Soothe and Sunder (MHA AU)

[Noxsin]

I was four the first time my quirk showed itself. Pretty standard all things considered, maybe even a bit late.

At first, it wasn't anything special. I could lift things a little easier, run a little faster, take a fall and get right back up like it didn't even happen. Mom said I was just "sturdier than most kids." Dad joked I was going to break the swing set by summer.

It didn't feel like much. Just enough to be a curiosity—"Oh, I guess that's his quirk." Nothing shiny. Nothing flashy. Certainly nothing worth bragging about.

I didn't mind. Not really.

And then the bruises started fading faster than they should've. Scrapes vanished overnight. A skinned knee I barely remembered was gone by morning. Mom called it a gift. Dad said I'd be the toughest of us all.

I liked that.

I didn't know it yet, but that was the part that stuck with me—the way they both smiled when they said it. The way they made me feel like I was okay.

I'd never been seriously hurt before, so no one thought much of it. Just a fast-healing kid with a quiet quirk.

But that was before the day everything changed.

The day we learned what I could really do.

---

It was a warm, sunny day. One of those afternoons that feel like they were made for kids.

The kind of day where the air smells like fresh grass and the pavement's warm under your sneakers. Birds chirping. Bees hovering lazily near flowers. I remember the way the breeze made Saya's hair lift in little wisps, and how she giggled every time it tickled her ears.

She was three. Clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit like it was made of gold. She named it "Bunny-chan"—because of course she did—and insisted it had to come with us on our "adventure." Which, really, was just a walk to the park down the street. But she made everything sound bigger than it was.

I held her hand the whole way. I liked being the big brother. I liked how small her fingers felt in mine.

Dad was just behind us, still in his apron from the café, chatting with our neighbor by the gate. Every now and then, he'd glance over at us and smile—like he wanted to freeze the moment in place. I didn't think much of it then.

Back then, nothing ever felt like it could go wrong.

I wish I could remember more of what we talked about. I think Saya was pretending we were on a secret mission. Something about rescuing a princess. Or maybe the rabbit was the princess.

Either way, we were laughing.

I remember that part. The laughing.

And then the tires screamed.

The sound was sharp—like the world cracked.

A car. Screeching way too fast around the corner. Too fast for our street. Too fast for a place with kids and front lawns and chalk drawings on the sidewalk.

I didn't even see it at first. Just the noise. The blur.

Some villain, they said later. Low-level. Nothing major. Running from a hero. They were shouting—something about civilians, about getting clear.

But I don't remember the words.

I just remember the wind. The roar of the engine. The way Saya stopped walking. A heartbeat before the sound had regustered in my ears.

She gasped.

Her whole body went stiff, like something inside her had snapped into place. It was her quirk, though none of us knew it then—just a flicker of instinct, a flash of awareness.

And I moved.

I didn't think. I didn't yell. I just shoved her back as hard as I could.

When I looked up, there was metal. Light. Motion. And then pain.

It hit me like the whole world collapsing. Like the air got knocked out of the sky itself.

I don't remember how far I flew. Just that I hit the ground wrong, and everything hurt. Like my body didn't know how to be one piece anymore.

I remember the color of the sky. Pale blue. Almost white.
I remember the way my heartbeat echoed in my head. Too fast. Too loud.

And I remember trying to breathe, but nothing working. Like the air had turned to water and I was drowning in it.

I should've died.

I know that now. I knew it then, too, in a way.

But I didn't.

I stayed awake. Barely. My whole body screaming at me, every nerve on fire. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. I just stared at the clouds and tried not to disappear. Trying to reach for something, anything to take away the agony.

I felt fingers wrapping around mine. Warm. Familiar.

Dad.

He must've run the second he saw me fall. He must've known. I don't remember what he said first, or if he said anything at all. Just his hand, holding mine.

And then—

The pain was gone.

Gone, just like that. Like a switch had been flipped. The agony vanished, wiped clean like it had never been there.

I could breathe. I could move. I sat up, gasping like I'd come up for air after being underwater for hours.

But he didn't move with me.

He was still holding my hand.

Still smiling.

But something was wrong.

He collapsed. No warning. No sound. Just fell, like someone had cut all the strings holding him up.

"Dad?"
His hand was still wrapped around mine. Still warm.
But his body had gone still. Like something inside him had emptied out all at once.
I didn't understand.
Not yet.
"Dad…?"
That's when I saw the blood.
It was soaking through his shirt. Blooming red across his chest and ribs. His breathing was shallow, wet.
His legs were bent wrong. One of his arms hung at an angle that made my stomach twist.
Bruises—dark and spreading—crawled up his neck and face like the color had been pulled from somewhere else and forced into him.
It was all the pain I'd felt moments ago.
All the pain that had vanished.
He had taken it.
He had taken all of it.

His eyes fluttered open, just enough to find mine.
And he smiled.

"It's okay, Jouta," he whispered.

His voice was calm. Too calm. Like this was nothing. Like everything was fine. Like he hadn't just traded my life for his own.

"You're safe. That's what matters."

His fingers squeezed mine—still steady, even as the rest of him trembled.

"You've always been strong," he said. "Stronger than you know."

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he spoke, but he didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he just didn't care.

"Take care of them for me, okay? Your mom… your sisters…"

"Be the warmth they need."

I tried to speak. To tell him to stop talking. To hold still. To wait for help.
To take it back.
But my mouth didn't work. My chest was a knot. My throat burned with something that wasn't pain—just terror.

"Dad, don't—please—just…"

He smiled again. Soft. Tired. Still holding on.
And then the strength left his fingers.

Just a little.

Then all at once.

His eyes never closed, but something in them went quiet.

I screamed.

I remember that part more than anything.
I clutched his shirt, begging him to wake up. Begging him to give it all back—to let me be the one who hurt instead.

But he didn't move.

His hand was still warm.

And then it wasn't.

---

I don't remember how long I sat there howling.

Someone must've pulled me away. Someone must've called for help.

I think the neighbors screamed. I think Mom came running. I think I heard Saya cry.

But it all blurred into noise.

What I remember is the blood on my hands. It wasn't mine, but it should've been.

The days after didn't feel like days.

Just gray hours stacked on top of each other. People talking in quiet voices. The smell of coffee no one drank. The sound of doors opening and closing too gently.

Everyone tiptoed around me like I might break.

But I already had.

The funeral was small. Family. A few friends. Some of our regulars from the café. A hero even came by—not the one who chased the villain, but someone who said they'd known my dad in passing.

I didn't care.

I sat there in a little black suit that didn't fit right, staring at the polished wood of the casket like it might open again. Like this was a trick. Like Dad would pop out, laughing, telling me I looked too serious for my age.
He always said that. That I didn't have to be so grown all the time.

I remember clenching my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

Not once during the service did I cry.

Not in front of anyone.

Not even when they lowered him into the ground.

I'd spent all the tears I had in the street. When I tried to give the pain back. When I begged him to stay.

The rest of it—everything after—just felt empty.

People said things like "I'm so sorry" and "He was a good man" and "He'd be proud of you."
I hated it.

Not because they were wrong.

But because none of them really knew what happened.

They didn't see me sitting up, whole and unharmed, while my father bled out in front of me. They didn't see the way he smiled even as he died. The way he looked at me like saving me had been worth it.

They didn't see what I did to him.

That's why I stopped crying.

Because deep down, I knew the truth.

It wasn't just an accident. It wasn't a twist of fate or some tragic misstep.

The first time I ever used my quirk for real—it wasn't to save a life.

It was to take one.

And ever since that day, I've carried two things with me: The memory of his warmth—his steady, unwavering love, even in his final moments.

And the weight of his death.

 

[Apollo_Man]

I don't remember how far I flew. Just that I hit the ground wrong, and everything hurt. Like my body didn't know how to be one piece anymore.

I remember the color of the sky. Pale blue. Almost white.
I remember the way my heartbeat echoed in my head. Too fast. Too loud.

And I remember trying to breathe, but nothing working. Like the air had turned to water and I was drowning in it.

I don't remember how far I flew. Just that I hit the ground wrong, and everything hurt. Like my body didn't know how to be one piece anymore.

I remember the color of the sky. Pale blue. Almost white.
I remember the way my heartbeat echoed in my head. Too fast. Too loud.

And I remember trying to breathe, but nothing working. Like the air had turned to water and I was drowning in it.

Click to shrink...

A little bit of repetitions right there. Gotta be careful of that.

With that being said, I have to say that I'm very much confused as to the true nature of his quirk. Can you leave an index on what his quirk is.

 

[Noxsin]

A little bit of repetitions right there. Gotta be careful of that.

With that being said, I have to say that I'm very much confused as to the true nature of his quirk. Can you leave an index on what his quirk is.

Click to shrink...

Thanks for catching that!

The nature of his quirk will be revealed over the next few chapters, but an index is a good Idea for those who would like a sneak peek or clarity. Thanks for the suggestion

 

[Noxsin]

Index - Character sheet for Jouta Naoru.

Spoiler: Jouta Naoru Picture

Quirk: Soothe and Sunder
Jouta's quirk allows him to transfer physical injuries either from himself to another person, or from someone else onto himself. As a result of this ability, his body possesses an accelerated healing factor to cope with the damage he takes on. Though still developing, his quirk holds the potential for unexpected applications—through training, he may learn to store or manipulate injuries in ways that amplify his offensive capabilities.

Family

Daisuke Naoru Hitomi Naoru Aimi Naoru Saya Naoru

• Spoiler: Daisuke Picture

  
  
  Quirk: Warm Touch
  Daisuke can transfer warmth through physical contact. It's not flashy or offensive, but deeply comforting—perfect on a cold, rainy day. His quirk doesn't stop fights, but it softens hearts.
  It also made him the undisputed champion of the world's best hugs.
  
  Daisuke Naoru was a warm, charismatic man in his mid-30s, known for his easy smile and the quiet strength behind it. He carried a calm presence that made people feel at ease the moment he entered a room. Whether playing gentle melodies on the café piano or joking with regulars while serving coffee, Daisuke radiated a natural kindness. He was the heart of the Naoru family—steady, dependable, and full of quiet joy.
• Spoiler: Hitomi Picture

  
  
  Quirk: Quick Mend
  Hitomi's body heals small cuts, scrapes, and bruises slightly faster than normal. It's not powerful enough for combat or serious injuries, but it's useful for everyday life—burns from the stove, scrapes from moving furniture, the little hurts that come with taking care of others. Like Hitomi herself, it's not flashy, but it's reliable and always quietly working in the background.
  
  Hitomi Naoru is a resilient and grounded woman with a quiet intensity that often goes unnoticed until you really see her. Practical by necessity and warm by nature, she carries the weight of her family with grace—even when it threatens to wear her down. She's not one for big displays of emotion, but her love runs deep and steady, expressed through small acts of care and tireless effort. She's the kind of person who keeps moving forward, not because it's easy, but because someone has to. And for her children, she'll always be that someone.
• Spoiler: Aimi Picture Young

  
  
  
  Spoiler: Aimi Picture Older

  
  
  Quirk: Thermabalance
  Her body naturally adjusts to extreme temperatures, allowing her to stay comfortable and functional in both intense heat and bitter cold. While she isn't immune to fire or ice-based attacks, she can endure harsh climates easier than others—making her reliable in environments where others might falter.
  
  Aimi Naoru is the kind of big sister who holds things together by keeping things light. Easygoing and emotionally steady, she's always the first to crack a joke, start a game, or turn a quiet moment into something fun. After everything their family has been through, she made it her mission to help Jouta and Saya smile again—by reminding them that it's okay to laugh, to play, and to just be kids. She doesn't pressure, doesn't hover—she leads with warmth, showing them that healing doesn't always have to hurt.
• Spoiler: Saya Picture Young

  
  
  
  Spoiler: Saya Picture Older

  
  
  Quirk: Quick Twitch
  Her reflexes are heightened just enough to react faster than normal to sudden changes—like a flinch response turned up a notch. It's especially useful for dodging surprise attacks or catching something mid-fall, though it doesn't improve her overall speed or strength. Still, it gives her an edge in fast-paced sports and high-speed video games—anything where split-second timing counts.
  
  Saya Naoru is a whirlwind of energy—confident, competitive, and always in motion. She throws herself into everything with full force, whether it's a game, a challenge, or just a race to the door. Impulsive and bold, she's not afraid to speak her mind or tease her older brother for being "too slow." But beneath all that fire, she deeply admires Jouta—even if she'd never admit it out loud. She's the spark that keeps the family on their toes.

 

[Apollo_Man]

Quirk: Soothe and Sunder
Jouta's quirk allows him to transfer physical injuries either from himself to another person, or from someone else onto himself. As a result of this ability, his body possesses an accelerated healing factor to cope with the damage he takes on. Though still developing, his quirk holds the potential for unexpected applications—through training, he may learn to store or manipulate injuries in ways that amplify his offensive capabilities.

Click to shrink...

So, his power is similar to Queenie from the American Horror Stories.


View: https://youtu.be/98oWgVVAkdk?si=OUUbb00WKcTF-oBC

 

[Noxsin]

So, his power is similar to Queenie from the American Horror Stories.


View: https://youtu.be/98oWgVVAkdk?si=OUUbb00WKcTF-oBC

Click to shrink...

I have never watched American Horror Story but looking at the clip and reading the wiki they are kinda similar. Key differences being he can transfer both ways. He requires touch to do it. And he feels all the pain / takes on the actual injury.

 

[Noxsin]

A/N
Hello all!
I want to say thank you to all of you reading this It has been nice writing and focusing on this. It really helps that I've decided to write a fic instead of anything original that way I can focus on just my character writing without spending too much time on the setting and everything around.

Please feel free to leave comments, any feedback is very much appreciated. If you hate it I wanna hear about it, if you love it I want to know!

Here is Chapter 2 and I hope you enjoy

---

I sat at the breakfast table, my eyes lingering on the empty chair across from me—the one my father had always filled. Without him, the room felt colder. Like the warmth had left with him. The silence pressed around me, loud in a way sound never was.

Mom moved stiffly around the kitchen. Every step, every movement, seemed heavier than it should've been. Her eyes—usually bright, always full of life—looked far away now. It had only been a week, but everything felt different. And in a very real way, it was.

"Mom?" I asked softly, breaking the silence.

She paused, startled—as if she'd forgotten I was there.
"Yes, sweetheart?" she said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

I slid off my chair and crossed the room on quiet feet. I tugged gently at her sleeve.
"Can I help?"
I didn't know exactly what I was offering. I just wanted to help. Wanted to do something that would make things better.

She hesitated, hands trembling just slightly.
"You don't have to do that, Jouta. I'll manage."

"I know," I said, reaching up with small, clumsy hands to take the plates from her. "But I want to."

The plates felt heavy in my arms—not just because of their weight, but because I wanted to carry them right. I looked up at her, trying to offer reassurance. But what she saw was a kid trying too hard to be strong, peeking around a stack of plates too big for him.

I didn't know what else to do.
All I knew was that she was hurting, and this was the only way I knew how to help.

Her expression softened. A flicker of something warm behind the exhaustion.
"You're growing up too fast," she whispered, brushing her fingers gently through my hair.

Before I could say anything, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway. Saya appeared in the doorway, clutching her stuffed rabbit tight, her small face drawn with quiet confusion.

"Good morning, Saya," Mom said, trying to sound bright. "Are you hungry?"

Saya didn't answer right away. She looked around slowly. Her gaze settled on the empty chair.
"Where's Daddy?" she asked in a small voice.

Mom's face faltered. Her eyes welled up. She turned her face slightly away.

I quickly set the plates down and dropped to a crouch in front of Saya.

"Remember, Saya? Daddy had to go away," I said as gently as I could. "He can't come back."

I felt sick. The words barely made it out. She was standing right in front of me, asking where our dad had gone—while looking straight at the reason he was gone.

Saya frowned. "Not ever?"

Mom turned away, wiping at her eyes. Aimi stepped into the room, calm and steady as always, crouching beside us with a gentle smile.

"That's right," she said softly. "Daddy can't come back. But he's still watching us."

Saya hugged her rabbit tighter and took a step toward me, resting her face against my shoulder.

I froze. Just for a second.

Her touch was light. Innocent. But my body tensed anyway.

The last time someone touched my hand, I'd killed them.

Still… she needed me. So I didn't pull away.

"But… will he be lonely?" she whispered.

She didn't understand. Not yet. She was still too little.

Aimi met my eyes, then gently pulled Saya into her arms.
"He has us in his heart," she said. "And we have him in ours. So no… he's never really alone."

Saya nodded slowly, holding on tightly.

I stood, the weight in my chest pressing harder than before.

"Why don't you sit, Mom?" I said quietly, walking over. "I'll finish breakfast."

She looked at me for a moment, like she was going to say something else. Then she just nodded and sat down slowly, letting out a breath like she'd been holding it for hours.
"Thank you, Jouta," she murmured.

I returned to the plates, carefully setting breakfast in place—quietly taking on the role my father once held, feeling pride, sorrow, and guilt in equal measure.

We ate in silence, the empty chair casting a long shadow across the table.

---

The café felt different now.

Weeks had passed, but I still caught myself looking up sometimes, expecting to see Dad behind the counter—wiping glasses, cracking dumb jokes with the regulars.

But it was Mom instead. And she looked like she hadn't slept in years.

I sat in one of the corner booths, crayons spread across the table, trying to draw heroes and villains fighting in a giant city made out of toast. At least, that's what it was turning into. I was supposed to be doing math homework, but my pencil had disappeared under the table, and drawing explosions was easier anyway.

"Hitomi, I ordered a latte," an older woman reminded Mom gently, her voice polite but pointed.

"Oh, yes—of course," Mom said quickly, her smile stretched thin. "I'll get that right away."

She turned too fast and bumped into a nearby table, flinching as the cups rattled.
"Sorry," she mumbled, cheeks going red.

I stood up without thinking.

"I can help, Mom," I said—louder than I meant to—grabbing a tray that already had two mugs on it. "I can take their orders to them."

I smiled like everything was fine. Like I was big enough to be helpful.

She looked at me. Tired didn't even begin to cover it—her whole body seemed weighed down. Her eyes softened—grateful, but also a little sad.

"Jouta… it's your weekend. You should be resting."

"It's okay," I said, quieter this time. "I want to help."

She hesitated, rubbing at her temple, like the words were stuck.

"Jouta, I—"
She stopped herself. Then sighed.
"No. Sorry. Thank you, sweetheart."

She smiled—but her eyes had drifted somewhere far away.

I walked carefully between the tables, holding the tray tight with both hands. It was heavier than I thought. My arms ached by the time I reached the woman's table.

She smiled at me. But not the warm kind.

The kind people give when they're trying not to show they're uncomfortable.

Her eyes flicked to my hands. I saw her fingers twitch—like she almost pulled the cup back before I could set it down.

My stomach tightened.

"Let me know if you need anything else," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

I turned to head back to the counter. That's when I saw Mom watching me.

Her face was proud.
But her eyes were wet.

And around her? The same customers. Staring. Whispering. Not just at me—but at her too.

Like we were both something they didn't want to look at for too long.

And that.. That hurt in a different way.

---

School didn't feel the same anymore.

No one said anything to my face. Not really. But they didn't smile the same way. Didn't sit beside me at lunch like they used to.

After Dad died, teachers spoke in soft voices and patted my head a lot. Some of them hesitated, like I might snap at them if they got too close.

A few kids were extra nice for a while. But then the whispers started.

"That's the kid whose quirk killed his dad."
"My mom said to stay away from him."
"He's scary."

I heard them. Even when they whispered. Kids aren't as quiet as they think they are.

I didn't say anything. Just kept my head down, walked faster, stared at my shoes. Pretended I didn't hear.

But I did. I always did.

Recess felt too big now. Too empty.

I used to run around with everyone else. Now I sat alone on the tire swing, dragging my feet in the dirt. I didn't know if I wasn't invited anymore, or if I'd just stopped trying.

My notebook stayed open in my lap. I was pretending to draw.

Mostly I was just making circles.

"Hey, Jouta!"

The voice made me jump a little.

I looked up. Hiroshi was walking toward me with a half-smile. Not the big grin he used to wear. But not fake either.

"You wanna play some ball?"

I blinked. "Are you sure?"

I glanced past him—two boys were watching us from across the field, already whispering.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He shrugged. "They're just dumb."

He tossed the ball lightly into the air, catching it again.

"Come on. I miss playing with someone who can actually keep up."

I smiled. Just a little.

We played for a while.

He ran ahead and I chased him. We kicked the ball back and forth without any rules, making them up as we went.

At one point, he tripped over nothing and collapsed in the grass.

"Ow!" he groaned dramatically. "I've been wounded!"

I laughed—before I could stop myself. Just for a second, I forgot everything else.

"You're hopeless!" I called, running toward him.

"Hopelessly awesome," he shot back, grinning up at me.

I offered my hand to help him up.

He grabbed it without thinking.

And I flinched.

Only for a second. It was instinct. Dumb, even. It was Hiroshi.

But the memory was still there—buried just under my skin.

He yanked me down beside him and took off laughing, the ball tucked under his arm.

His laughter cut through the haze. And for a little while, as I chased after him across the field, I didn't feel their eyes on me.

It didn't last.

The bell rang. We headed back inside.

And I felt it again. The stares. The way people made space around me in the hallway. The way the teacher's eyes flicked up and then away when I passed her desk.

My hand still felt warm from where Hiroshi had high-fived me.

But it wasn't enough to make the whispers go away.

---

For the first time in weeks, the house felt warm and alive. Mom had suggested a movie night, determined to brighten the mood. We'd made popcorn, gathered blankets, and huddled together in the living room.

Saya laughed loudly at the silly cartoon characters on screen, her giggles infectious. Mom smiled genuinely—eyes crinkling softly as she watched us more than the movie itself. Aimi threw popcorn at me every time a joke landed, which led to a small battle that made Saya laugh even harder.

"Stop wasting popcorn!" Mom teased, trying to sound stern but failing to hide her grin.

"Tell that to Jouta!" Aimi shot back, ducking as another kernel sailed her way.

I grinned, warmth blooming in my chest. For a few precious hours, everything felt… okay again.

Eventually, Saya drifted off, curled up against Mom, so Aimi and I started picking up the stray popcorn, moving quietly—we didn't want to wake the moment.

"Tonight was nice," Aimi whispered, almost to herself.

But her voice wavered. Just a little. She turned away, suddenly focused on gathering stray kernels. I almost asked if she was okay. But then she smiled at me like nothing was wrong.

"You actually laughed, you know," she teased, nudging me with her foot.

I wanted to say something. But instead, I just smiled back.

"Yeah," I said softly, glancing toward Mom. Her smile had faded into something more reflective. Almost wistful.
"It really was nice."

Mom gently stroked Saya's hair, her eyes distant.

"Your dad would've loved this," she murmured, her voice thick with quiet emotion.

I didn't say anything. Just nodded. Talking about him still felt like pressing on a bruise.

We fell into silence again—one that didn't hurt as much. The kind that held warmth, not weight.

I moved to sit beside her. At first, I was careful not to touch her. Then, slowly, I let my head rest against her shoulder.

That flicker of unease was still there—like some part of me would always hesitate before reaching out.

But this time, I didn't pull back.

"We love you, Mom," I said quietly, hoping it would be enough to fill even a little of the empty space he left behind.

She squeezed my hand, her voice trembling.

"I love you too. All of you."

The house fell quiet again. But it wasn't the heavy kind of quiet anymore. It was softer now.

Full of memories, not emptiness.

 

[Erebos_03_]

And the weight of his death.

Click to shrink...

The whole emotionally attachment to the character thing do you have down to the T. Let's see where this goes

 

[Noxsin]

The whole emotionally attachment to the character thing do you have down to the T. Let's see where this goes

Click to shrink...

Thank you! Hopefully i can deliver a satisfying story.

 

[Apollo_Man]

Why you gotta hurt us in this way?

 

[Noxsin]

Why you gotta hurt us in this way?

Click to shrink...

I'll take that as a good sign

 

[Noxsin]

A/N
Hello and thank you for your feedback!

Here is Chapter 3. A bit shorter, but I'll make it up to you with an interlude Hopefully this chapter is more sweet than bitter

---

My seventh birthday was quiet.

No balloons. No big party. No decorations strung across the walls like the year before.

But it was warm.

The café had closed early that day. The windows glowed with golden light, and we all gathered in one of the booths like customers—Mom, Aimi, Saya, and me. Not the little corner table where we usually had dinner, but one of the big ones. I didn't say anything, but sitting there made me feel important.

Saya had helped with the cake—piling way too much frosting on one side and sticking half the candles in upside down.

"It's not a birthday without cake," she'd declared, licking pink icing off her fingers.

Mom lit the candles with a match she kept tucked in the drawer behind the register. Her smile came easily for once. Like this little moment existed outside of everything else.

"Make a wish," she said softly.

Last year, I'd wished for All Might sneakers.

This year, I didn't wish for anything.

I just closed my eyes and blew.

Aimi handed me a present wrapped in newspaper and tied with a shoelace. Inside was a real sketchbook—thick pages, stiff covers. Something real to draw on, not just the backs of café menus or my math homework.

"Figured you'd rather draw than keep begging off math homework," she said, nudging me.

"Thanks," I murmured, flipping through the blank pages slowly. "This is… really cool."

"Only the best for my annoying little brother."

Saya gave me a drawing of our family—stick arms and triangle dresses. I was holding a sword in it.

"Because you're strong," she told me, leaning against my side. "Like a hero!"

I didn't feel like one.

But I smiled anyway and ruffled her hair.

We passed around slices of cake. Saya smeared frosting on Aimi's nose. Aimi retaliated by flicking crumbs at her. Mom laughed—real laughter. Bright, full, the kind that made her eyes crinkle.

No one mentioned Dad. But he was there.

In the way Mom glanced at his old mug still sitting on the shelf.

In the empty seat beside her.

In the way her hand lingered over the table just a moment too long.

---

A few days later, the toaster nearly caught fire.

Saya had stuffed too many marshmallows into it—don't ask why—and the café filled with smoke for a solid three minutes. I scrambled to unplug it while Mom opened every window, waving a towel like she was trying to fight off a bee swarm.

"I was making toast-dessert!" Saya shouted through the chaos.

"It's a war crime," Aimi coughed, grabbing a fan.

Mom was trying not to laugh and scream at the same time.

It didn't ruin anything.

If anything, the burnt sugar smell stuck around for hours, and we just kept laughing about it. Sometimes a mess is better than silence.

After the marshmallow disaster, the café went quiet again. I had just cleared a table near the window and was wiping it down when the bell over the front door jingled.

A man stood in the doorway, rain clinging to his short-cropped blonde hair and a coat that looked too heavy for how thin he was, his shoulders hunched like he expected the weather to follow him inside. His eyes were the kind most people would probably call scary—but to me, they reminded me of my mom's.

He didn't move for a moment—like he was debating whether he'd made a mistake by walking in at all. Water slowly pooling around his boots

Then he stepped forward. Slowly. Like he was expecting someone to throw him out.

Mom paused at the espresso machine. Not afraid—just… surprised. Like she knew the type.

"Uh… just a small coffee. Please." His voice was low but polite. He didn't meet her eyes.

"Seat yourself. I'll bring it to you."

He nodded once, almost like he didn't believe her, and moved to the booth in the far corner. The kind of seat you take when you don't want to be noticed. He slumped down like the world had been on his back all day.

I watched him for a minute. He stared at the table like it had insulted him, drumming his fingers with a nervous energy that didn't match his stillness.

I knew that feeling. That twitchy quiet. The sense of being too much and not enough at the same time.

When Mom wasn't looking, I slipped a cookie onto a plate and walked over.

"You forgot this."

He blinked like I'd spoken in another language.

"I didn't order that."

"I know."

He looked at me for the first time—really looked. His eyes were tired. Not angry. Just... tired.

Then he pulled the plate closer.

"…Thanks, kid."

I gave a small shrug. Just enough to mean, You're welcome. And went back to my dish towel.

---

Weeks passed. Maybe months.

I wasn't looking for anything. I was just cleaning out the back room like Mom kept saying we should "someday." I guess today was someday.

The air was thick with dust. Old boxes. Crates of mismatched mugs. A half-deflated Christmas balloon. Everything smelled faintly like old cardboard and vanilla syrup.

I found the guitar case behind a stack of baking trays and a box labeled "Seasonal (Do Not Open Unless December)."

Worn. One clasp broken. The handle frayed.

I stared at it for a long time. Like picking it up might change something.

It felt wrong to look.

But worse to leave it be.

I knelt beside it and opened the case, the hinges creaked like they hadn't been used in years.

The guitar inside was dull, dusty. One string had snapped. The rest looked tired. But it was whole.

I could feel tiny dents in the wood as I ran my fingers softly over them. A faint fingerprint smudge near the sound hole that hadn't faded, even after all this time.

I remembered Dad playing sometimes. Late nights, when the café was dark and calm. Just him, the hum of strings, and something quiet in his voice I didn't understand yet. I didn't remember the songs—just how they made me feel.

I didn't pick it up right away.

Just sat with it. Let it rest beside me.

Let him rest beside me.


Turns out learning guitar is hard.

The strings bit into my fingers. The frets buzzed wrong. I couldn't play a single chord without it sounding like the guitar was mad at me.

But I kept going.

A few minutes after school. An hour after dishes. Sometimes late at night when the café was dark and I could pretend Dad was in the next room, listening.

I didn't tell anyone. It wasn't about showing off.

It was about keeping something alive. Something that belonged to both of us.

Even when the chords were wrong, the feeling was right.

 

[Noxsin]

A/N

To make up for the shorter chapter I give you one of my Jin-terludes.

---

Jin Bubaigawara was a lot of things, but consistent wasn't one of them.

Which was why he surprised himself when he stepped into the café for the third time that week.

He tugged his jacket tighter as he crossed the threshold, boots dripping quietly onto the tile. Rain again. Of course.

The place smelled like cinnamon—way too much cinnamon—but it was warm. And no one looked at him like he didn't belong. That was rarer than he liked to admit.

Same corner table. Same bag dropped beside the seat. Same twitchy pause as he looked around, half-expecting someone to wave him off.

No one did. So he sat down.

"You came back," a voice said.

Jin looked up.

That kid. Same one who brought the cookie the first time. Holding a towel and a rag, like he worked here. That would have made sense if only he was 8 years older.

Jin raised a brow. "Guess I did."

The kid spun a chair around and sat backward on it, arms resting on the top like this was his place. It looked almost comical. His nose barely cresting the back of the chair.

"You're Mr. Jin, right?"

Jin blinked. "I—uh. Yeah. How'd you know?"

"You paid with a card before. I saw your name."

Sharp little thing.

"Sharp eyes."

"I remember stuff," the kid said simply.

Jin couldn't help the faint smile. It tugged at the corners before he even noticed.

"What do you do?" the kid asked.

"Work," Jin replied automatically.

"Yeah, but what kind?" he huffed.

Jin let out a tired breath and started counting off on his fingers.

"Mailroom this week. Last week, inventory for a furniture place. Before that? Warehouse. Before that? … I don't even remember."

"That sounds hard."

"It is," Jin said. "But it pays for coffee. Most days."

The kid disappeared for a second, then came back and slid a napkin across the table. A squashed cookie sat in the middle.

"We had extras."

Jin gave him a look. "That so?"

"Yep."

"Your face says otherwise."

"And your face says you need a cookie."

Jin snorted—might've been a laugh—and held his hand out beside the treat.

A shimmer flickered through the air. An exact duplicate of the cookie appeared beside the original.

The kid's eyes widened.

"Your quirk?"

"Double," Jin said nodding. "I can copy anything I know well. Doesn't last forever, though."

He picked up the real cookie and handed over the fake one.

"Go on. Taste test."

The kid bit into it, and immediately gagged.
"It's—bleh—it's mud!"

He spat it out into a napkin, looking horrified.

Jin burst out laughing. A real, surprised laugh he hadn't heard from himself in weeks.

"Yup. Not built for flavor. Better with paper clips and invoices."

The kid wiped his mouth with exaggerated drama and glared.

"You're the worst."

"You're the one who took the bait."

"Still the worst."

Jin smirked and took a slow sip of his coffee.

"And yet, you're still talking to me."

They didn't talk much after that. The kid cleaned. Jin drank. Time passed.

He stayed longer than he meant to. But he didn't leave until the coffee was cold.

 

[Noxsin]

A/N

Hello readers
A little bit longer between chapters this time, sorry about that. Time flies when you're travelling and I did not quite get the time to post. Hopefully this ends up being worth the wait.
I have been thinking lately about lengthening my chapters. As they are now they feel a little short to me. Any feedback is appreciated!

---

I was getting better at the guitar.
Not good—but better. Time had a way of helping with practice.
Some nights, I could play a few chords in a row before my fingers gave up.
I liked that kind of ache. It had a shape, a sound, and a reason.

Time passed quietly, it would soon be three years since Dad had passed.
The café had grown busier. The days started to settle into something close to normal. Not the old normal, but a quieter one. A manageable one.

But of course life has a way of throwing wrenches at you just when things start to feel steady again.

---

Aimi was trying to grab the waffle iron from the top shelf in the café kitchen—the heavy, old-fashioned one Mom never let us use without help.

"I've got it, don't worry!" she called, up on her toes, stretching too far from the stepstool.

I was wiping tables on the other side of the room. I looked up just in time to see her lose her balance.

And fall.

She hit the ground hard. Her foot twisted under her with a sound that made my stomach flip. She cried out, grabbing at her leg, eyes wide and wet.

Mom rushed in, already pulling out her phone. Saya stood frozen in the hallway.

"Aimi, don't move," Mom said, firm and quick. "Jouta—get ice."

But I was already kneeling beside her.

Her face had gone pale, jaw tight, breathing fast.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's just a sprain. Probably. Maybe."

But her voice trembled.

"Don't touch it," Mom said sharply. "We'll take her in—don't make it worse."

But I couldn't stop staring. At her ankle, swelling fast. At her face, twisted with pain.
It reminded me of my own—when everything broke, and the world had gone quiet.

"Jouta?" she asked.

"I'm just checking," I murmured.

My hand hovered above her foot.
I didn't know what I was doing.
Just that I wanted to help.

Maybe the part of me that pushed pain away could take it back too.

I didn't mean to use it.

But the second I touched her, something inside me leaned forward—reached out.

And then the pain was mine.

A flash of heat shot up my leg, sharp and immediate. I gasped, falling back, leg spasming under me.

Aimi blinked.

Then slowly, carefully, she sat up.

"Wait…"

She touched her ankle. Flexed it. Winced, but only a little.

"It doesn't hurt," she said softly.

I was holding my own leg, chest tight with shallow breaths. But I was okay with it. I was happy to bear it instead of my sister.

At the hospital, the doctor furrowed his brow at the X-ray.

"It's a clean fracture. Or it was. Already healing faster than expected." He looked at Mom, then at me. "Did he receive treatment before coming in?"

Mom shook her head. Her hand stayed wrapped tight around mine. She didn't say anything else.

They gave me a light cast and told me to stay off it for a few weeks.

I nodded and smiled like it didn't hurt.

But it did.

---

That night, I was stretched out on the couch, leg propped up on a pillow, a dull ache still pulsing under the gauze.

Aimi came in quietly, holding a plate of cookies. She didn't say much—just handed it to me, then lingered. Her eyes flicked to my leg, then away.

"Sorry," she muttered, almost too soft to hear.

She didn't sit next to me—just lowered herself onto the arm of the couch, like she wasn't sure if she should stay.

I didn't look at her.
I didn't say it was okay.

Because I wasn't sorry. I'd do it again. I could take it. That was the whole point.

But part of me still wanted her to stay.

Later that night, after Saya had fallen asleep and Aimi was holed up in her room, Mom came to sit beside me on the couch.

I was pretending to read, not doing a very good job of it. I wasn't even turning the pages.

She looked at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

"What you did today…" she began, voice soft. "It surprised me."

I looked at her. She wasn't smiling.

"You helped your sister. I know that. But Jouta…" She paused. "What happened—it scared me."

"I didn't mean to," I said.

"I know," she replied, touching my hand. "That's why it scared me more."

She breathed in slowly.

"I'm not telling you to stop caring. I know you won't. You're just like your father that way."

Her voice caught on the word father, like it always did.

"Jouta… your quirk—it's kind. It's powerful. But it's not easy."
She paused, like the words were heavy. "When your quirk comes from caring, it's easy to use it without thinking. Especially for the people you love."

I didn't answer right away.

"That's not a bad thing," she added. "But it's something you need to be careful with. Because you'll always want to help."

She looked at me—really looked.

"And I don't want helping to break you."

I sat with that for a while.

Not sure what to say.

Even after the house went quiet, I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.

My leg still ached. But it wasn't the pain that kept me up.

I kept seeing Aimi's face—how quickly she felt better.

And how she looked at me after. Like she knew I was hurting instead, and didn't know how to feel about that.

I'd helped her.

Not in a small, invisible way. Not like setting the table or making her laugh when she was in a mood.

This was different.

It felt like a choice. Like a step into something bigger than me.

And for the first time, I wasn't sure if that scared me or not.

---

The café was quiet—just me, Mom, and a couple regulars.

I was pretending to restack sugar packets when the bell jingled.

"You're here again," I said as Jin walked in, shrugging off his coat.

"What can I say?" he replied, heading to his usual booth. "You've got the least judgment per cup of coffee in the city."

"That's our new slogan," I said, bringing him a glass of water.

He slouched into the seat like he'd been walking all day. Probably had.

"You limping?" he asked, eyes narrowing, noticing before I could hide it.

"Kinda," I muttered. "Twisted my ankle."

He raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

I hesitated.

"My sister got hurt," I said. "I helped."

He tilted his head. He didn't press. Just nodded.

"That was nice of you. Dumb, maybe. But nice."

I brought him one of the muffins we hadn't sold yet. He poked at it like it might bite.

"This thing fresh?"

"Mostly."

"You're a terrible liar, Jouta."

"Then stop asking."

He smirked.

"You're getting sharp. That's dangerous."

I hovered for a second. Not quite sure if I wanted to sit down or disappear.

"You really come here for the coffee?" I asked.

"Nah," he said, not looking up. "Coffee's fine. But it's warm. And quiet. And nobody here treats me weird."

That stuck with me.

"We don't think you're weird," I said.

"That's why I come here," he said, smiling—not big, but real.

He left before the sun went down, hood up even though it wasn't raining.

Later, when I wiped down his table, I found a sugar packet folded in half with tiny words written on the back: "Still better than hospital coffee."

 

[pink_boy]

Thank you for the chapter!

The length is fine though if you can handle bigger go for it!

 

[Noxsin]

A/N
Hello everyone, I'm back again with a small Jin-terlude. Chapter 5 will follow right after!

---

Most mornings, Jin woke up because his alarm didn't go off.

Sometimes it was a busted battery. Sometimes he'd unplugged it to charge his phone.
Sometimes he just hadn't bothered setting it the night before.

Didn't matter. He woke up late either way.

He threw on whatever didn't smell too bad, shoved a stale granola bar into his mouth, and left the apartment without looking at himself in the mirror. He already knew what he'd see.

Another odd job. Warehouse this week. The kind where no one remembers your name but still blames you when something goes missing. He didn't mind. Not really. It kept his hands busy.

Lunchtime meant wandering. Usually nowhere.
But on good days, it meant the café.

He didn't remember how he'd found it. Just that he walked in one day dripping wet from the rain, ordered a coffee, and no one asked what he did for a living.

No stares. No questions. Just warmth, soft music, and a kid behind the counter who looked like he was trying too hard to seem grown-up.

That was three years ago.

Now he came in more often than he probably should.

Jin slid into his usual booth, same as always. No menu, no fuss. He didn't need to say anything—Hitomi already nodded from the back with a look that said "rough morning?" and "your coffee's coming" at the same time.

The kid—Jouta—brought over the glass of water like clockwork.

"You're here again," Jouta said, not unkindly.

"You say that like I'm not your favorite customer."

"You say that like it's true."

Jin smirked and watched him limp slightly as he walked away.
Didn't ask. Didn't need to.

Sometimes Jin stayed for hours, even when his coffee went cold.
Even when he knew he'd get docked for coming back late from break.

The café didn't fix anything.
But it was the only place he didn't feel like a ghost.

And sometimes, that was enough.

---

Jin was on break, crouched on the loading dock behind a delivery warehouse, eating half of a tuna sandwich that had definitely been in the fridge too long.

He didn't complain. The guy who gave it to him was short one arm and still stacked boxes faster than anyone else on shift.

"You're quiet today," the man said, lighting a cigarette. "Usually you've got at least one bad joke in you."

"Too tired to be funny."

The man chuckled. "Aren't we all."

They sat in silence for a while. Concrete under them. Exhaust fumes in the air. Rain creeping across the pavement like it was testing the edges of the day.

"Ever think about doing something easier?" the guy asked casually. "Something that pays better?"

Jin didn't answer.

"I'm just sayin'. I know a guy. Real flexible hours. Pays under the table. No heavy lifting unless you want it."

"What kind of work?"

"Moving things. No questions asked."

Jin looked at him, then laughed.
"Appreciate the offer," he said. "But I'm not that far gone."

The guy shrugged. "Didn't say you were. Just—you ever get tired of bleeding for sub minimum wage, you let me know."

Jin didn't think much of it at the time.

Just another sketchy conversation. Another invisible line drawn between one kind of life and another.

He never planned to cross it.

But later that week, when he opened his fridge and found it empty—again.
When his shoes leaked.
When his pay got docked for a missed shift that wasn't his fault.

He sat on the floor of his apartment shivering slightly, the lights and heat off to save power, and thought about the guy on the loading dock.

Just for a moment.

Then he shook his head, stood up, and turned over every drawer, bag, and pocket he owned, searching for whatever spare change he could find.

Once he'd scraped together enough, he pulled on his coat and made his way to the café.

Hopefully, he'd make it before they closed. Just in time for a cup of something warm.

But the line didn't feel quite as sharp anymore.

 

[Noxsin]

A/N
It's been a little while again! Hopefully the Jin-terlude was good. Enjoy chapter 5.
And as always any feedback is well appreciated!

---

I'd never really thought about my quirk before.

Not the way other kids did, anyway.

They talked about hero costumes and signature moves. They pretended to blast each other across the schoolyard or leap from imaginary rooftops. I didn't do that. I didn't want to.

For a long time, my quirk had just been... a reaction. Something that happened when things went wrong.

But after Aimi's ankle, after Mom's talk—it felt different.

Less like a curse.
More like a question.

I kept a notebook under my bed now. Just a beat-up spiral one, the kind you're supposed to use for math. I filled it with questions instead.

Can I control the direction?
Did I need to want it?

Could I choose where the injury went?

Could I take more than one at a time?

Most pages were filled with scribbles and underlines and maybe's.

I needed answers.
But I couldn't ask my family. Not after what happened with Aimi.

Not even for a scraped knee or a paper cut. I didn't trust myself around them—not like that.
Not when the memory of Aimi's broken ankle still lingered in the way she watched me sometimes, like she didn't know if she should worry or not.

So I went with the next best option.

---

"Absolutely not," Hiroshi said, the second I finished explaining, mouth half-full of rice crackers.

We were sitting behind the gym after school—our unofficial secret base. Just cracked pavement, a couple rusting benches, and a vending machine that never worked. But it was ours.

"I'm not letting you break my arm," he added.

"I never said break," I said. "Just… scrape. Light bruising. Something small."

"I don't want to hurt you," I added. "That's the point. I already have a scrape. I want to see if I can move it."

He gave me a long look. "Onto me?"

"Well… maybe. Just a little."

"No. Way."

I held up my arm. There was a fading scrape near my elbow from tripping earlier that day.

"I could try to give this one to you. If that's how it works."

He squinted at me. "Wow. Such a generous offer."

"You're my best friend. This is a scientific honor."

"Feels like a trap."

I stared at him, giving him my most deadpan look.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall. "Okay. Fine. You can try. But if I end up bleeding, I'm telling your mom."

"Deal."

I knelt beside him, holding my arm out like I was offering a relic. Nothing happened.

I frowned, focused. Tried again. Still nothing.

"Maybe I need to touch you," I muttered.

He recoiled. "Not in a creepy way!"

"Shut up, hold still." I couldn't help myself from cracking a small smile.

I touched his shoulder. Nothing.

"My arm," he said. "You're trying to give me the scrape, right?"

"Right."

I reached over, pressed my fingers to his forearm—and focused.

Still nothing.

---

Test two: I got a new scrape on my hand climbing the fence by the storage shed.

Test three: I accidentally got lemon juice in it during lunch and yelped loud enough to make Hiroshi choke on his drink.

"You okay?" he gasped between laughs.

"No! I'm in pain and science is failing me."

By the fourth try, I stopped trying to push the scrape onto him.

Instead, I noticed a bruise forming on his knee from bumping into the bench earlier.

"What about the other way?" I said.

"You mean take it?"

"Yeah. Just to see."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't move.

I reached out, touched just above the bruise, and thought about how I'd felt when Aimi got hurt. How I wanted to help. How it had just happened.

I waited.

And then I felt it—that same flicker in my chest.
Like something inside me shifted, like it leaned forward.

And suddenly, my own knee throbbed.

Hiroshi blinked.

"...Wait. It's gone."

"Mine hurts now," I said, voice quiet.

We both looked down.

"Whoa," he whispered.


The next week, we kept at it.

Scrapes, stubs, mild bumps. Nothing serious. Hiroshi grumbled every time but still showed up.

I could take his injuries now, as long as I wanted to help.

But the other way?

No matter how much I tried, I couldn't push my own scrapes onto him.

"Maybe that's a good thing," he said once, while we sat on the bleachers. "You'd be dangerous if you could."

"I can, probably," I muttered. "I just don't know how."

"You sure you're not just bad at it?"

"I'm gonna transfer my splinter into your eyeball if you keep talking."

---

Weeks passed.

My notebook got messier.

I could do one half of it now, and that felt like something.
But I wanted more. I wanted control.

The other part of my quirk stayed quiet. No matter how hard I focused, how carefully I pressed against a cut or a bruise on my own skin—nothing moved.

Until one day.

---

It was hot. End-of-the-day hot.
We were both tired. Sweat sticky. Mood sour.

Hiroshi had been teasing me since lunch—over my handwriting, over how I nearly tripped walking into class, over how I forgot to zip my backpack and spilled half my stuff on the stairs.

"I'm just saying," he said, grinning like a smug little gremlin, "You're basically a disaster in slow motion."

I glared at him.

He kept going. "If I had your quirk, I'd just trip people on purpose and act like I was helping. Ultimate power move."

"Shut up, Hiro."

"You'd probably mess that up, too."

Something snapped.

Not big. Not dramatic. Just a flicker of irritation.

A quiet You deserve this.

I reached out—grabbed his arm.

A second later, the scrape on my palm was gone.

"OW!" he yelped, jerking back and clutching his palm. "What the—?!"

I stared at my hand. It didn't sting anymore.

"You did it!" he hissed. "That hurt, you jerk!"

"You got hurt," I said slowly, "because I wanted you to."

His eyes widened. "...Creepy."

But I wasn't listening. I was already writing the sentence in my head:

To heal, I have to want to help.
To harm… I have to want them to hurt.

And that scared me a little.

It scared me a lot when I thought about what had happened to my father.

---

It was supposed to be just another walk home.

Hiroshi was ahead of me, bouncing a half-deflated soccer ball between his feet as we cut through the alleys behind the school. It was our usual shortcut—two turns, a stretch of cracked sidewalk, then a hop over the low fence behind the corner store.

We'd taken this route a hundred times.

But today felt... different.

The light was low and soft, and the air had that end-of-day stillness—like the city was holding its breath. I don't know what made me stop, exactly. Maybe the scuffling sound. Maybe the way Hiroshi froze, his foot catching the ball and pinning it instinctively.

We heard voices.

Rough ones. Sneering. Laughing.

Hiroshi glanced at me. His expression dropped immediately.

We followed the sound to the edge of a side alley.

Three boys—older than us, maybe middle schoolers—stood around a girl in a torn, too-big uniform. Her backpack had been dumped out, papers and pens scattered across the concrete. She had her back to the wall, small hands clenched at her sides. Her knees were scraped. Her lip was bleeding.

One of the boys kicked her bag.

"Say something, freak."

She didn't.

One of the others laughed and reached for her again.

"Hey!" I shouted, stepping in without thinking.

The boys turned. They were taller, broad-shouldered, faces full of surprise that faded quickly into something meaner.

"Great," one muttered. "More kids."

"You forgot your dignity back there," Hiroshi said, stepping up beside me. "Want us to help you find it?"

I blinked at him. "That was almost cool."

"I'm freaking out," he whispered.

The tallest one advanced. "You think this is your business?"

"No," I said, already shifting my stance. "But I'm making it mine."

He lunged.

I didn't panic.

I sidestepped and let his momentum do the work—just like Jin showed me on quiet nights behind the café, when he was bored enough to throw hands with a kid half his size.

As the boy stumbled, I shoved his shoulder and sent him crashing into the alley wall with a curse.

The second one grabbed Hiroshi's arm, but Hiroshi twisted free, years of playground wrestling paying off. "Get off me!"

The third hesitated as I stepped towards him—then saw his friends struggling and bailed first. The others followed, grumbling and swearing, one of them with a scuffed knee and bruised ego.

And then it was quiet again.

We stood there for a second after they were gone, the air feeling weirdly empty.

I walked over to the girl, she was crouched down now, scooping up her things without saying a word.

She looked... small. Not fragile. But like someone who was used to being quiet.

"You okay?" I asked gently, crouching down too.

She didn't answer right away.

There was blood at the corner of her mouth, and a deep scrape on her knee.

I felt it again—that flicker inside me. The need to help.

"Can I…?" I asked, reaching out.

She looked at my hand. Then back at my face.

And nodded.

It wasn't dramatic. No light show. No sound.

Just a shift.

The moment I touched her, the pain left her face.

And entered mine.

My leg pulsed. My lip stung. I winced.

But I didn't let go until it was done.

She stared at me—wide eyes, flushed cheeks. Not afraid. Not confused. Just... fascinated.

"Did you take it?" she asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I hesitated. "Because I could."

That made her smile—small, like she was about to smile wider, but something stopped her. Pink still dusting her cheeks.

"You're weird," she said, and her voice was warmer than I expected.

Then she stood, dusted herself off, and walked away.

No name. No thank you.

Just gone.

"Who was that?" Hiroshi asked, once she disappeared around the corner.

"No idea."

But something about her stuck with me.
The way she looked at me—like she saw something I didn't even know I was showing.

Like maybe she understood it.

---

The café was quieter than usual.

A slow, rainy-day kind of quiet. Just the low hum of machines, the occasional clink of dishes, and the muted chatter of two regulars who never ordered anything fancy.

I was behind the counter, pretending to restack sugar packets again. Not because they needed it—just because I wanted to look busy.

The bell over the door jingled.

Jin stepped in, coat dripping, hood already down. He looked even more tired than usual.

But he was here.

And that meant something.

"You're late," I called out as he passed the register.

"You're nosy," he muttered, but not unkindly.

He dropped into his usual booth like he was made of wet sand.

I brought him his usual without asking.

"No cookie today?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Trying to build suspense." I said, pulling out a crumpled, sad looking cookie from a pocket in my apron.

"Cruel."

I smirked, but he didn't. Not right away.

He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug like he needed the warmth to remind him he was still here.

"Hey," I said after a moment, sliding into the seat across from him. "You wanna hear something cool?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Only if it involves property damage or minor crime."

"Close," I said. "Bullies. Alley. Three of them."

That got his attention.

"You okay?"

"Better than okay," I said, leaning in, vibrating a little in my seat. "I used that thing you showed me—when they lunge and overcommit?"

"The shoulder redirect?"

I nodded. "Boom. Into the wall."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"That's my move."

"I know," I said, grinning.

He leaned back in the booth, expression unreadable for a second.

"Glad you remembered it."


There was a pause.

I thought he might say something else. Maybe laugh. Maybe ask for details.

But he just stared out the window for a while.

I shifted in my seat.

"You okay?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away.

"Yeah."

But he didn't look ok.

"You ever help someone," he said finally, voice low, "and wonder if it actually mattered?"

I blinked.

"Like, you show up. Do the right thing. You think it's enough. But then it's just… gone. Like nothing changed."

I didn't know what to say.

I thought about the girl in the alley. How she looked at me. How she walked away without saying her name.

"I think it matters," I said eventually. "Even if they don't say it."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then smiled. Just a little.

"That's a good answer."

When he stood to leave, I noticed his hand trembled as he reached for his coat.

It wasn't cold.

And his coffee wasn't empty.

But he left anyway.

Later, when I cleaned his table, I found a sugar packet folded into a perfect square.

No message this time.

Just the quiet.