfiction. Lucifer was napping in her lap, and Daniel was reading a book on the couch. It was a quiet afternoon.

Until the doorbell rang.

Mischa exchanged a glance with Daniel. They weren't expecting anyone.

"You go," she said before he could speak. "I have a cat on my lap."

Daniel groaned but rolled off the bed. He opened the door.

"Who are you?" she heard a growl.

She immediately sprang from her chair and rushed to the door. On the way, she almost slipped on the freshly polished floor. She stood before her parents with greasy hair, red cheeks, and an old tracksuit.

"Papa, daddy," she wheezed out. "I didn't know you would be in the neighborhood."

How could she possibly know? They lived in France!

"We wanted to surprise you," Daddy said, still glaring at Daniel. "We got the report you sent us. We are very proud."

Papa smiled, and together with Daddy, they went inside as if they were at home. Theoretically, it was their apartment, considering that they were the ones who paid for it. However, the papers had her name on them.

"Where do you keep the vase?" asked Papa, putting down the groceries on the kitchen counter; in his other hand, he held the flowers.

Mischa felt like laughing. They hadn't seen each other in so long, and the first thing Papa says to her is to ask about the vase. She handed it to him and watched as Papa poured water into it. He placed the arrangement of yellow tulips, roses, and sunflowers on a table covered with a white tablecloth.

"Go help Papa cook, pup," instructed her daddy. "I'll have a talk with your friend."

Daddy led Daniel to the farthest corner of the room from the kitchen. Mischa turned toward Papa and watched as he rolled up his shirt cuffs. He pulled off his jacket and vest earlier; he hung them on a chair. Mischa began to take the ingredients out of the bag. She arranged everything just as Papa had taught her over the years. She cut the vegetables just as Papa had taught her over the years. She scooped out the pomegranate seeds just as Papa had taught her over the years. She did everything on autopilot.

"You didn't mention that you had a boyfriend," he said, rubbing the meat with spices. "You talked about university, classes, and friends, but you never mentioned that you were in a relationship."

"It's quite a fresh issue," she lied. "I preferred to wait for the moment when I was sure of our relationship and that I wasn't wasting your time."

"It would not be wasting our time," he said with a straight face. "We want to know what's going on with you, no matter what it is."

Mischa took a deep breath and begged her brain not to be fooled. This wasn't the first time Papa had said things that would make the girl feel safe with him again, and she squieked it all out.

She loved her papa; she really did. She had simply managed to get to know him very well over the past couple of years.

"You didn't like the last boy who spent time with me," she defended herself.

"We liked Chishiya," he replied while putting the meat in the preheated oven. "We didn't like the fact that he was indecisive. In addition, Chishiya and you were never a couple."

Papa was right. She said nothing more; she seasoned the vegetables, which joined the meat sometime later.

They sat down at the table. Daddy congratulated her again and gave her a gift. Later, he drew Papa into a conversation about how she had managed to rearrange her apartment over the course of a year.

Mischa felt like a child again.

♥♥♥♥

Mischa breathed heavily as Daniel caressed her breasts.

It was Saturday, early in the morning. They didn't have to go anywhere; they weren't in a hurry.

Daniel pulled off the T-shirt she slept in and began kissing her collarbones and her cleavage. He paused longer at her nipples, sucking them slowly. His lips traveled lower and lower until he finally reached her clitoris.

He licked it for a long time. She blushed all over. Her cheeks, her neck, her cleavage. It felt so good for her.

Daniel entered her slowly. He kissed her neck, her jaw, and her lips. She felt herself on his tongue. She tasted salty.

He came a moment later. She didn't. He tied the condom up and threw it in the trash.

Three months later, he hit her for the first time.

♠♠♠♠

It started innocently enough.

He asked if he could borrow her phone, as his was dead. Mischa agreed. Daniel later took her phone without asking. He knew the password, although she never gave it to him. Sometimes he watched as he browsed her Instagram or admired the photos in her photo gallery. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him watching what she was writing back to her friends. More often, she ignored it.

She went out with friends from the study group for a beer after finishing a project. One of them took a photo, put it on Instagram, and tagged her in it. When she returned to the apartment an hour later, Daniel was sitting by the window in the dark. Mischa turned on the light and put her keys on the cabinet by the door. She only had time to say hello and hang up her coat in the closet. A moment later, she was holding her cheek and listening to her boyfriend call her a bitch and a whore. When he saw that she didn't react in any way, he began to apologize and beg for forgiveness.

Mischa wondered if this was the only love she deserved.

After a few weeks, the situation repeated itself. Someone tagged her in a photo; she didn't tell him she was going out somewhere. This time, he punched her in the stomach. Again, he begged for forgiveness and hugged her.

Mischa wondered if Daniel was her punishment for eating pigs.

Her boyfriend always waited for the old bruise to heal before creating a new one. He also learned to hit the places Mischa would be able to cover well. Stomach, shoulders, back, and legs. Mischa stopped going to the pool and started running so that no one would notice the bruised marks of hands and belt.

Mischa had her limits, like any human being.

Therefore, when he left for class, Mischa followed him out with a box of his belongings. Earlier, she had snagged the keys to her apartment and stashed them in her bag. The locksmith would stop by in three hours to change the locks anyway; she had time.

Mischa entered Daniel's apartment and put the box down on the bed in the bedroom. She went into the bathroom and found instructions from the doctor on how to take medication for hypokalemia. Earlier in the week, he had been examined by a doctor and had just picked up the appropriate medication. He hadn't yet had time to remember what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. She took out a pen and notebook from her bag, where the last sheet of paper remained. She stared for a moment at how the doctor wrapped and joined the letters together. She forged the note and replaced it with the original one. She did this with gloves on so that her fingerprints wouldn't be on it. Forewarned is forearmed.

(She threw the original, along with the cardboard part of the notebook and the pen, a day later, into the trash under the university library.)

She returned to her apartment and watched as the locks on her door were replaced. She wrote to her friends that she and Daniel had broken up after a long conversation. They stated that she still had plans for medical school, followed by a residency in the States, and he wanted to start thinking about a life together. They were not compatible. When the locksmith left, she called Daniel, repeating the same speech as to her friends. Without letting him get to the point, she said she had pictures of all the bruises he had done to her—it's a bluff, she doesn't—and would tell her parents about everything if he didn't let her go and tell everyone that they broke up precisely because of the things she said. When there was silence on the other end of the phone, Mischa added that she would stop by tomorrow to pick up her things and hung up.

She left the apartment and went to the arranged meeting place with Chizu and Mito. Chizu had a birthday a couple of weeks ago, and Mischa, as a gift, designed and paid for a tattoo from the birthday girl's favorite artist. She made an appointment for herself with an artist who works with him. To her, she also gave her design.

(Lucifer, of course. Though the rest of her friends expected an orca.)

When Mito talked about her relationship with Takeru, Mischa listened intently, as she always did, as if nothing was happening.

When they arrived at the apartment and turned on the series on Netflix, Daniel was sitting on the corner of the bathtub in his apartment, reading the instructions from the doctor. He measured the dose given and injected it himself.

As the girls gorged themselves on pizza, Daniel's circulation suddenly stopped.

When Daniel's friends approached Mischa and asked if she had seen him today, she said she hadn't and that she was supposed to go see him after class.

As Mischa was throwing away things in the trash outside the library, the pathologist determined the cause of death.

Heart attack.

Mischa never recovered her belongings from Daniel's apartment, but that was nothing. She was able to replace it all with better models.

(Like father, like daughter.)

♣♣♣♣

Mischa was halfway through her first year of medical school when she saw Chishiya again.

It was the International Conference on Infectious Diseases and the girl didn't expect to see him here. Tokyo University, though, cared about its students and provided a variety of activities, apparently.

He was slightly taller than in high school, but still shorter than her. Hair still long, eyes still catlike. She smiled. She wondered if he had also thought of her during their separation. Mischa drew him in the form of a cat a couple of times, then stopped fooling herself and drew his portrait from memory.

He was still a pretty boy.

She excused herself and moved away from the conversation partners. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Papa talking to the experts in the field. He was watching her and knew where she was going and what she intended to do. She fully turned her head toward him and smiled broadly, as if to say And what are you going to do about it?

She stood aside and waited for Chishiya to finish the conversation. One of the people he was standing with pointed at her with a motion of her head, and Chishiya turned around. She waved at him. He waved back. She waited.

When he approached her, Mischa began to lead him to the exit of the auditorium. They sat down on a bench under a tree. It was cold, and they did not take coats.

"You have changed," he remarked. "You move differently, look differently."

"People close to me did terrible things to me," she admitted. "If blood ties and love mean nothing, then what meaning does life have?"

Chishiya hummed under his breath. He stared at a point in front of him and said nothing. Mischa satisfied his curiosity.

"And what does it mean that I move differently? How do I look differently? How did I used to speak compared to how I speak now?"

Chishiya looked at her. Intensively. Mischa wondered if he always did or if she was blind. It seemed to her as if he could see every part of her. Like she was standing naked in front of him, and he was disassembling and reassembling her. Or maybe he had changed, too. Maybe he was no longer just an intelligent boy who wanted to understand the hearts of others. Maybe he was an intelligent man who had acquired the necessary tools to do so.

"You are confident, and it shows in your every step and can be heard in your every word," he replied. He furrowed his eyebrows for a second. "Why? What made you become what you were always meant to be?"

Mischa didn't think this was her final form. She thought that, like Chishiya, she was still on a path of self-discovery. That didn't change the fact that she really wanted to tell him. She very much wanted him to see her whole. She very much wanted to see the look on his face when he found out what she had done.

She did not comment on his words. She only smiled slightly.

"You are still wearing it," he said, pointing to her wrist. She nodded her head.

She had the feeling that she was losing to Chishiya in everything, even in who had the last word.

When she returned to the apartment, she once again regretted that she had gone for psychiatry and not marine biology.

As it was

You know it's not the same as it was

(Harry Styles – As it was)

[mimixis]

The White Knight. Part 0: 02

can also be found:

Do I speak my truth or do I filter how I feel?

I wonder, wouldn't it be nice

To live inside a world that isn't black and white?

Mischa was fourteen when her daddy first took her fishing.

Since then, he took her once a month, teaching her patience and how to handle and prepare them afterwards. After six months, this changed to a couple of times a year until she moved out.

Every time he woke her up very early on a Sunday morning, Mischa felt like she had gone back in time, and they would go to the pool together again.

Mischa was fifteen when Papa took her hunting for the first time.

They didn't hunt pigs, but wild boar.

He took her hunting nine times.

The gun in Mischa's hand became lighter after each time.

♦♦♦♦

Mischa stood stiffly at the assembly.

The new uniform wasn't as comfortable as the previous one, but Chizu seemed happy with its black color.

Mischa exchanged a look with Mito. Chizu again got hold of her father's electric razor, and her sides were shaved again. She painted her lips blood red and highlighted her eyes with black eyeliner.

Makeup was forbidden, but one could get around it like Mischa did. She applied a gel to her eyebrows, which colored them and set them in position; she applied a little mascara to her eyelashes and a colored lip balm to her lips. She looked a little better, and the teachers didn't pick on her because everything looked natural.

Chizu didn't want to look natural. Chizu wanted to express herself.

Mischa looked around the room. There, in the back, stood Chishiya. Their eyes met. The girl smiled and waved at him. Chishiya took his right hand out of his pocket and saluted her.

Maybe this year won't be so bad.

As quickly as she thought about it, her shoulders slumped. She reminded herself that she would start learning Latin this year. It will replace English. Papa said she already knew enough, and learning it at school would be sufficient repetition. Latin was eventually going to be useful to her in college.

She sighed. Although the number of hours in drawing and violin classes had dwindled, She will have more time to sleep.

Unless Papa comes up with some new activity to help her in her studies and in life,

The students dispersed to the classroom. She sat in the middle of the row by the window. The chair behind her creaked. She turned around. Chishiya was looking at her wrist.

"You're still wearing it."

"Yes," she replied with a sly smile. "I got it from my best friend. Maybe you know him? Short, dark hair, cat eyes?"

Chishiya snorted under his breath.

"I thought you were going to throw it away. You have another orca necklace around your neck now. You must adore them incredibly," he said, dragging the sounds in the last word.

Mischa touched the necklace tucked under her shirt, buttoned up to her neck. She wondered when he had noticed it. Maybe she had managed to smuggle it to one of the parties instead of the necklace her papa had picked out?

She took her phone out of her bag and showed him her lockscreen. A drawing of an orca leaping out of the clouds in the sky She unlocked it—the mane of her majestic Lucifer appeared—and showed him more files with drawings, photos, and videos of orcas.

"Does this prove my obsession?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "I love orcas, and no matter if it's a cheap item or an expensive one, I will take care of it."

Chishiya hummed and turned his head to the side to look out the window. Mischa was looking at his profile. The small nose; the delicate, full lips; and the long, dark eyelashes. He had soft facial features, almost feminine, but Mischa could bet that when he lost his baby fat, he would be a pretty boy.

A few months have passed. Mito, Chizu, Takeru, Chishiya, and Mischa became something like a bunch of friends again. They talked to each other at school, had one chat group—everyone but Chishiya contributed to it—and went out on the town together. Chishiya only went out with them once, but Mischa appreciated his efforts. Chizu and Takeru always chose loud and crowded places.

It was the middle of summer break.

Mischa had done all her homework, managed to go out—two times with friends, one with her parents—and was now home alone with Chiyoh as her parents took an extended vacation. Chiyoh helped her secure the entire room, and after two days of sketching on the ceiling, she was ready to start painting it.

She dressed in old clothes that she didn't feel sorry for when she got them dirty with paint and climbed high on a ladder. She crouched down on it. On the raised platform, she already had her paints, a jar of water, and brushes prepared. She was about to dip the brush in the paint when someone knocked on her open door. Standing in the doorway were Aunt Chi and... Chishiya?

"You have a visitor," announced Chiyoh, displeased.

"Hi, Chishiya. You didn't say you'd stop by," she said, hoping her aunt would understand that she wasn't trying to sneak a boy into the house while her parents were away. "Maybe let's go to the living room."

"There's no need for that," he interjected before she could lead him to another room. "I wanted to get away from home and sit with someone in silence. You seem busy with something, so it's a perfect combination."

Mischa blinked several times. She wondered if the boy was telling the truth or if he was simply doing what his parents required of him again. Even if he was doing the latter, Mischa couldn't be mad at him. She knew what parental expectations did to a person.

"The door stays open," said her aunt, leaving. "Give him a blanket to sit on."

Chiyoh was leaving, but Mischa knew that a long conversation awaited her later.

Mischa handed the boy the blanket, letting him decide where to sit. Chishiya looked at the drawings on the ceiling.

"This is an exaggeration," he commented. "You have a lot of mascots, gadgets, and even jewelry with these beasts. Do you also need them to shine on your ceiling at night?"

So he noticed the fluorescent paint.

"The moon and stars will glow," she pouted. "Orcas won't. And they aren't beasts! They are incredibly intelligent creatures!"

Chishiya snorted and settled with a blanket on the chair. He pulled out his phone and headphones. Apparently, the time for socialization had passed, and everyone was going to take care of themselves.

Mischa painted until late in the evening. Chishiya stayed until dinner. He asked if he could come tomorrow. The girl agreed.

The next day, he asked the same thing. She agreed.

The next day, too. She refused. Her parents were due back tomorrow.

Chishiya came anyway.

♥♥♥♥

"Shuntaro and you have become closer," Papa commented after the boy left their house.

Mischa looked out the window at the distant figure of the boy. Papa's figure hovered over her, and she felt as if she had done something wrong, although Chishiya's visits were always announced. They were usually accompanied by silence as they sat at the kotatsu in her room. They would do homework, read books, or, in Mischa's case, indulge in artistic hobbies.

Once she drew his focused on the phone face. She tore a page from her notebook and handed him the sketch as he left. He gave her an appraising look but said nothing and put the drawing in his pocket. The next day at school, she got a lollipop in the shape of an orca.

"We like the silence we offer each other. The rest of our friends are quite loud," she lied. Mito was not loud. "And I think better when he is next to me and I can compete with him."

Papa hummed under his breath. Mischa took a few steps back to stand beside him, not in front of him.

"You haven't improved your rankings yet, have you?" he asked and moved toward the drawing room. Mischa followed him. "Rivary can have a positive effect on learning and interpersonal relations."

It can affect learning and interpersonal relations positively. That is, it influences others but not her, and she should give up now because she hasn't gotten anywhere in the last couple of years.

"Play Goldberg Variations, BWV 988: Variation XXV," he said, pointing to the piano.

Mischa sat down and played.

♠♠♠♠

On the last day of the second semester, they went to the aquarium.

Mito, Chizu, Takeru, Chishiya, and her.

Chishiya had grown his hair, and Mischa couldn't take her eyes off the way the dark strands curled at the nape of his neck. She looked at them a little longer than at Chizu's beautiful curls, but she had to be forgiven. Chishiya looked phenomenal with longer hair, and that was an objective opinion.

They were walking through a dark room when Chishiya asked her.

"Who do you want to become in the future?"

"Hmm? Didn't I tell you that I was going to study psychology first and then go to medical school?"

"You did say. You didn't say, however, who you want to become in the future."

"Cetologist," she replied.

She laughed when she saw his shocked face. He smiled back.

"Then I guess you need to go into marine biology."

"You asked what I want to become in the future, not what I will become. I will become a psychiatrist like my papa. Like him and daddy, I will get into people's heads. I have my life planned until I'm thirty. And you? With you, does who you want to become and who you will become differ?"

"No," he answered, and the blue light illuminated his face. Mischa looked at the mole under his eye as he spoke. "I will become a doctor, just like my father."

"Because you want to help people?" she asked, shifting her gaze to the passing fish. "Because you want to follow in his footsteps?"

"Because I want to understand people's hearts."

A few hours later, Mischa was standing alone at the train station with Chishiya. He offered to be the one to walk her home.

It was cold. Mischa hid her face in the scarf and, with her fingertips, touched the orca keychain that Chishiya had given her on the way out.

"We aren't friends, Lecter," he said suddenly, and Mischa realized that throughout their acquaintance, he had been addressing her impersonally.

"I know, but I wish we were," she whispered.

She really wanted that. Especially since he had been giving her mixed signals throughout their acquaintance.

Chishiya no longer visited her on Christmas breaks or Sundays. He didn't allow them to stay alone in a room. This lasted until their senior year of high school.

They didn't see each other again until a few years later, at a medical conference in London.

♣♣♣♣

Mischa was eighteen when she realized that Papa had been playing a game with her for many years.

He wanted her to do something; he wanted her to become something. However, she didn't know what she was supposed to be. She looked more carefully at Daddy, wanting to see if he knew what Papa was doing.

Silly question.

Daddy always reads people's intentions without words.

And I wonder if someday you'll be by my side

And tell me that the world will end up alright

(Shawn Mendes – Wonder)

[mimixis]

The White Knight: Part 0:01

can be found:

They say these are the golden years But I wish I could disappear

Mischa was thirteen when they moved to Japan.

She was against the decision, and it didn't even help that Aunt Chi visited her twice a week. On Mondays for training and on Thursdays for language lessons. Mischa loved her aunt, but if she was going to see her mostly on such occasions, she preferred not to see her at all.

Mischa loved visiting Japan, especially in March during hanami. They arrived in Japan in mid-March; the cherry blossoms were now blooming, but the teenager couldn't enjoy them. She remembered little of Baltimore, so the move didn't affect her in any way. In Italy, she had her life, her friends, and her habits. Japan was too different from the United States and Florence.

The four of them sat on a blanket under a tree and admired the falling petals. It was supposed to be a picnic to celebrate passing school exams. Japanese children didn't have to take it, but she, as an outsider who hadn't yet finished school in Italy, was to be tested to see if she was suitable for this class or if she should be sent to an elementary school that was also in the network of the school system of this private and prestigious institution.

At the beginning of the year, she learned that they were moving to Tokyo in two and a half months, and the moving work began. Her habits were shattered. She was to start the school year in April and end it in March. In Italy, she studied from Monday to Saturday, from morning until one in the afternoon, then went to private extra classes. Here she was to sit in school from morning until three in the afternoon, attend a club—it wasn't compulsory, per se, but was looked down upon by those who didn't—and then go to extracurricular activities.

So far, she has had Mondays off and spent them sleeping and reading about orcas. As she found out, the rhythm of the days would remain the same; only Mondays and tutors would change.

On Mondays, she was to train in self-defense with aunt Chi, and on Wednesdays, she would first learn Japanese with her, then English with papa, and finally French with daddy. On Tuesdays, she was to attend classes that would prepare her for medical school; on Thursdays, she would attend drawing lessons; and on Fridays, a tutor would come with whom she would practice playing the violin. Every other Friday, she would practice piano with papa. On Saturdays, she would study for the coming week and read books assigned by daddy to have discussions with him about them later. Later that day, papa taught her about finances. On Sundays, she would go with her parents to the pool and for long walks with the dog. They also went out to the opera and to dinner at restaurants.

She was expected to do it all, learn on the fly, and attend the club. It couldn't be just any club, either. Her parents and Chiyoh talked about it like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, so Mischa assumed that's what it meant to be a Lecter.

"You've gone quiet, Sha-chan," her aunt said to her in Japanese. Mischa had the feeling that she had been prepared for this moment—the moment of moving to Japan after many years. She felt manipulated. "Don't you like the food prepared by your papa?"

"It tastes good," she replied, and her fingers tightened on the thermal mug. "I was just thinking."

"And what is my pup thinking about?" daddy asked, taking the cup from her hand; he handed her an onigiri.

Mischa bit into the rice. Inside was anko paste. She chewed the food for a while, avoiding answers. She always told them everything, but since January, she has gone quiet. It's hard to talk to someone who doesn't take your thoughts and feelings into account, even if they do it for your benefit.

"About who I will have in class," she lied, then shoved the last bite into her mouth.

"My acquaintance's son will be in class with you. I have arranged with them to come to our house for dinner. You will get to know each other better, and he will tell you about school," papa announced.

Mischa smiled. She hoped they didn't notice how forced that smile was.

♦♦♦♦

Mischa was forced into a pink dress with yellow flowers. It had short, ruffled sleeves and reached her knees. On her feet were matching pink slippers with a bow and flesh-colored tights. She felt like she was going to play pretend today. She was about to put on the costume of a stranger.

She stood next to Daddy in the dining room and waited for Papa to usher the guests into the room. She repeated in her head the phrase she had practiced many times with Chiyoh. She didn't want to embarrass her parents in front of such important guests.

Papa entered the room with a beautifully wrapped box, followed by three figures. A boy who was her age and looked a few inches shorter with dark hair and eyes; a woman, taller than Mischa by just the height of her heels, dressed in a cream-colored dress suit; and a man much shorter than Papa and Daddy, dressed in a smart gray suit.

They greeted each other and introduced themselves with bows. Mischa did the same and said her name, Michelle, as Misheru. The boy approached her, bowed once more, and, still bowing, said.

"It's nothing special, but here is something for you," he said, handing her a bouquet of yellow roses, white lilies, and cherry blossoms.

Mischa also bowed and accepted his gift with both hands. She turned on her heel and followed Papa into the kitchen. She poured water into a crystal vase and put flowers in it. Papa asked her to replace the flowers on the table with those given to her. The girl did so while Papa placed the appetizers by Mr. and Mrs. Chishiya.

Mischa put the former bouquet back on the mantelpiece under the huge painting of Leda and the swan and, with a quick step, went to get the appetizers for Papa and the boy. Papa grabbed the plates that were supposed to be Daddy's and hers.

"Don't worry, fawn," Papa whispered. "Everything will be fine."

Mischa admitted this with pain, but Papa's words lifted her spirits. She straightened up and let a gentle smile adorn her face. They were approaching the dining room, and Mischa could hear Daddy talking to his guest in English. He must have been stressed by his role as an entertainer, or it was the guests who took pity on him.

Mischa sat down in her seat after the appetizer was served and began to eat after Papa put the first bite of meat in his mouth. Mischa wondered what kind of pig had lost its life so that Papa could make this dinner.

They talked first about medicine, then about the hospital where Papa was going to start working—as it turned out, it was the hospital where Chishiya Hiroshi was head of hispital ward and Chishiya Emiko was instrumentalist—until they got onto the subject of moving and the school that Shuntaro and she would start tomorrow.

"Have you thought about what club you'd like to join yet, Misheru-chan?" Emiko asked from above her wine glass. "Shuntaro plans to be part of a chess club."

Mischa played with the napkin in her lap. The appetizer had long since been eaten by them, and they were waiting for the main course. The girl hummed, letting them know she was thinking of an answer.

"I'll probably choose the swimming club," she decided, recalling a brochure with options written out. "I'm starting a lot of extracurricular activities this year, but I want to keep my body in its current condition."

"A very mature decision. Shuntaro thinks that physical education lessons are enough for him," grunted Hiroshi.

"Each person's body has different demands and limits," she replied diplomatically.

She stood up when Papa let her know it was time to go decorate the plates. She applied the cranberry sauce in one smooth motion while Papa placed the potatoes and steak. By the time they reached the fourth plate, Mischa was almost free of the awkward silence that had suddenly formed between them.

"Swimming club, you say?"

"Papa...she started, but didn't know what to say.

Papa also seemed not to know what to do in this situation. So they finished putting the food on the plate in silence. Mischa was just putting the dish in front of Shuntaro when Emiko turned to her.

"Will you tell me that you play the violin and piano wonderfully."

Mischa knew what that sentence meant. It wasn't a simple statement of fact. It was a demand. Mischa was supposed to play, but, oh gracious lady, she had a choice. Mischa smiled courteously.

"Michelle will play for us after dinner when we retire to the drawing room," Papa decided.

This was brand new information for Mischa. They hadn't arranged it beforehand. Mischa had no idea what she would play. And when that moment came, when she grabbed her violin and the adults and Shuntaro sat down, Mischa thought of only one melody.

For the next five minutes, she played the main melody from the movie Howl's Moving Castle.

The guests said goodbye, and the family began to clean up. Mischa wiped the dishes with a dry cloth and put them away on the kitchen island. Papa's lips tightened, and Daddy's brow furrowed. The girl, on the other hand, was satisfied and smiled.

"Did you think about the swimming club for a long time?" Papa finally asked.

"No," she answered truthfully. "I thought that since the club is something mandatory for me and Mondays are already busy, I would sleep longer on Sunday and join you on a walk."

Papa didn't let on that he heard what she said, but Daddy furrowed his brow even more.

The following Sunday, her parents didn't wake her up to go to the pool together.

A month later, she no longer went for walks with them.

After two months of living in Japan, she also didn't attend the opera.

Mischa slept late on Sundays with Lucifer under her elderdown and watched programs about orcas.

She spent time with her parents only during dinners together. This state of affairs continued for a long time.

♥♥♥♥

The first semester of school was over, and the summer break began.

Mischa completed every homework assignment during the first week of the break and prepared notes that would allow her to recall the material before the second semester. Now she had no excuse for why she was still sitting in her room.

It was Monday, and Mischa was lying on the floor in her room and looking out the window. In a few hours, Aunt Chiyoh would come, and she would be in for a couple of hours of training. The woman quickly stopped teaching the girl self-defense and started training her to fight. She said Mischa had potential.

Mischa would rather nap at this time.

What could she do to avoid extra classes? Or at least part of them.

A chat message came to her aid.

GANG ORCA

[MITO]

ya hoe got tickets to the hecking aquarium

[CHIZU]

language, young lady!

[MISHERU]

lol

[MITO]

Main station, 12

[CHIZU]

yes sir!

[MISHERU]

k

Her aunt won't arrive until six in the evening, so Mischa will have five and a half hours. It won't be Kamegawa, and she won't orcs, but she will also be able to have fun with her friends.

She met Chizu on the first day of school. It was hard not to notice her. She had shaved the sides of her head and had ear piercings. She was arguing loudly with a teacher about school rules. Behind her stood an equally short girl with long black hair and bangs. She later learned it was Mito. She was quiet among strangers, but once you gained her trust, you had a friend for life. At least, that's what Chizu said.

When all three of them were in the same class, Mischa came up to greet her and complimented her on her hairstyle. Chizu measured her with a glance, suspecting her of lying. Mischa understood why; she had her hair perfectly styled, her shirt in a skirt, and over that, a sweater vest and jacket. Papa had tied her tie in the morning, so it had no right to be crooked.

Mischa smiled.

"Now I can't afford too much, but when I'm of age, I want to get a tattoo similar to these illustrations," she said, taking her phone out of her bag and showing her drawings.

"Are they yours?" Chizu asked. Mischa nodded. "You will design mine for me."

Mischa smiled, amused. How bold to think that they would be friends for so long!

(Chizu was right. Mischa designed tattoos for her and herself, and together they got them done in London.)

Taking a seat next to Mito, Mischa turned around, feeling a stare at her. On the last desk by the window sat Shuntaro. Or maybe Chishiya? After all, no one else from his family was here, so it was inappropriate to think otherwise about him. She nodded to him, and he responded with the same. Moments later, their teacher entered the classroom.

Mischa thought for a moment about inviting Chishiya to go on an outing with her and the girls, but they had only exchanged a few sentences during the first semester. Mostly to please his parents, the girl thought. That, however, was enough to get the rest of the class and her friends interested. Apparently, Chishiya rarely showed initiative. Mito knew what she was talking about. Throughout her years of education, Chizu had been in class with him.

In addition, his persona frustrated her incredibly. Every midterm, every test, and now in the ranking, she was second, right after him. This had never happened to her before. She was defeated by a boy who didn't seem interested in anything.

She threw the phone on the bed, deciding that they were not close enough to each other to invite him anywhere.

She got up, stretched, and went into her walk-in closet. She had gotten up early in the morning to finish her Japanese notes and had managed to take a shower. Now it was left for her to get dressed, avoid a long conversation with her parents, and get to the train station.

She was going out with the girls, so she could afford to do more than she did when going out with her dads. On the other hand, she couldn't overdo it, or they wouldn't let her go. So she settled for a combination of a white shirt, a black ribbon, and a yellow dungaree dress. Neat, just the way Papa liked it. A little color, just as Daddy liked.

She combed her hair and tied it into a loose braid. She stuck her head out of the door and listened. Papa was in the study. She didn't know where Daddy was. So she had no choice. She knocked on the study door.

"Come in," the voice replied.

Mischa slipped in quietly and closed the door behind her. She stood in front of the desk at which Papa was working and intertwined her hands behind her back. For a moment, she shifted her body weight from heel to toe, from toe to heel, then stood still.

"Mito got tickets to the aquarium and invited Chizu and me."

"When?" he asked, putting down his fountain pen and focusing all his attention on her.

He looked as if he already knew the answer.

"Today, at twelve o'clock," she said, then added quickly. "But I'll be back in time; I wouldn't miss training with Aunt Chiyoh."

"Of course not," he announced. He got up and walked over to her. He looked at her hair, her outfit, and her hand, which was now tightened on the strap of her purse. "Do you still have money? You'll probably want to purchase something for yourself at the gift store and have lunch on the premises. Don't eat too much fast food. You'll spoil your appetite and won't eat dinner." I still have pocket money. And I won't eat much. And I know there's supposed to be fish caught by Papa for dinner tonight."

Papa smiled at the mention of Daddy.

"Exactly," he said, patting her head with his huge hand. Mischa stopped herself from flinching. "Next time, try to make appointments with your friends earlier. Then we can cancel or reschedule classes."

She nodded and disappeared behind the door, wondering when her relationship with Papa became so complicated and when she began to love and fear him at the same time.

♠♠♠♠

Mischa complied with Papa's request and planned her next outing two weeks in advance.

Mito's parents had a beach house and could take five people with them. Three of them were, of course, Mito, Chizu, and Mischa. Less obvious was that the other two were Mito's childhood friend, who went to the parallel class, and Chishiya. Apparently, Takeru was the only person Chishiya was willing to talk to. As eagerly as Chishiya could talk to someone.

The parents were skeptical at first, but after assurances from Mito's mother that the boys would get one bedroom, the girls another, and the married couple's room would be between them, it seemed to reassure them.

They were going there for three days, so Mischa packed the right number of bathing suits, dresses, shorts, and shirts. That is, twice the number of days she was going there.

(Not to mention underwear, which she took three times as many.)

She also packed a kimono that Aunt Chiyoh had bought for her. Mito said that on the second day their parents would take them to a summer festival, and it would be a good opportunity to dress festively.

Her parents drove her to the meeting place. Papa and Daddy were packing her suitcases in the van; they were about to embark on their journey, and Mischa stood by Chishiya. She nudged him on the shoulder. She grinned when he muttered something under his breath that sounded similar to it's way too early for that.

"I didn't expect that the beach might be something that would interest you," she said in passing.

She noticed that their parents were watching them. His with a strange gleam in his eye, hers sadly.

"Because it's not, but I'll get out of the house thanks to it," he said, tucking his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. "Well, and my parents will be happy because we will spend time together."

"Ah," she replied, not knowing how to comment.

She was saved from an awkward silence by Chizu, who threw herself on her back.

"Yo!" she greeted. 'I'm looking forward to the trip! We're going to go swimming, eat barbecue, go to the festival, and outplay you all in every game."

They laughed. Even Chishiya smiled slightly.

It was just as Chizu had predicted. They swam, ate a lot, and went to bed late. They didn't get up until late noon. Mischa stuffed as much unhealthy food into herself as possible.

'Take it easy," guffawed Takeru. "Chips won't run away from you."

"Advice for the future; don't comment on how much or what a woman eats," she said, her mouth full of snacks. "And maybe they won't run away, but tomorrow's dinner I will eat at home, and it will be the most controlled meal you can imagine."

"Seriously? Your fathers control you that much?" Chizu asked.

Mischa nodded her head.

"Papa has calculated what my needs are for everything and sticks to it," she replied, then patted her stomach. "That's why I have such muscles. Diet, swimming, and self-defense training."

"They train you to be a super soldier," laughed Mito. "From today on, I will call you the Winter Soldier."

"Excuse me," Mischa said, feeling outraged. She hit the girl lightly on the shoulder. "I can be something much better. The Black Widow!"

A few hours later, they were ready to go out to the festival. Mischa walked at the back with the quiet Chishija, mentally preparing herself for the crowds. She also wanted to address an issue.

"You know," she began, once they were at the stalls and the rest were busy browsing the trinkets. "We don't have to be friends for me to help you. With your parents."

"What do you mean?"

"They are pushing you to be friends with me, right? So we can just pretend. Sometimes I'll send you something or call you, so you'll have proof that we're in touch. And at social gatherings, we'll be friendly with each other. It seems to me that it's better when both parties pretend and have the benefit of it than when one gets tired and the other has a fake friend.

"It's true; they want me to spend more time with you," he admitted. "Wouldn't you mind such an arrangement?"

"No! After all, I proposed it myself," she giggled. "Well, and as I said, I'd rather be part of the plan than find out in a while that everything was a lie and you don't really like me."

Chishiya mused, then handed her the orca necklace she had been eyeing for a long time.

"It's yours, but someone else has to put it on you," he said, paid the vendor, and joined Takeru.

Mito put it around her neck. Mischa didn't even take it off when she got a diamond orca necklace from her parents when they went to Kamegawa at the end of the vacation. She even preferred the cheaper, ordinary one on a strap. It seemed more sincere.

They sat on a bench, Papa to her left and Daddy to Papa's left. They waited for the show to begin.

"I'm glad we came here, fawn," Papa said, his voice as soft as when she was a child.

She smiled but didn't respond. Her parents were already engrossed in themselves.

The world was sending her mixed signals.

♣♣♣♣

Mischa spoke to Chishiya for the last time that year on December twenty-fifth at a charity event.

The next two years looked similar.

As of April, they were no longer in the same class, and it happened again in their senior year. When they managed to catch each other's glances, they greeted each other politely and went back to their lives. Mischa, however, never took off her necklace; now she uses it as a bracelet, wrapping the cord around her wrist a few times.

Chishiya occasionally looked at it.

They talked to each other a couple of times during those two years, all of which took place at parties their parents took them to.

This state of affairs continued until high school.

Mischa lived up to her end of the bargain. Every time they met in the presence of their parents, she acted as if they were best friends. However, after each of these situations, she felt an unfamiliar sting in her heart.

Maybe she should go to a cardiologist.

Ego crush is so severe God, it's brutal out here (Olivia Rodrigo - brutal)

[mimixis]

The White Knight: Part 0 - 00

can also be found https://archiveofourown.org/works/50568817 or https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/353558556/write/1387686483

summary: Mischa would prefer her life to be more like a romantic comedy than a horror movie. Life had other plans.

You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far

'Cause you know it don't matter anyway

You can rely on the old man's money

You can rely on the old man honey

Mischa had many names. She wasn't attached to any of them, as she was told from childhood that she could be anything she wanted. Her birth certificate had Michelle written on it, and that's how she introduced herself and insisted that strangers address her. Daddy referred to her as Mikki and pup; Papa used Elle and fawn; Aunt used Sha-chan; although she learned why only while learning Japanese.

She thought of herself as Mischa. It didn't come from a great love for the name or respect for her aunt, whom she never managed to meet, but something just clicked when she heard it for the first time. She was four years old at the time, and although she usually always listened to her parents, this time she rushed after a person dressed as an orca, inviting people to enter the aquarium.

"Mischa!" shouted her papa. So far, she has been many things, but never this one. She stopped and turned around. The name sounded similar to Michelle, yet it was so different. It wasn't soft or tuneful. It was pronounced harshly and heavily. Especially with her papa's accent, which came about in emotional situations. "You were supposed to hold our hands. This is a very big place, and you can get lost here."

Papa crouched down beside her and corrected the black and white bucket hat that fell low on her forehead. Daddy stood beside them and looked worried. However, he was not looking at Mischa; he was looking at Papa. Mischa, who was then still Michelle, Elle, pup, fawn, Mikki, and Sha-chan, tilted her head to the side. Papa called her Mischa; Mischa was not her name, but hers nonetheless. Papa was worried. Who was Mischa? Had she done something wrong? No, she couldn't. Mikki wanted to be Mischa, so Mischa couldn't be bad.

"Mischa saw Mr. Orca and ran after him," she said. The name sounded good in her mouth. It sounded good when she talked about herself that way. From now on, she is Mischa. "Mischa apologizes; she won't do that again."

Today. Today, she won't do that again.

"I saw Mr. Orca and ran after him. I'm sorry, and I won't do that again," her daddy corrected her. "And don't call yourself Mischa, pup."

"Why not? It was papa who started it!"

"Papa had a slip of the tongue," replied daddy. Papa still said nothing but smiled sadly, stroking her cheeks. "Now come on, because we won't make it to the show."

Papa and daddy bought her mascots and orc gadgets in exchange for her promise not to refer to herself as Mischa.

She promised.

The next day she walked into the kitchen with a plush orca under her arm.

"Mischa wants to eat fried eggs with bacon and toast for breakfast!"

♦♦♦♦

Mischa was six years old when she learned that Sha-chan is a diminutive of the Japanese word shachi, meaning orca.

Aunt Chi laughed that Mischa was Sha and she was Chi, and together they were two orcas roaming the oceans. Mischa was then offended terribly. Only she was an orca! Daddy was a mongoose, papa was a deer, and Aunt Chi was a black panther. Mischa didn't need her aunt to be an orca; she was all shachi!

Adults were entertained by Mischa's tirades. Especially when they took place during phone conversations with Aunt Chi. Aunt Chi, called Chiyoh by her parents, found her the best teacher in Florence, and every night she would debrief her on what she had already learned. It was the fourth language Mischa was learning—along with English and Lithuanian, which she had been exposed to since birth—and it seemed more difficult to her than Italian, which she was learning at the same time. Especially the alphabet. Mischa had trouble memorizing it because the letters were different from the Latin ones, but she was learning so she could communicate with Chi in her native language.

All right. The monthly snack and toy packages had a greater impact on her commitment, but no one needed to know that.

(Everyone knew.)

That evening, Aunt Chi told the story of the beginning of her obsession with her love for orcas. They lived in Baltimore then, and Aunt Chi visited more often than she does now.

The first time she saw orcas was in a documentary on National Geographic. Her maroon eyes gazed at the TV screen. Just now, a program about sharks was airing, which Mischa had no interest in. She preferred to comb Winston II's fake fur. Winston was not allowed to stay in their house. He had his own in the backyard. A big one, with lots of toys and a huge bed.

Daddy, papa, and Aunt Chi sat with her on the fluffy carpet, on the sofa, and on the armchair, respectively. Out of the corner of her eye, Mischa saw a black and white shape emerge from the depths of the ocean, only to disappear into it later. She pressed the comb into her daddy's hand, so that now he would be the one to take care of Winston II, and moved toward the TV.

"This," she said, patting the screen.

"It's an orca, Elle," papa replied, smiling gently. "Don't touch the TV, fawn, you'll leave smudges on it."

"I want orca," she announced, ignoring papa's request and continuing to pat the changing images. "Pool!

Papa got up from the sofa, kneeled by her side, and grasped her hands in his own. He furrowed his brow.

"Orcas need a lot more room to swim, pup," daddy said, amused by her behavior. "She wouldn't be happy without her friends either. However, we can visit them in the aquarium."

Mischa listened to daddy, but didn't look away from papa. He was angry about something, and Mischa didn't understand what. He held her small hands in his big ones. They were warm and smooth. His embrace was gentle; the girl could have pulled away at any moment. She didn't. She moved closer to papa and began to ask.

"Papa, orca, please."

"No, fawn. Daddy has already said that we can't have an orca in - "

"Orca!" she shouted, hitting his chest with her little fists. "Orca, orca, orca, orca!"

"No means no, Michelle," he announced sternly, standing up.

"ORCA!"

Silence fell in the room. Someone had turned off the TV. Mischa waged a war of glances with her papa. She could count the situations in which she did this in the future on the fingers of one hand. She wanted an orca, and she was going to get one. He refused her Winston at home; he refused her a cat. He can't refuse her an orca. That wouldn't be fair!

Papa grabbed her gently by the elbow and began to lead her out of the room. Mischa balked, fell to the floor, and writhed on it, screaming.

"Hannibal, no— "

"I am not my father, Chiyoh," the woman said, interrupted by her papa. "I won't do her any harm. However, she must learn that actions have consequences"

Papa took her in his arms, but Mischa didn't stop squirming. She almost bit him, but he was just seating her on a stool in the kitchen. She looked around the room, not understanding what they were doing in it. She pouted. She wanted an orca, not a second dinner!

"You will sit on the stool for five minutes in silence. I will sit there," he announced, indicating a stool by the door. "And when the time is up, I will let you know. Calm down, and then we'll talk."

Mischa opened her mouth, but papa put his finger on it. Mischa sat on the stool for the next few minutes with her mouth clamped shut. She didn't look at papa or say anything. She was going to win this game and get an orca!

Mischa didn't win the game and didn't get the orca.

The next day her parents took her to the bookstore. She stood at the counter and put the books on it.

"All those books about orcas, please!" she said, smiling from ear to ear.

♥♥♥♥

 Mischa was eight years old when she saw her dads wearing plastic coats.

She tilted her head to the side. Her parents were standing with their backs to her, not having noticed her yet. Mischa didn't want to wake Aunt Chi just to get a glass of water, so she went into the kitchen by herself. The door, which had been forbidden to her for years and which she could never open, stood ajar. Daddy and papa were standing in it, pulling off their plastic coats and putting them in a bag. Mischa watched them closely.

They were supposed to be on a date that evening. They went out dressed in smart suits, with slicked-back hair, and doused in rich perfume. Before leaving, they kissed her on the forehead and told her to be a good girl. Mischa didn't understand the instructions; she was always a good girl. The ones who should be worried were her parents. They were the ones who were liars and went into a room that could not be entered.

She retreated with clenched fists. Since they could break the rules, so could she. She sat on the edge of the bed and wondered if she should raise the issue at all. Reminding adults of their mistakes never ends well. Maybe she should save this information for the future as a bargaining chip to avoid punishment?

She sighed heavily, laying back down in bed. Why were adults never what they said they were?

The door to her room opened. Light streamed into the dark room from the hallway, and daddy stood on the doorstep. He stopped at the entrance and froze as if he didn't expect Mischa's gaze on him. He stepped inside and leaned over her. He pulled the covers from her waist to her shoulders, tucking her in to sleep.

"Why are you still awake? It's already late."

Mischa didn't answer and turned her head to the side, snuggling into her pillow. She didn't want to talk to someone who lectured her about having to follow the rules while breaking them himself. She was punished every time, so papa and daddy had to suffer the consequences too. She will never speak to them again!

She turned her back to him and snuggled into Oreo, her plush orca. She felt the mattress behind her bend under daddy's weight.

He lay down next to her and snuggled into her back. He stroked her hair and hummed her favorite lullaby. He waited for her to speak or fall asleep on her own. Mischa didn't fall asleep or relax. The silence was prolonged until finally Mischa burst out.

"You lied to me!"

Her scream brought papa and aunt Chi into her bedroom. Mischa stood on the bed, nearly falling over the long hem of her nightgown. Daddy grabbed her before she fell face-first onto the mattress.

"What's—" began concerned papa, approaching them slowly.

"You lied to me! You were not on a date! You were in the forbidden room!"

Mischa watched the color disappear from daddy's face. Papa and aunt watched her carefully and calculatingly. The girl hesitated for a moment, then drew air into her lungs.

"You came back in different clothes and raincoats, yet it wasn't raining. You spent time in a forbidden room, and yet it is forbidden. If you guys can break the rules, so can I. I don't have to sleep now, and tomorrow I'll have ice cream and cake for breakfast."

She folded her hands on her chest and alternately glared at papa and daddy.

Daddy got up from the bed and stood next to papa. They looked at each other and gazed into each other's eyes for a long moment. Mischa waited until they finished, and papa gave her a punishment. However, this did not happen. Papa took her in his arms, and together with daddy and Aunt Chi, they went down to the kitchen and then went through the forbidden door.

After that night, Mischa refused to eat anything Papa had prepared. Even when he served her vegetarian dishes, Mischa sat stiffly at the table, her plate untouched. For a year, she ate only store-bought, pre-prepared food and in the school cafeteria. This only changed when she got a gray and black Maine coon for her tenth birthday.

♠♠♠♠

Mischa was ten years old, and she was learning to peel potatoes.

She knew how to do it, but not perfectly. The shape was not round but angular. She sat at the kitchen island, peeler in hand. Papa and daddy stood at the sink and didn't-quarrel-just-talk. Lucifer was basking on the windowsill, between basil and mint leaves. It was the only place in the kitchen where Lucifer could stay, and it was forced anyway. Papa still sends the cat wry glances when he sees him enter the kitchen, as if the entire space belonged to him.

Like mother, like son, as they say.

The parents' whispering grew louder. Mischa wanted to peel the potatoes and get back to learning Japanese. Aunt Chi had mailed her a test in the morning, which she was supposed to send back in the evening, and she still wanted to read the entry on orcas from her children's encyclopedia. Maybe she shouldn't interfere, but Mischa hated when something disrupted her routine.

"If you divorced, I would spend the school year with papa, and for every Christmas break and all of the vacations, I would go to see daddy," she listed. "Then I would move out to the UK to study and alternate between holidays."

"No one is getting divorced, Mikki," daddy interrupted her. He sighed heavily and slid his hand into his thick curls. "It's just a misunderstanding. Papa and I will talk about it later.

"Mischa hummed under her breath, then put the last potato back in the bowl. She wiped her hands with a cloth.

"Papa, let daddy keep the dog in the house," she said as if she had all the answers. "I have Lucifer, Daddy will have Chester, and all arguments will go bye-bye."

A week later, Chester was lying on a bed placed under Lucifer's windowsill.

It was good to be daddys little girl.

♣♣♣♣

Hannibal looked at his sleeping daughter.

She had great potential within her. At first, he thought it was unfortunate that the woman he had paid to have an abortion had given birth to a child. Her plan was to exploit her daughter in order to receive high alimony payments from him. She did not succeed; she died in childbirth.

Hannibal considered this the first gift from Michelle. The second was Will's smile. He fell in love with her as soon as he saw her.

Hannibal and Will had different preferences when it came to raising their daughter. Soon Will would realize that what Hannibal was doing would be best for their family.

High and dry, and out of the rain

It's so easy to hurt others when you can't feel pain

(Hall & Oates - Rich Girl)

[mimixis]

[mimixis]

C E L E S T I A L 

Please like/reblog if you’re using or downloading ~

[mimixis]

I believe that we all were born with wings. White wings which in time were supposed to get some colour. They are some kind of 'tabula rasa' which is filled with the colours of our lives - our decisions. They show what you endured and what kind of person you are. 

But these wings are not eternal. They are fragile and easy to destroy. You must care for them, brush them and give them love to flourish. So they would grow to be strong and beautiful to soar high in the sky, above the clouds; to glide across the blue without fear of falling.

Icarus in his courage -or maybe ignorance?- came too close to the Sun. He thought his wings were strong enough to support his weight. He thought his wings were covered in gold. But it was just wax. The wax which melted and melted, and finally Icarus's wings collapsed, and he fell to the bottom of the ocean. The last things he saw were his feathers floating in the water and the shadow of his father, Daedalus, circling over the place where Icarus's body hit the surface of the water. Icarus had father's care and love, but he was also arrogant. That's why he made a mistake. That's why he mistook wax with gold.

My wings have been stolen. However, not all at once. Like everybody, I was born with tiny white wings. They evolved with me. They were not huge, but not small either. They were of a good size so that I could float above the ground. Not too high, but enough to feel the wind in my hair. 

Firstly, they were light pink. I was a sweet child. The next layer, the second from the top, was blue. It was the stability I felt with my mother and my sister, but also the fear and anxiety that arose when I left home. Later yellow appeared. It was not, however, happiness or optimism. It was irresponsibility that transformed into ignorance - orange. Then another rainbow colour surfaced, green. Strong incredibly bright green. Which rotted and rotted, which was the colour of jealousy and envy and guilt. Later came grey. Grey was sadness, sorrow, melancholy. The last colour at the very end of the feathers was black - death.

Only then did I understand what each of these colours meant, and only then did I see what the years with him did to my wings. I spread them as wide as I could to see the holes that had come into being after he pulled my feathers out, to entwine them between his white ones, which despite years of experience were still the same. He tore out my feathers, and all I had left was a bare skeleton.

And I don't know if I will ever be able to fill the skeleton with new feathers or maybe their roots would have nothing to draw from. I wish I could grow them like my hair, but I'm afraid they will become red. They will become anger because it all I feel lately. Anger, jealousy, anxiety. Red, green, blue. But I don't have wings anymore and I will never have them again.

And that probably hurts the most. This powerlessness. This longing, not only for something that was and will never return but also for something that you never had.

Staring at the clouds I will see the figures soaring across the sky. They will catch the wind, their wings will be spread wide. They will cast a shadow on me and eventually, I will rip the skeleton tightly hidden behind my back out. To not feel ashamed anymore. To not miss the impossible. I will suffer, I will cry but will it not be better than constantly looking at the symbol of my failure? At the representation of how weak I am?

- Maybe I don't need wings. Maybe I don't have to fly. Maybe it's enough to run.