Hope Appearance.
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Issei's Appearance.
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---
Issei couldn't sleep.
His body filled with energy, that wouldn't stop.
He lay in bed, eyes locked on the dark ceiling, his mind a swirl of whispered fears.
'What if you mess up in class tomorrow?' a voice hissed.
'What if Gran Torino falls, his knee breaking?'
'What if someone catches you using your quirk, exposes you?'
The whispers were sharp, small but biting, each one tightening his chest.
He rolled out of bed, bare feet slapping the cold floor, needing to move, to shut them up.
He crept through the house, silent, dodging creaky boards.
Gran Torino's snores echoed from down the hall, steady, oblivious.
Issei's senses picked up a faint breeze outside, a dripping faucet, but he pushed them aside.
His hands twitched, heat conversion quirk active, like it was itching to escape.
His body felt bloated, stuffed with energy his tired muscles couldn't burn.
In the living room, he stopped at the old punching bag, its leather rough and worn.
No gloves—he didn't care.
He clenched his small fists and swung, the first punch hitting hard, jarring his knuckles.
He swung again, faster, the thud drowning out the whispers.
But they kept coming, relentless.
'What if you trip in the park, kids mocking you, you lose all you Aura?'
'What if your quirk slips, kills someone?'
'What if Hope—' His breath caught, the whisper turning vicious.
'What if she falls from the balcony, wings too weak?'
'What if those kids corner her?'
'What if a villain takes her, silences her laugh forever?'
He punched harder, fists slamming the bag, trying to bury the fear.
His arms ached, but the whispers grew darker, clawing at him.
'Hope's house burns, she's trapped.'
'She's bleeding in an alley, like your mom.'
'She's gone, and you're too weak to stop it.'
His chest burned, fear raw and heavy, worse because he cared enough to feel it.
His quirk surged, out of control, and cold poured from his fists.
The bag froze turning into harder solid supercooled in an instant.
Issei stopped, panting, his senses snapping back.
He looked at his hands—knuckles scraped, skin slightly torn, blood smearing where he'd hit the rough leather too hard, too wild.
The pain stung, sharp, cutting through the fog of fear for a moment.
He collapsed, slumping against the couch, chest heaving.
The frozen bag loomed, slight frost catching faint moonlight.
His bloody fists rested on his knees, throbbing, but the buzzing energy didn't fade.
The whispers lingered—
'Hope's gone.' 'You'll fail.'
'Your quirks will ruin you.'
He sat there, panting, the night pressing in.
He'd wash the blood off before morning, hide the cuts, act fine.
But the fear stayed, cold and heavy, a shadow he couldn't punch away.
Issei sat slumped against the wall, his chest still heaving.
His knuckles stung.
The whispered fears remained their sharp edges cutting into his mind.
Worst part? This wasn't new.
The voices came too often, slinking back from time to time, and he'd stopped caring most days.
They were just… there, a noise he couldn't fully silence.
He wiped his bloody hands on his pajama pants, wincing as the fabric scraped his raw skin.
But the whispers weren't always fears, not always his own.
Sometimes, he sensed something else—fuzzy, like static from other people.
A kid at school, scared of failing a test, their anxiety brushing against his mind like a stray radio signal.
Hope's quiet worry when kids shunned her, a faint hum he couldn't ignore.
Gran Torino's buried grief, heavy and old, surfacing when he thought Issei wasn't looking.
It was never clear, just a vague, prickly feeling, but it was real he couldn't make head or tail of it though.
Issei pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to block it all out.
He figured the whispers were mental scars, wounds from both his lives he didn't want to face.
His Earth life—blurry memories of a lonely apartment, takeout boxes, a job he hated—left him detached, a man who'd given up on connection.
This life was a bit better but Ryoma's sacrifice piled on more emotional weightage.
The voices, they were probably his mind's way of leaking those scars, forcing them out in whispers and strange sensations.
He didn't want to dig into it.
Acknowledging them felt like opening a door he couldn't close.
His fists clenched.
He stood, shaky, and shuffled to the kitchen, moving quietly so Gran Torino wouldn't wake.
The sink's faucet squeaked as he turned it on, cold water stinging his knuckles as he rinsed the blood away.
His senses tracked the red swirling down the drain, the faint soap smell, the distant hum of a car outside.
The whispers crept back, softer but persistent. 'What if Hope doesn't show up tomorrow?' 'What if she's hurt, and you're not there?' 'What if you freeze her by accident?'
He shook his head, hard, splashing water on his face, trying to shake them off.
Drying his hands on a dish towel, he leaned against the counter, his small frame tense.
The fuzzy static came again, unbidden—a faint echo of Hope's fear, maybe, from earlier in the park when she'd fallen.
Or was it Gran Torino's, tied to memories of old battles? Issei couldn't tell, and that scared him more than the whispers.
What if this was another quirk, something new, picking up emotions like radio waves?
He already had two—senses and heat conversion.
A third would make him even more of a target.
He slid to the floor, back against the cabinets, his bloody knuckles throbbing.
The voices hissed again.
'You're a monster.' 'You'll hurt her.'
"____"
He hugged his knees, his kid's body trembling despite his mind's apparently mute nature.
The fuzzy feelings, the whispers—they were too much, too often.
He wanted to punch the bag again, freeze it to shards, anything to make it stop.
But he was too tired.
---
A week later, Issei sat in a doctor's office, his nine-year-old body slouched in a padded chair too big for him.
Gran Torino waited outside.
The sleepless nights hadn't stopped—unlike other times, the restless buzz, the fuzzy static, the whispers hadn't let up.
He'd barely slept more than a couple minutes at a time, his mind trapped in a haze he couldn't name.
Dark circles hung under his eyes, but he looked okay otherwise, just exhausted.
Completely worn out.
He'd told Gran Torino about the insomnia, hesitating before admitting the voices, the worry they might point to something like schizophrenia.
The old man's face had tightened with worry, he'd nodded, saying it was better to get it checked.
Issei agreed—better safe than sorry, even if it meant stressing Grandpa out.
Now, he was alone with a therapist, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Sato, who had a gentle voice and a notepad that never stopped moving.
Her office smelled of lavender and paper, and Issei's senses caught the soft scratch of her pen, the hum of a fan, her steady heartbeat.
It was all too loud, too much especially right now with his sleep deprived mind...
He swears he could even hear electricity at times..
Dr. Sato leaned forward, her eyes kind. She spoke softly, the way you'd talk to a kid, not a patient.
"Issei, I'm glad you're here. It sounds like you've been having a tough time sleeping.... Can you tell me a little about what's been going on?"
Issei shifted, his feet dangling above the floor.
"Can't sleep," he said, voice flat, too serious for a kid. "Maybe a week. Thoughts keep me up."
He didn't look at her, staring at a colorful poster of cartoon animals on the wall instead.
She nodded, jotting something down, her pen moving carefully.
"Thoughts can be really loud sometimes, huh? Are they about anything specific, like school or home, or just… all over the place?"
Her tone was warm, encouraging, but she was probing, trying to map out what was going on in his head.
"Random stuff," Issei said, vague, his adult mind wrestling with his kid's voice.
"Scary things. Bad things happening." He thought of the whispers but he didn't say them this must be able to give her specific idea.
Dr. Sato tilted her head, her expression soft but attentive, like she was piecing together a puzzle.
"Scary things can feel really big, especially at night....Do these thoughts feel like they're yours, or do they ever seem like they're coming from somewhere else, like a voice that's not you?"
She asked it gently, treading carefully, knowing a question like that could scare a kid or make them clam up.
She was checking for signs of schizophrenia or other conditions, but she didn't push too hard, keeping her voice light.
Issei's hands tightened. "Mostly mine," he mumbled, then paused, unsure.
"Sometimes… I don't know. Like I feel stuff that's not mine."
It was the most he could say without sounding crazy.
Well I am crazy...
The fuzzy feelings—other people's emotions brushing against his mind—were real, but how could he explain that? He was already scared she'd label him broken.
She wrote something, her pen steady, but her eyes stayed on him.
"That sounds really hard, Issei. Feeling things that don't seem like yours can be confusing...Does it happen a lot, or just sometimes? Maybe with certain people, like at school or home?"
She was gentle, trying to draw him out, mapping his psyche without making him feel cornered.
Trauma , she suspected, was very likely—his file mentioned a rough early life, losing his parent young.
But the "feeling others" part raised flags for something more, maybe psychosis or a dissociative issue, though she needed more to be sure.
"Sometimes," he said, looking at his hands now, picking at a scab.
"With people I know. I don't know why."
His voice was quiet, a kid's voice, but heavy.
He wanted to stop talking, to leave, but the fear of what was wrong with him kept him there.
Dr. Sato nodded, her face kind, not judging.
"It's okay if it's hard to explain. You're doing great just telling me this much.... Sometimes, when we go through tough stuff, our brains try to make sense of it in weird ways—like thoughts or feelings that don't feel like ours... It doesn't mean you're bad or ill. It just means your brain's working hard."
She smiled, soft, like she was talking to a kid who needed to feel safe. "Can you tell me if anything big happened before this started? Maybe something that felt scary or sad?"
"Nothing," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… can't sleep."
She didn't push, sensing his walls going up. "Okay, that's fine. We don't have to figure it all out today."
She set her pen down, leaning forward and lied. "I think you might be dealing with some stress or maybe some old hurts that are making it hard to rest... We'll work on ways to help you sleep, like relaxing before bed or writing down what's on your mind. And if it's okay with you, we can keep talking, Sound good?"
Issei nodded.
Dr. Sato stood, her voice still gentle.
"You did awesome today, Issei. It's really brave to talk about this....I'll check in with your grandpa, and we'll set up another time to chat, okay? For now, try to rest when you can, even if it's just closing your eyes for a bit."
He mumbled a "yeah" and shuffled out, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Grandpa was in the waiting room, his sharp eyes softening when he saw Issei's tired face.
"All done ?" he asked, standing with a grunt.
Issei nodded, not meeting his gaze too tired.
Dr. Sato glanced at Gran Torino, her expression tight but professional.
"May I talk to you for a minute?" she asked, her voice soft but firm.
She turned to Issei, crouching slightly to his level. "I'll talk to your grandpa for a minute, okay? Be a good boy and wait here, alright?"
Her tone was gentle, like she was coaxing a shy kid, but Issei didn't respond.
He just shuffled to a waiting chair, his frame slumping as he sat, his face blank, eyes fixed on the floor.
Dr. Sato stood, a touch of awkwardness crossing her face.
This kid's too damn stoic, she thought, unsettled by his silence.
Shaking it off, she gestured for Gran Torino to follow her back into the office.
The door clicked shut behind them, and she didn't waste time, her voice low but sharp with concern.
"Look, Mr. Sorahiko, I'll be straight with you," she said, folding her arms.
"Issei's got severe trauma. He's showing clear signs of paranoia—could turn into something extreme if it's not addressed...There's also a possibility of schizophrenia, based on what he described about thoughts and feelings that don't feel like his... His psyche is incredibly closed off, he's built walls I can't get through...He's vague, guarded, and that's not normal for a kid his age."
She paused, her eyes narrowing. "How the hell have you been raising him? You shouldn't even qualify as a guardian if you missed this. I refuse to believe there weren't signs before now."
Gran Torino leaned on his cane, his face unreadable, but his sharp eyes held a weight that made Sato pause.
He didn't flinch at her tone, just let out a slow breath.
"I ain't gonna argue with you, doc... Kid's been through more than enough —lost his father young, saw things no one should... I've been doin' my best, but I ain't perfect....i just tried to be his family.."
Sato's anger faltered, but her concern didn't.
She sat down, rubbing her temple. "I get that he's been through a lot. His file mentioned that, but this… it's deep, Mr. Sorahiko. The bloodwork came back clean he's physically healthy, no issues causing the insomnia."
"It's all in his head, and that's what worries me. This is my first child patient, and it hurts to see a kid this damaged, carrying so much fear and shutting everyone out."
Gran Torino's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "What's your advice, then?"
She sighed, picking up her notepad. "We start slow. Cognitive behavioral therapy to help with the paranoia and trauma...I'll teach him coping strategies for the insomnia—journaling, relaxation techniques. "
"If the schizophrenia symptoms get clearer, we'll consider medication, but I'm not jumping to that yet... He's young, and I don't want to overmedicate."
" The biggest hurdle is getting him to open up. He's so guarded, it's like talking to a wall." She looked at Gran Torino, softer now.
"You need to be involved. Watch for changes—mood swings, more withdrawal, anything odd. And create a safe space at home. He needs to feel like he can talk."
Gran Torino solemnly said."Kid's always been quiet. Serious...I never thought...?"
"Encourage him to connect," Sato said.
"Friends, hobbies, anything to pull him out of his head...He mentioned feeling things that aren't his—could be hyper-empathy from trauma, could be something else...We'll explore it in sessions, but he needs stability. "
"And you need to be honest with me about his history. If there's more I don't know, it'll make this harder."
Gran Torino nodded, his face serious. "I hear you. I'll do what I can.."
Sato stood, her heart heavy. "We'll schedule weekly sessions. I'll send you some resources for supporting him. Just… don't let him slip through the cracks, okay?"
Outside, Issei sat in the waiting room, his hands in his pockets, dark circles stark against his pale face.
He heard most of everything and sighed.... just great...
---
A year later
Issei stood alone in the empty training room behind the house, the morning air biting his skin.
At ten years old, he looked less worn, the dark circles under his eyes gone thanks to the medication Dr. Sato prescribed.
It had worked—mostly.
He could sleep now, the sleepless nights and jagged haze finally fading after months of therapy and pills.
But the bloated feeling, that restless energy buzzing in his chest, had only intensified.
It wasn't a disease, not schizophrenia or paranoia like they'd worried.
It was an ability at least he thought so , a third one, clear now.
He could hear people's fears, not just fuzzy static but sharp, vivid thoughts—Hope's panic about being shunned, a neighbor's dread of debt, a kid at school's fear of failing.
They hit him like stray signals, random and uncontrollable, flooding his high-end senses.
Today, he focused on testing a new support item, a gift he'd asked for on his tenth birthday.
It wasn't a toy or a game—he'd requested a custom-built gun from a hero agency contact, designed to work with his heat conversion quirk.
The sleek, metallic device felt heavy in his small hands, its grip slightly too big, but he managed.
The gun held three supercooled solid gas blocks: nitrogen, alpha fluorine, and carbon dioxide, each for a specific purpose.
Nitrogen was standard, its solid form turning into a superheated gas stream that could slice concrete or metal.
Burning Fluorine was a beast—its reactivity through the roof..
It could react with any material, even noble gases, creating a flame sword that didn't meed to melt but consumed everything, no matter the substance.
Carbon dioxide was for precision, cutting in flammable areas without igniting them.
The gun added two kilos to his load, but weight didn't bother him.
He was already planning to get a power armor, something to lift a ton, to match the strength he'd need one day.
He aimed at a stack of concrete blocks.
He selected nitrogen, pulling the trigger.
Superheated gas sprayed out, his quirk flipping it to a blazing stream that screeched through the block, splitting it clean.
Dust rose, the cut edges glowing. He exhaled, the bloated energy easing a fraction.
He switched to fluorine, aiming at a rusted steel plate.
The gun made a sound, releasing the supercooled gas.
His quirk turned it into a white-hot flame sword, the reaction so fierce it burned the air itself.
The steel parted like paper, edges sizzling.
The power thrilled him.
He tried carbon dioxide next, targeting a wooden plank in a patch of dry grass.
The gas sprayed, his quirk heating it into a precise, controlled stream that sliced the wood without sparking the grass. Clean, safe.
He fired again, nitrogen this time, cutting another block.
The screech of the stream drowned out the world briefly.
---
In Hope's home, the night was suffocating, the air thick with dread.
She huddled in bed, her body curled tight under thin blankets, her serpentine tail coiled around her legs.
Sleep was impossible—downstairs, her parents' voices clashed with strangers', sharp and venomous, words muffled but laced with rage.
Her father's shouts spiked, raw and panicked, each one twisting the knot in Hope's chest tighter.
Her wings pressed against her back, trembling.
She wasn't allowed out of her room—her mom's orders had been firm: Stay here. Don't move.
But the argument grew louder, uglier, and fear sank its claws into her, cold and relentless.
A sound cut through the chaos—a soft, pop , like a silenced gunshot, so quiet it was almost swallowed by the shouting.
Her father's voice stopped, severed mid-sentence.
The house fell deathly still, the kind of silence that felt alive, predatory.
Then, a faint clink—a bullet casing hitting the floor, sharp and final.
Hope's breath froze, her wide eyes staring into the dark, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Her quirk made her wings twitch, every instinct screaming danger, run, hide.
But she couldn't move, couldn't think, the silence heavier than the screams.
Her trembling hands reached for the phone on her nightstand, fingers fumbling, nearly knocking it over.
She didn't think, just dialed Issei's number, the only one she knew by heart.
He was safety, the one person who made the world feel less terrifying.
Next to her home, he was her shield.
The line clicked after one ring. "Hope?" Issei's voice, low and tense, sliced through the quiet, his ten-year-old tone edged with something alert, like he'd been waiting for trouble.
His senses must've caught the panic in the call, the way her breath shook.
Hope's lips parted, but no sound came.
Her hands shook so hard the phone slipped in her grip, her pulse a deafening thud in her ears.
She wanted to speak, to tell him everything—the gunshot, the silence, the fear choking her—but her voice was gone, stolen by terror. Then, a slow, deliberate creak came from the hallway, followed by the soft, uneven thud of footsteps.
Her mom's footsteps, she thought, but they were wrong—too slow, too heavy, like someone trying not to be heard.
The door creaked open, a sliver of hallway light cutting into the room.
Hope flinched, clutching the phone like a lifeline, her eyes locking on the figure in the doorway.
It was her mom, standing there, her silhouette too still.
She looked… fine, her face calm, her clothes neat, but a single dot of blood stained her leggings, bright red against the dark fabric, impossible to miss.
Hope's stomach lurched, her senses screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Mom…" Hope's voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible, her tail curling tighter.
"I'm scared."
Her mom stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under her weight, each thud of her footsteps like a hammer on Hope's nerves.
"Scared of what, sweetie?" Her voice was soft, too soft, almost hollow, like it didn't belong to her.
Hope trembled in fear.
The phone stayed pressed to her ear, Issei's voice cutting through, sharper, urgent.
"Hope, what's happening? Say something—now."
Her mom's eyes flicked to the phone, her head tilting slightly, her expression blank but with a faint edge, like a mask slipping.
"Who's that, Hope?" she asked, her voice still soft but carrying a weight that made Hope's skin crawl.
Another step, another creak, closer now.
Hope swallowed, her throat dry, her voice a shaky whisper. "It's… Issei."
She couldn't move, couldn't think past the fear, the blood, the gunshot's echo.
---
Issei's heart pounded as he sprinted through the streets, the phone pressed to his ear, his legs moving faster than they ever had.
He'd taken off the moment he heard Hope's voice—shaky, terrified, cutting through the quiet of his house.
Her fear hit him like a punch, not just through the phone but through his new quirk, the one he couldn't control.
It was her, : I'm scared, something's wrong, help.
Gran Torino wasn't home—out on emergency hero work, bad timing that left Issei alone to act.
"Hope, what's happening? Say something—now," he said into the phone, his voice sharp, urgent, his high-end senses straining for any clue.
No response, just her uneven breathing, then a creak, her whispered "It's… Issei," and silence.
The call cut off a few seconds later, the line dead.
His mind spiraled, panic clawing at him.
No, no, no, no.
Were his fears coming to life?
The ones that haunted him?
His eyes widened, chest tight, as he ran, the world blurring around him.
He didn't notice how fast he was moving, his body channeling the excesw energy that always buzzed inside him.
Fear—fueled him, unlocking something new, an ability forming without his control.
His legs burned, pushing him to inhuman speeds.
A pizza delivery guy on a scooter, going 30 kmph, swerved as Issei shot past, outrunning him by a wide margin.
"Hey, watch it!" the guy shouted, startled, as Issei veered onto the road to avoid pedestrians.
The pavement was crowded, too risky—he stuck to the street, his sneakers slapping asphalt, dodging cars, his senses hyper-focused on getting to Hope's house.
He reached her street in minutes, faster than should've been possible, his breath ragged but relentless.
The house loomed ahead, dark, its main door shut tight, locked.
No, this can't be happening, he thought, panic surging.
He scanned left and right—no lights, no movement, no signs of life.
His senses screamed, picking up nothing but the faint hum of the city.
He grabbed the lock, and pulled surprisingly breaking it.
With a desperate kick, he broke the door open, wood splintering, and stumbled inside.
The house was too quiet, the air heavy with the scent of blood and gunpowder.
Issei's stomach dropped, his senses confirming what he'd feared—a gunshot, recent, the smell fresh.
The call had cut off only minutes ago—they had to be close.
He moved fast, checking the living room, the kitchen, finding nothing—no bodies, no struggle, just that damning smell.
His heart hammered, his mind racing. How? Where is she?
He bolted to Hope's room, the door ajar. Everything was untouched—her bed messy, blankets tossed, the phone off the hook on her nightstand.
Her scent lingered, floral and faint, but no Hope.
How did this happen? His hands shook, fear mixing with hers, still echoing in his head: Save me.
He couldn't sense her thoughts now, the quirk too erratic, but he refused to give up.
He ran to the rooftop, instinct pulling him there, his senses pushed to their limit.
Standing on the edge, he inhaled deeply, praying to any god, his nose straining for her scent.
The city sprawled below, dark and vast, but he focused, blocking out the exhaust, the damp concrete, the distant food stalls.
Then—there, faint but unmistakable, the floral trace of Hope, drifting from the north.
Issei's eyes locked on the direction, his body trembling with fear and resolve.
He didn't know what he'd find, didn't know if he was fast enough, strong enough.
But he'd follow that scent, tear through anything to get to her.
Pocketing the phone, he took off, leaping from the roof to a lower ledge, his speed carrying him, chasing the only clue he had.
---
In the back of a speeding car, Hope sat trembling, her ten-year-old body hunched against the cold leather seat, her wide eyes glued to the horror across from her.
Her father lay crumpled at her feet, dead, a bullet hole in his forehead, blood pooling thick and dark, seeping into the car's floor.
His face was locked in a grimace, eyes blank, staring into nothing, the sight clawing at Hope's heart.
Her serpentine tail coiled painfully tight around her legs, her wings quivering against her back, her hair writhing wildly, like it sensed the danger she couldn't escape.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle, her chest so tight it felt like it might crack.
Her mother sat in front of her, legs crossed, one foot resting carelessly on her father's body, as if he were nothing—a stain, not her husband.
She was a stranger, her face cold, her eyes empty, nothing like the mom who'd once kissed her forehead or laughed at her silly dances.
This woman was a machine with the HSPC uniform.
She rummaged in her purse, pulling out a black lipstick, applying it with slow, deliberate strokes, her reflection in a small mirror showing no trace of guilt.
Hope's voice broke, a choked whisper, barely audible over the car's rumble.
"Why…?" Her eyes burned, tears spilling as she stared at her father's body, then at her mother, pleading for the mom she knew to come back.
Her hands shook, clutching her knees, nails digging into her skin.
Her mother paused, lipstick hovering, and looked at Hope, her eyes like shards of ice, cutting through her.
"Why?" she repeated, her voice low, devoid of warmth, almost mocking. "He was a tool, Hope. His quirk matched mine—strong, perfect for breeding a better soldier. You."
She snapped the lipstick shut, her foot nudging her father's body without a flinch. "The HSPC wanted a replacement for me, someone stronger. Nagant was an idiot, got herself locked up. I'm smarter. You're my way out, my retirement ticket. Always have been."
Hope's heart stopped, her breath hitching. "Me…?"
The word was a sob, raw and broken, as the truth sank in like a blade.
Her father—murdered, discarded—was just a pawn? And she was… a weapon?
A deal?
Her wings trembled violently, fear and betrayal crashing over her like a wave.
The woman across from her wasn't her mom—she was a killer, and Hope was her creation, her bargaining chip for freedom.
The blood, the gunshot, her mother's calm—it was all calculated, all for this.
Her mother leaned forward, her gaze clinical. "Stop crying," she said, her tone sharp, cutting.
"Your old life? It was a lie, a setup. Forget it. The HSPC will train you, make you what I couldn't be."
She leaned back, crossing her arms, her foot still on her father's corpse, unmoved, as the car sped through the dark city, streetlights casting ghastly shadows across his bloodied face.
Hope's tears fell silently, her body shaking so hard the seat creaked.
The smell of blood mingling with her mother's cold perfume.
She wanted to scream, to claw her way out, but the car was a cage, her mother a predator she couldn't escape.
Her mind clung to Issei—his voice on the phone, sharp, urgent, the only safe thing left.
She'd called him, but the line had cut when her mom walked in.
Was he coming?....Would he save her?
The car lurched, her father's body shifting, blood smearing further across the floor.
---
Issei tore through the dark streets, his legs pumping with a speed that defied reason, his breath ragged but relentless.
For over fifteen minutes, he'd been chasing Hope's scent, that faint floral trace growing sharper, closer, pulling him like a lifeline.
His senses zeroed in on a small car far down the road, its taillights barely visible as it raced toward the highway.
A desperate, fleeting smile crossed his face, raw and determined—I'm coming, Hope.
Just then, a brutal, tearing pain exploded in his chest, like his heart was being crushed in a vice.
His legs gave out, and he crashed onto the asphalt, his body skidding violently across the rough surface at nearly 100 kmph.
The road ripped into him, gravel and debris shredding his hands, elbows, and knees, tearing through his clothes and skin.
His face slammed against the ground, scraping raw, blood streaming from gashes on his cheek and forehead.
The impact snapped his left wrist, the bone cracking audibly, sending a jolt of agony through him.
His phone skittered away, screen cracked, lost in the dark.
He tried to scream—"NO!"—but it came out as a choked, gasp.
Issei's heart wasn't beating.
He'd pushed too far, running at speeds beyond any unenhanced human, his body breaking under the strain of the fear-fueled quirk that had surged without warning.
His small frame, no matter how fierce simply couldn't withstand it.
Pain consumed him—his shredded skin burned, his broken wrist throbbed, his chest felt like it was caving in.
His lungs seized, unable to draw air, each attempt a shallow, useless wheeze.
Yet Hope's plea Save me, Issei echoed in his head, a desperate cry that refused to let him stop.
He clawed at the asphalt with his good hand, nails splintering, blood smearing as he dragged his broken body forward.
His scraped face left a trail of red, his vision blurring, darkening at the edges, but he forced his eyes to stay on the car's taillights, so far away, shrinking fast.
Not yet, not yet he thought, panic and despair twisting together.
He had to reach her, had to save her , from whatever she was scared of..
His body screamed in protest, every movement agony.
His broken wrist dangled uselessly, his knees bled through tattered pants, his face stung as dirt ground into open wounds.
The cardiac arrest gripped him, his heart silent, his chest a hollow void.
He coughed, blood flecking his lips, his strength fading with every inch he crawled.
Hope… I'm coming…Her fear, that single cry, was all he had left, drowning out his own terror of dying here, alone, failing her.
He reached out, his bloodied hand trembling, fingers scraping the road, stretching toward the car's distant lights.
They flickered, then vanished around a bend, taking her away.
"No…" he rasped, the word barely a breath, lost in the night.
His vision collapsed to a pinprick, the world fading to black.
His arm fell, limp, his torn face pressed against the cold asphalt, blood pooling beneath him.
He couldn't move, couldn't fight the darkness swallowing him.
---
Issei's eyes snapped open, the white of a hospital ceiling glaring down at him.
Pain throbbed through his body—his face, hands, and knees stung from scrapes, his left wrist ached in a heavy cast, and his chest felt like it had been crushed.
I'm...alive?
was his first thought, shock coursing through him.
He'd collapsed on the asphalt, heart stopped, body torn from skidding at inhuman speeds.
He shouldn't be here, breathing, awake.
His second thought hit harder—he had to get to Hope.
He tried to sit up, but a sharp tug stopped him.
His wrists and legs were cuffed to the bed's metal rails.
Panic flared, his senses picking up the antiseptic smell, the beep of a heart monitor, the faint creak of a chair nearby.
He turned his head, wincing as pain shot through his scraped cheek, and saw Gran Torino sitting beside the bed.
The old man's face was grim, his eyes heavy with worry, his cane resting against the chair.
"Grandpa," Issei rasped, his voice hoarse, throat raw. "We need to go. Hope—she's in danger. I heard her, she called me, scared. I have to find her."
His words tumbled out, urgent, his good hand straining against the cuff.
Gran Torino didn't move, just looked at him, his expression unreadable but soft, like he was handling something fragile.
"Hope's fine, kid," he said, voice low, gruff but gentle. "Her family's moving to Tokyo....She's safe."
Issei's breath caught, his mind reeling. "That's not possible," he said, voice rising.
"I got her call. She was terrified, didn't even get to say much—just my name, then it cut off. Something was wrong, I felt it."
The blood, the gunpowder in her house, the broken door—it was real.
Gran Torino sighed, pulling out his phone. "She told you about the move, Issei. In the call."
He turned the screen toward him, showing a photo: Hope and her mother, standing in a Tokyo street, bags in hand, looking… fine.
Hope's face was blank, her mother's calm, no trace of fear. "You broke into their house, ran yourself to exhaustion on the road. Nearly didn't make it."
Issei stared at the photo, his heart sinking, confusion twisting with dread.
"What are you talking about?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Hope was scared. She didn't say anything about moving. She was in trouble—I heard her, I know it."
His senses replayed the call.
It couldn't be a lie.
Gran Torino leaned forward, his voice softer now, almost pitying. "You haven't been taking your meds, have you? "
Issei froze, his scraped face burning, his cuffed hands clenching. "I…" He didn't answer, couldn't.
"That's not it," he muttered, staring at the photo, then at his bandaged body. "That's… that's not what happened."
"I don't believe this," he said, louder, desperation creeping in.
"I need to talk to her. To confirm it myself."
His voice shook, his chest tight with fear—not just for Hope, but for himself.
What if they were right?
What if he was losing it?
"Issei," Gran Torino began, his tone firm, like he was trying to pull him back from an edge. "You have to calm down. The doctors, they're worried—"
"I'M NOT CRAZY!" Issei shouted, his voice , cutting through the room.
His eyes burned, a brief, unnatural blue flare sparking in them, gone in a second, but enough to make Gran Torino lean back, startled.
Issei's breath heaved, his cuffed hands straining, the metal creaking. "She was scared, Grandpa. I heard her. I felt her. Something's wrong, and you're not listening to me!"
Gran Torino's face hardened, but his eyes stayed soft, heavy with concern. He set the phone down, his hand resting on his cane. "I hear you, kid," he said quietly. "But you're hurt, and you're not thinking straight. You need to rest. Trust me."
Issei's vision blurred, tears of frustration and fear welling up.
His body ached, his heart monitor beeping faster, his mind screaming that Hope wasn't safe, that the photo was a lie, that he wasn't crazy.
"I need to know she's okay…"
---
Six months Later
In the underground of an HSPC training facility, Hope stood trembling on a blood-slicked concrete floor, her body a ruin under the merciless fluorescent lights.
The air was rancid, thick with the stench of sweat, blood, vomit, and the acrid burn of chemical disinfectants.
Her serpentine quirkmade her naturally stronger than most—dense muscles, reflexes like a predator, and limited blood control.
But the HSPC didn't see a child, not even a person.
She was a slab of meat to be carved into a weapon, a better replacement for Hawks—silent, soulless, stripped of the limited but still present defiance that made him human.
They wanted a tool, and they'd shatter her psyche to get it, grinding her into something that believed it deserved every ounce of agony.
The training was a descent into hell, a sadistic regime crafted to obliterate her will and rewire her mind.
Disobedience was pain, a lesson branded into her through unending violence, psychological torment, and a flood of drugs that left her body and soul in tatters.
Her instructor, Kade, a hulking figure with a shaved head and eyes like frostbitten stone, loomed across the arena, his scythe spinning lazily in his hand.
He didn't see a kid, only a project to break.
Hope's small, battered hands clutched her own scythe, its blade crusted with her dried blood, the handle slick with sweat and fresh cuts.
"Strike," Kade barked, his voice a cold rasp, devoid of empathy.
The target, a steel dummy, was gouged and smeared with her blood a result of her unable to fulfill demands.., its surface pitted from her faltering blows.
"Deeper, or I'll make you wish you were dead."
Hope's body was a furnace of pain—every muscle screamed, her joints ground like broken glass, her bones ached with a deep, gnawing throb that never stopped.
The HSPC pumped her full of drugs: steroids to bulk her muscles, quirk-enhancers to sharpen her abilities, mood suppressors to dull her emotions, and experimental neuro-blockers to make her pliant.
The injections came thrice daily, needles jabbed into her arms, thighs, and neck, leaving her skin a patchwork of bruises and track marks.
Her vision flickered, edges tinged with black, her mind a sluggish fog, thoughts slipping like sand through her fingers.
She swung the scythe, her quirk-fueled strength driving the blade into the dummy, metal shrieking as it tore a shallow gash.
Her blood control sealed the fresh cuts on her palms, but the effort made her stagger, her knees buckling.
"Worthless," Kade snarled, closing the gap in a heartbeat.
His fist crashed into her face, snapping her head back.
She crumpled to the concrete, her scythe clattering away, her vision swimming with stars.
Before she could draw a breath, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her like a ragdoll, and slammed her against the wall.
"You're nothing," he said, his voice a low growl, his grip tightening until she choked. "A tool that's failing. Fix it, or I'll carve you apart."
Hope wheezed, her body limp, her mind splintering under the assault.
The drugs dulled her emotions, but not enough to block the self-loathing that festered, fed by every blow, every failure.
I deserve this, she thought, the idea sinking deeper, warping her psyche.
She was weak, useless, a burden who'd let her father die, who'd been too pathetic to fight back when her mother sold her.
The HSPC hammered it home—disobedience was pain, pain was her fault, and only by becoming their weapon could she have any value.
Her personality was eroding.
Kade dropped her, and she collapsed.
The shock collar around her neck hummed, and before she could brace, it activated.
Electricity ripped through her, a white-hot inferno that arched her spine, her scream raw and guttural, echoing off the walls.
Her muscles seized, her wings straining.
The shock lasted ten seconds, an eternity, leaving her twitching on the floor, urine soaking her torn training gear from lost control, the humiliation burning as much as the pain.
Her blood control failed, cuts reopening, red pooling beneath her.
"Up," Kade said, kicking her in the stomach, the impact folding her in half, a sharp crack signaling another broken rib.
"You don't stop. You don't feel. You obey."
He grabbed her scythe and threw it at her, the blade slicing her thigh as it landed, a deep gash that gushed blood.
"Pick it up, or it's the cell for three days."
Hope's mind was a shattered mosaic, pieces of who she'd been—her father's smile, the park's warmth—slipping away, drowned by the drugs and pain.
Issei ...
She didn't remember calling Issei clearly anymore, the memory blurred, like a dream she couldn't trust.
Was he real? Did he care?
The thought was a faint pulse, smothered by Kade's voice, the needles, the blood.
She was nothing, she told herself, a broken thing that deserved every hit, every shock, every scar.
The HSPC was right—she was a tool, and tools didn't think, didn't cry, didn't hope.
She crawled to the scythe, her thigh bleeding freely, her blood control too weak to stop it.
Her hands, swollen and blistered, closed around the handle, and she dragged herself up, swaying, her vision half-gone.
Kade watched, his face blank, uncaring, as she raised the scythe, her body shaking, her mind chanting:
I'm nothing. I deserve this. I'm nothing.
She swung, the blade biting deeper this time, cleaving the dummy's chest open.
Her legs gave out, and she fell, the scythe slipping.
Kade nodded, barely. "Better.... but You're still weak," he spat, kicking her scythe aside, the metal clanging against the concrete.
"Stay here. Reflect on your weakness." He turned, his boots thudding as he walked toward the reinforced steel door.
It hissed open, and he stepped out without a backward glance, leaving Hope curled on the floor, gasping.
The door hadn't fully closed when it opened again, and three masked HSPC operatives swept in, their faces hidden behind featureless black visors, their movements clinical, mechanical.
They didn't speak, didn't acknowledge her whimpers as they knelt beside her.
Hope flinched, her bruised body tensing, one pulled out a syringe filled with a red liquid—another dose of growth enhancers, stacked on top of the steroids, quirk-amplifiers, and mood suppressors already poisoning her system.
Her arm was a roadmap of bruises and track marks, but they didn't hesitate, jabbing the needle into a vein, the liquid burning as it spread.
Hope gasped, her muscles spasming, —tremors shook her hands, a migraine split her skull like an axe.
Another operative injected a second syringe into her thigh, the pain so intense she bit her tongue.
Only then did they bother with first aid, roughly bandaging her gash, wiping blood from her face with antiseptic that stung like fire, their hands efficient but devoid of care.
---
Outside, Kade paused in the sterile hallway, the door sealing behind him with a hiss.
A masked woman in an HSPC uniform stood waiting, her posture rigid, her voice low but sharp. "We need to talk."
Kade's eyes narrowed, his scythe still in hand. "What is it?"
"It's that kid," she said, her tone clipped. "Issei...The one who chased us when we retrieved her."
Kade's jaw tightened. "What about him?"
"He's been pestering, demanding to talk to Hope in person or on a video call, to confirm the lies we've spun. We've done everything—labeled him mentally ill, tied him down with hospital stays, medication—but he's not letting it go. His doctor insists a talk with Hope could resolve his… issues."
Kade snorted, unimpressed. "The HSPC didn't put him under our doctors?"
"He had a prior history," the woman said, her voice edged with frustration. "We couldn't just take him. And his caretaker, Torino, has connections—too many to bury the kid in a psych ward forever."
Kade's grip on his scythe tightened. "Why tell me this?"
"Training's paused for a week," she said, ignoring his tone. "We need her presentable for the call. She'll say our script, confirm the story about her family moving to Tokyo. Make it convincing."
"Why not just use AI?" Kade asked, his voice low, skeptical.
The woman's eyes narrowed behind her visor. "Issei knows her too well—her personality, her mannerisms. AI might not fool him. It's easier to make her say the lines."
Kade grunted, his face sour. "Hmph. Waste of time."
He didn't approve, but he was powerless—his role was to break, not to decide.
The HSPC's orders were absolute, and he was just a cog in their machine.
---
Hope curled up in the corner of her bed.
The cell's steel door hissed open, the sound jarring her from her haze.
Hope flinched, her bruised body tensing, her wide eyes darting to the figure stepping inside.
It was her mother, but not the woman she'd once known.
Dressed in a black gothic gown, its lace and velvet stark against the cell's grimness, her hair was styled in an elaborate updo, starkly different from the practical bun Hope remembered.
Her face was a mask of cold fury, her lips pursed, her eyes burning with disgust.
Hope shrank back, pressing herself against the wall, her tail twitching.
Fear choked her—Why is she here?
Her mother was supposed to be gone, done with her.
The sight of her reignited the terror she felt that day, deeper than Kade's fists or the shock collar's bite.
Her mother strode forward, her heels clicking on the concrete, each step a hammer on Hope's nerves.
Without warning, she swung her hand, slapping Hope across the face with a crack that echoed in the cell.
The force snapped Hope's head to the side, her already split lip reopening, blood trickling down her chin.
Pain flared, but Hope didn't cry out—she'd learned that made things worse.
She curled tighter, her trembling hands clutching her knees, her heart racing from the drugs and fear.
"Because of you..!," her mother hissed, her voice venomous, dripping with contempt, "I had to come back to this wretched place. Do you have any idea how much I sacrificed?"
She loomed over Hope, her gothic dress a dark shroud, her eyes boring into her daughter like she was filth. "I gave them you—my ticket out, my freedom—and you're still causing trouble....Pathetic, useless child."
Hope's breath hitched, her voice a broken whisper. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
The words spilled out, automatic, desperate, her mind too battered to fight back.
Her self-esteem was gone, pulverized by the conditioning.
Her mother's words sank into the cracks of her psyche, reinforcing the beliefs.
I'm sorry I'm not good enough..I'm sorry I'm me.
Her mother didn't stop, her voice rising, sharp and cutting. "I clawed my way out of this hell, played the game perfectly, unlike that fool Nagant. I gave them you and you can't even do one good thing.
....They're pausing your training because of that boy, that idiot who won't let you go."
"You're dragging me back into this mess!"
She slapped Hope again, harder, the impact splitting her cheek, blood welling instantly.
Hope whimpered, curling smaller.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Hope muttered, her voice barely audible, a mantra of surrender.
She didn't know what her mother meant—that boy? Issei?—but it didn't matter.
She was the problem, always the problem.
Her mother crouched, grabbing Hope's chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. Her nails dug into Hope's skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. "You will do what they tell you," she said, her voice low, venomous.
"You'll say their lines, play their game, or I'll make sure you suffer worse than Kade ever could. Do you understand, you worthless thing?"
She shoved Hope's face away, standing, her dress rustling as she turned to leave.
"I'm sorry…" Hope whispered, her voice cracking, tears trailing down.
She didn't move, didn't dare, as her mother's heels clicked toward the door.
The steel hissed open, then slammed shut, leaving Hope alone again.
---
In the quiet of his small house, Issei sat on the worn couch, a slight stiffness in his left wrist from the break.
The room was warm, the afternoon sun filtering through faded curtains, a stark contrast to the cold, hell Hope endured in her HSPC cell.
Gran Torino was out, handling errands, leaving the house to one of his acquaintance to watch over him though... that pwrticular person was now fast asleep.
Issei's senses caught the distant chirp of birds, the creak of the neighbor's gate.
The doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected, jolting him.
He stood, his movements cautious, and opened the door to find Dr. Sato.
She'd moved closer to his neighborhood months back, a choice driven by guilt over her initial diagnosis.
Her face was softer now, her eyes carrying a quiet regret , because she cared about the boy she belived she'd failed.
"Issei," she said, her voice gentle but professional, "can I come in? I have news."
He nodded, stepping aside, his stomach tightening.
Dr. Sato sat across from him on the couch, her posture open, her expression careful. "I spoke with Hope's family," she began, watching his reaction. "They've agreed to let her visit you in a week. She's been in Tokyo, but they're arranging for her to come here, to see you."
Issei's breath caught, hope and disbelief crashing together. "Hope… she's coming?"
His voice was quiet, but his eyes lit up.
"She's really coming...?"
The memory of her terrified voice—Save me, Issei—still burned in his mind, clashing with Gran Torino's photo of her in Tokyo, calm and fine.
He'd clung to the belief she was in danger, but the HSPC's lies, the hospital's insistence, had planted a seed of doubt he couldn't shake.
Dr. Sato nodded, her smile small but warm. "Yes, she's okay. She's been with her family, adjusting to their move. I know it's been hard, not hearing from her, but this visit should help."
She paused, her eyes searching his. "I think it'll be good for you, Issei. To see her, to talk."
Issei's hands clenched in his lap.
He wanted to believe it, wanted to feel the relief washing over him, but that small, gnawing doubt lingered.
What if it really was all in my head?
He'd never admitted it, not to Grandpa , not to Dr. Sato, but the fear was there, buried deep.
The hospital, the meds, the photo—they'd chipped away at his certainty.
What if he'd imagined her fear, the blood, the gunpowder?
What if his quirk, picking up her terror, was just a delusion, like they'd said?
"I… I see," he said, his voice low, almost pleading.
"it'll be a peace of mind to know she's really okay."
His eyes moved to Dr. Sato, searching for reassurance.
He refused to believe he was crazy, but the doubt was a splinter, festering, making him question his own mind.
Dr. Sato leaned forward, her voice soft, laced with the guilt she'd carried since misdiagnosing him. "You will, Issei. In a week, she'll be here. I'm sorry for how things went before—I should've listened closer, taken more time with you. But now. She's coming."
She hesitated, then added, "You've been through a lot. It's okay to feel unsure. Just… hold on."
Issei nodded, his throat tight, his mind a storm of hope and fear.
The contrast to Hope's reality—her bloodied, drugged body, her psyche crumbling under her mother's cruelty and Kade's fists—was stark.
While Hope was beaten into believing she was nothing, Issei sat in the warmth of his home, clinging to the hope of seeing her, yet haunted by the fear that he might be wrong, that his sanity was slipping.
He looked at his hands, and muttered, "A week…"
The wait felt like forever, but he'd hold on.
---
One week later, Issei stood in the park where he and Hope used to hang out, the same one where they'd laughed and talked before everything fell apart.
Dusk settled over the area, the sky a bruised purple, the air cool and heavy with the scent of grass and distant rain.
His body was tense.
Dr. Sato stood a few steps away, her expression calm but watchful, her notepad absent for once.
Gran Torino leaned on his cane beside her, his gruff face softened by concern, his sharp eyes scanning the boy he'd raised.
They were here for the meeting, the one Issei had clung to with desperate hope, but also dreaded, haunted by the doubt that gnawed at him: What if I'm crazy?
He'd waited, heart pounding, his high-end senses picking up every detail—the rustle of leaves, the hum of a car engine approaching, the faint creak of Grandpa's cane.
A car pulled up at the park's edge, its headlights cutting through the twilight. Issei's breath caught as the door opened, and Hope stepped out. She looked… like herself, her serpentine tail swaying, her wings tucked neatly, her hair bright and clean.
She ran toward him, her movements familiar, her face breaking into a smile that felt like a memory.
"Issei!" she called, her voice light, laughing, just like before. "I'm so sorry for leaving you! Tokyo's been crazy, but I missed you so much!"
She talked fast, her words tumbling over each other, telling him about her new school, her mom's job, how she'd wanted to call but couldn't.
But to Issei, it was all wrong.
Her voice became a buzzing drone, a wall of sound that didn't reach him.
His mind spun, his chest tightening, his vision narrowing as a panic attack clawed its way up.
Nothing happened that day.
The thought hit like a sledgehammer, his knees weakening.
I-I'm crazy. It was all in my head.
The blood smell, her fear—they weren't real.
The HSPC's lies, the hospital's insistence, the photo—they were right.
His quirk, her terror, his collapse on the road—it was all a delusion, a sick trick of his mind.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his hands trembling, the world tilting as he fought to stay upright.
Then Hope reached him, throwing her arms around him in a hug, her warmth pressing against his chest.
For a moment, he froze, caught in the spiral of his panic.
But something snapped his senses awake—her smell was off.
Not the familiar trace he'd tracked that night, but something sterile,.. chemicals in her blood...?.
His jumbled thoughts cleared, his high-end senses sharpening, cutting through the fog.
The hug wasn't right either—her arms were stiff, her grip mechanical, not the loose, easy way she used to hold him.
His panic receded, replaced by a cold, creeping certainty.
"Issei, why aren't you saying anything?" Hope asked, pulling back, her voice bright but her eyes… wrong.
They were dull, rehearsed, not the lively spark he remembered.
She tilted her head, waiting, but it felt scripted, like she was reading lines.
The next instant, Issei acted on instinct.
His hands shot up, cupping her cheeks gently but firmly, his fingers trembling against her skin.
He stared into her eyes, his own narrowing, searching for the truth.
Her pupils didn't dilate like they should, her gaze didn't hold the warmth he knew.
The doubt that had tormented him melted away, replaced by a certainty.
This wasn't Hope—not the real one.
Dr. Sato and Gran Torino watched, their faces tense, but Issei didn't care.
His voice was low, steady, a quiet fire in it.
"Where's the real Hope?" he asked, his eyes locked on hers, daring her to lie.
The girl's face faltered, her rehearsed smile twitching. "What are you talking about…?" she said, her voice light but strained, the script cracking under his gaze.
Issei's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening slightly on her cheeks, not enough to hurt but enough to hold her there.
"Let me rephrase," he said, his voice low, steady, a quiet fire beneath it. "Hope, do you need my help?"
Her brows furrowed, the act slipping further. "Again, what are you talking about?" she said, pulling back, but Issei didn't let go, his hands firm, his stare unrelenting.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind them.
Hope's mother stepped closer,, her face a mask of concern.
"Issei, that's enough," she said.
Dr. Sato, standing nearby, opened her mouth to intervene, her expression worried. "Issei, maybe we should—"
"Shut up, woman," Issei snapped, his voice cutting through the air, sharp and unyielding.
Dr. Sato flinched, falling silent, her hands clenching.
Issei's eyes never left the girl's, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Your eyes, your scent—they're all wrong. They might fool someone else, but I have superior senses. You can't fool me."
His thumbs brushed her cheeks, his grip steady, his heart pounding but his resolve ironclad. "Tell me why you're lying to my face."
The girl's facade crumbled, her eyes darting to Hope's mother, a flicker of panic breaking through.
Issei didn't budge, his hands still holding the girl, his senses screaming—her pulse spiked, her scent shifted, a faint pulse of fear but not for him but from her mother...
The park was shrouded in silence for some time..
Issei stood rigid, his hands still cupping the cheeks of the girl who looked like Hope, his eleven-year-old frame trembling with a mix of fury and certainty.
The girl's will crumbled under Issei's unrelenting stare, her fake smile collapsing, her breath hitching.
Then, she snapped.
She lunged forward, her arms wrapping around him in a desperate, clinging hug, her body shaking.
This time, it was different—her grip was tight, raw, her face buried in his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. "Issei," she sobbed, her voice cracking, no longer rehearsed but genuine, laced with terror and relief.
"Help me… please, Save me…" Her sniffles were muffled, her wings trembling.
It was her—Hope, the real Hope—her scent shifting back to that faint floral warmth, her heartbeat erratic, her fear pouring through his quirk in waves.
The HSPC's conditioning, the drugs, the script—they'd broken for a moment, her true self clawing through.
Hope's mother moved, her heels clicking sharply as she reached to pull Hope away, her voice a venomous hiss.
"Enough of this nonsense—" But Issei's eyes snapped to her, now glowing a cold, unnatural blue his eyebrows gaining multitudes of shades.., blazing with a power that hadn't been there before.
The air around his hands turned frigid, frost crackling faintly.
His quirk twisting the stored energy in his chest into something new, something terrifying.
They had tried to control him, gaslighting him, planting a deep-rooted fear of losing his mind, labeling him crazy.
That fear had crystallized into an ability, one born from his dread of not being in control.
Hope's mother froze mid-step, her body stiffening, her eyes widening as Issei's stare locked onto her.
His quirk surged, a silent command wrapping around her mind, holding her in place.
She gasped, her hand clutching her purse, unable to move, her face contorting with shock and rage.
The air grew heavy, the park's warmth leeching away, a faint mist curling around Issei's hands as his frost spread.
Dr. Sato took a step back, her breath visible in the sudden chill.
Issei's voice was low, a deadly whisper, each word laced with ice. "Don't worry, Hope.I'm here....I'll save you."
He held Hope tighter, her sobs shaking them both, her tears warm against his chest.
His blue eyes didn't waver from her mother, his new ability pinning her like a specimen, her attempts to resist futile.
=======================
10,000 words.
Lets get this to top 3...
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