The apartment was quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet.
The kind that pressed against the walls and made every creak of the old building sound louder than it really was.
Eva Livinrock stood in the small kitchen, staring at the sink as cold water ran over her hands. She hadn't noticed she'd been standing there for several minutes. Outside, rain tapped softly against the window, washing the city in dull shades of gray.
Another day was over.
Another day she had survived.
She reached into her handbag and removed a neatly folded stack of reports before setting them on the counter. On top sat a business card bearing the crest of one of the country's most celebrated Knights.
She looked at it for only a second before turning it face down.
"..."
A faint giggle echoed from the living room.
Eva closed her eyes.
Shirou.
Seven years old.
Small enough that her feet barely touched the floor when she sat on the couch, white hair catching the evening light as she quietly entertained herself with wooden blocks she'd found in a donation box weeks ago.
The little girl stacked them carefully, tongue poking out in concentration.
When the tower collapsed, she laughed to herself.
For just a moment...
Eva saw only a child.
Not a reminder.
Not a mistake.
Just her daughter.
Then the memory returned.
Hands she couldn't push away.
A locked office.
Promises that sounded more like threats.
The smile of a man everyone else admired.
Her chest tightened until breathing became difficult.
She turned away.
"Shirou."
The little girl looked up immediately.
"Dinner."
Shirou nodded with a bright smile and hurried over, careful not to make a mess. She had learned that lesson early.
Eva placed a simple meal on the table.
Neither of them spoke much.
Shirou wasn't afraid of silence yet.
She simply thought adults liked quiet.
Every few moments she glanced toward her mother, searching for approval over the smallest things.
Did she hold the spoon correctly?
Was she eating too slowly?
Too quickly?
Eva noticed every glance.
She answered none of them.
When dinner ended, Shirou carefully carried her bowl to the sink.
"I can do it."
Eva's voice came out sharper than intended.
The child flinched.
"...Sorry."
Barely above a whisper.
Eva hated herself for that.
But instead of apologizing, she simply washed the dishes.
Silence filled the room again.
Later that evening, Shirou sat on the floor with a small picture book she'd borrowed from the neighborhood library. She traced the drawings with her finger, smiling whenever she recognized a word.
Eva watched from the hallway.
The child really did look nothing like him.
Except...
Sometimes...
When the light caught her face a certain way...
Or when strands of white hair fell across her eyes...
Memories forced themselves back into Eva's mind before she could stop them.
She gripped the doorframe until her knuckles turned white.
"I didn't ask for this..."
The words escaped before she realized she'd spoken them.
Shirou looked up.
"...Mama?"
Eva immediately looked away.
"...Go to bed."
The little girl hesitated.
"...Okay."
She gathered her book, padded quietly to the bedroom, and gently closed the door behind her.
No complaints.
No questions.
Just obedience.
Eva remained standing in the hallway long after the apartment had fallen silent.
She wanted to believe tomorrow would be different.
That she'd wake up and finally see only her daughter.
Instead of seeing the ghost of the life that had been stolen from her.
Sleep never came easily anymore.
Every time Eva closed her eyes, the office returned.
Not as it was.
As it had become.
A prison hidden behind polished floors and expensive furniture.
Kira Kirishima.
To the public, he was everything people admired.
A Knight whose gravity augment had saved lives during disasters.
A businessman whose name appeared in newspapers beside charity events and smiling photographs.
Employees spoke about him with respect.
Some even with admiration.
Eva had once been one of them.
When she first joined the company, Kira knew everyone's name. He remembered birthdays. Asked about families. Thanked people for staying late.
It made him easy to trust.
The first time he asked her to stay after work, she thought nothing of it.
There were reports to finish.
Contracts to review.
A promotion had been mentioned only days before.
She wanted to prove herself.
That evening the office emptied one desk at a time until only the distant hum of fluorescent lights remained.
Kira closed the door behind him.
"You've been working hard," he had said with a warm smile.
She thanked him.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
Her smile faded.
She took a step back.
He matched it with one of his own.
"I should go home," she'd managed to say.
"You will."
His voice never rose.
It didn't need to.
The pressure began almost imperceptibly.
Her shoulders felt heavier.
Then her knees.
Her own body slowly refused to obey her.
She knew his gravity augment was active before he said another word.
"Don't make this difficult."
She tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Every muscle strained against an invisible weight pressing her toward the floor.
He wasn't using enough force to injure her.
Only enough to remind her how powerless she was.
Afterward, he straightened his jacket as though he had just finished another meeting.
"If you tell anyone," he said calmly, gathering the scattered paperwork from his desk, "they'll ask why you stayed so late."
He slid a file into her trembling hands.
"They'll ask why there are no witnesses."
Another folder.
"They'll ask why someone with my reputation would risk everything."
He looked at her then, not with anger, but certainty.
"And they'll believe me."
The next morning he greeted everyone with the same effortless smile.
He congratulated another employee on their engagement.
Shook hands with a client.
Accepted praise for a successful charity fundraiser.
When Eva walked past his office, he simply nodded.
"Good morning, Miss Livinrock."
As though nothing had happened.
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
The invitations to stay late were no longer invitations.
They were expectations.
Whenever she tried to refuse, another reminder followed.
A stalled promotion.
An impossible workload.
A quiet comment about how easily someone else could take her position.
Eventually...
She stopped arguing.
She learned that surviving the evening was easier than fighting one she could never win.
Outside those office walls, Kira Kirishima remained a hero.
Inside them, he had taught Eva that monsters did not always need to shout.
Sometimes...
They only needed everyone else to keep believing they were saints.
The pregnancy remained a secret for as long as Eva could manage.
Loose clothing.
Long hours.
Avoiding conversations.
She told herself that if she ignored it long enough, reality might simply disappear.
It didn't.
Months later, in a quiet hospital room far from the city's center, she gave birth to a little girl.
The nurse gently placed the newborn in her arms.
For several long seconds...
Eva simply stared.
The baby yawned.
Tiny fingers wrapped around one of Eva's.
No crying.
No fear.
Just warmth.
"...Hello."
It was the first gentle word Eva had spoken in months.
Tears welled in her eyes.
Not because she was sad.
Because for the first time since everything had happened...
she felt something other than fear.
She named her...
Shirou Livinrock.
No father's name appeared on the birth certificate.
Only hers.
A week later, an unmarked envelope arrived beneath her apartment door.
Inside was enough money to cover nearly a year's rent.
No letter.
No signature.
She already knew who had sent it.
The next month another envelope appeared.
Then another.
Always enough to keep food on the table.
Never enough that she could quit her job.
It wasn't kindness.
It was control.
Kira Kirishima was making sure neither she nor the child would ever have a reason to come looking for him.
Eva hated accepting the money.
Yet every month...
she found herself picking up the envelope anyway.
Shirou's first years were peaceful.
As peaceful as they could be.
She laughed often.
She reached for her mother's hand whenever they crossed the street.
She proudly showed Eva crooked drawings made with cheap crayons.
Sometimes...
Eva even smiled.
Neighbors believed they were simply a quiet little family.
They never heard what happened after the apartment door closed.
The nightmares never stopped.
Eva woke drenched in sweat.
Some mornings she couldn't bear to look in the mirror.
Other mornings...
she couldn't bear to look at Shirou.
As the little girl grew older, certain things became impossible to ignore.
White hair.
Pale eyes.
Features that, on their own, meant nothing.
But to Eva...
they became reminders.
Not of who Shirou was.
Of where she had come from.
She began withdrawing.
The bedtime stories stopped.
Goodnight kisses disappeared.
Birthdays became ordinary days.
Shirou didn't understand.
She only knew that Mama smiled less than she used to.
"Mama..."
The little girl held up a drawing one afternoon.
It was nothing more than two stick figures holding hands beneath a bright yellow sun.
One figure had long brown hair.
The other had short white hair.
At the top, written in clumsy handwriting, were two words.
Me and Mama.
Eva looked at the drawing.
Her chest tightened.
For one fleeting moment...
she wanted nothing more than to pull Shirou into a hug.
Instead, another memory surfaced.
A polished office.
A smile that hid cruelty.
Invisible pressure pinning her in place.
Her breathing became uneven.
"Go to your room."
Shirou blinked.
"...Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
Eva's answer came too quickly.
"I just..."
She couldn't finish the sentence.
The drawing slipped from her hand and drifted onto the floor.
Shirou quietly picked it up.
She smoothed the bent corner with tiny fingers before walking to her room without another word.
The apartment fell silent once again.
Eva sank into a chair, burying her face in trembling hands.
"I was supposed to protect you..."
she whispered to the empty room.
"But every time I look at you..."
Her voice broke.
"...I remember him."
Outside the bedroom door, seven-year-old Shirou sat on the floor, hugging the drawing against her chest.
She couldn't understand why her mother kept moving farther away.
She only knew that every day, she tried a little harder to make her smile.
And every day...
it seemed to make things worse.
Winter gave way to spring.
Spring became summer.
The years slipped by one ordinary day at a time.
Shirou never stopped trying.
Every morning she greeted her mother with the same bright smile.
Every afternoon she waited by the apartment window, hoping to be the first thing Eva saw when she came home.
Sometimes she ran to the door.
Sometimes she held up another drawing.
Sometimes she simply wrapped her tiny arms around Eva's waist.
At first...
Eva would awkwardly pat her daughter's head.
Then she stopped returning the hugs altogether.
"...I'm home."
Her voice sounded emptier each month.
The apartment had become a place she dreaded almost as much as the office.
Because home meant memories.
The office reminded her of what had happened.
The apartment reminded her of why.
One evening, as she unlocked the front door, she heard music drifting from the television.
A young singer stood beneath dazzling lights, smiling as thousands of fans cheered.
Behind her, dancers rose effortlessly into the air.
They laughed as they spun weightlessly above the stage.
Purple light shimmered beneath their feet.
The camera shifted.
Standing at the edge of the stage was Kira Kirishima.
The announcer's voice was filled with admiration.
"...and thanks to Sir Kira's incredible gravity augment, this year's fifteenth anniversary celebration has become one of the most spectacular performances in company history!"
The crowd erupted.
Kira offered a polite bow.
The singer floated higher.
Confetti rained from the ceiling.
Everyone smiled.
Everyone celebrated.
Eva dropped the grocery bag.
Fruit rolled across the floor.
Milk spilled unnoticed.
Her breathing became shallow.
Not him...
Anyone but him...
"Mama?"
Shirou peeked around the corner.
She had been singing along to the music.
Not perfectly.
Not loudly.
But happily.
She loved that idol.
She knew every lyric.
She stretched out both arms, pretending she was standing on the same stage.
"I wanna fly..."
she sang with childish enthusiasm.
Something shimmered.
A faint purple glow gathered beneath her bare feet.
Eva froze.
Shirou blinked.
"...Huh?"
The little girl slowly drifted away from the floor.
Only a few centimeters.
Then a little higher.
Her stuffed rabbit floated beside her.
The curtains swayed despite the windows being closed.
Shirou giggled.
"Mama!"
"Look!"
"I can—"
She never finished.
Eva rushed forward so quickly that Shirou barely had time to react before she was yanked back to the floor.
The purple light vanished.
Eva stared.
White hair.
Purple aura.
Weightless.
Exactly...
Like him.
"No..."
Eva whispered.
"No..."
She stumbled backward.
Shirou looked confused.
"I didn't mean to..."
Eva wasn't listening.
That night she barely slept.
The image repeated over and over inside her mind.
Not Shirou.
Kira.
Smiling beneath stage lights while an entire arena applauded him.
The next morning, another envelope waited outside the apartment door.
Money.
Always money.
Eva carried it inside.
She didn't even count it anymore.
She simply shoved it into the kitchen drawer.
Over the following months, strange things continued happening.
Books occasionally floated off the coffee table.
A pencil spun lazily through the air while Shirou hummed to herself.
Sometimes, while she sang in her room, tiny objects began orbiting around her in slow circles.
She thought it was wonderful.
She thought it was magic.
She couldn't wait to show her mother.
Each discovery ended the same way.
"Stop."
"Mama, look—"
"I said stop!"
Shirou's smile gradually became more cautious.
Instead of running to show Eva what she could do, she began hiding it.
She practiced quietly when she believed no one was watching.
She sang into her pillow.
She whispered melodies beneath her blanket.
Sometimes, late at night, Eva would wake to the faint sound of her daughter's voice drifting down the hallway.
Small.
Gentle.
Innocent.
Accompanied by that same soft purple glow slipping beneath the bedroom door.
Eva would stand outside for several minutes, her hand hovering over the doorknob.
Sometimes she wanted to open it.
To tell Shirou how beautiful her singing was.
To ask if she wanted to learn proper control.
To be her mother again.
Instead...
she would remember the stage.
The applause.
Kira Kirishima smiling as though the world belonged to him.
Her hand slowly curled into a fist.
By morning, she would convince herself of the same lie she had repeated for years.
Every time that purple light appeared...
he had found another way to enter her home.
Fourteen years.
That was how long Eva had managed to keep the world small.
No after-school clubs.
No Knight preparatory classes.
No competitions.
Whenever teachers praised Shirou's aptitude, Eva always found an excuse.
"She's too young."
"Her grades need work."
"I don't want her getting hurt."
People admired Eva's concern.
Only Shirou knew the truth.
Every opportunity disappeared before it could begin.
Yet talent refused to stay hidden.
At school, whispers followed her wherever she went.
"Did you see what she did during resonance training?"
"She manipulated two frequencies at once."
"I heard she can lighten her own body."
"She'd be amazing in a Knight academy."
Shirou pretended not to hear them.
But deep inside...
Hope began to grow.
Maybe...
Maybe her mother would finally see what everyone else did.
That evening she burst through the apartment door carrying a folded letter.
"Mama!"
Eva looked up from the kitchen.
"What is it?"
"They want me to attend the regional youth evaluation."
Shirou's eyes sparkled.
"They said my sound control is one of the best in my year."
She unfolded the letter with trembling hands.
"And... they think my gravity factor is developing too."
Eva's face became unreadable.
"...No."
Shirou blinked.
"...You didn't even read it."
"I don't need to."
"Mama—"
"I said no."
The room fell silent.
For years Shirou had lowered her head whenever that tone appeared.
This time...
She didn't.
"Why?"
Eva turned toward her.
"What?"
"Why won't you let me do anything?"
Her voice shook.
"I practice."
"I study."
"I've never gotten into trouble."
"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong."
Eva remained silent.
Shirou stepped closer.
"Everyone else's parents are proud when they improve."
"You hide me."
"You tell me not to sing."
"You tell me not to use my augment."
"You won't even watch me train."
Her breathing became uneven.
"I've spent years trying to make you proud."
The apartment seemed strangely quiet.
Even the traffic outside had faded.
Shirou looked directly into her mother's eyes.
"...Why do you hate seeing me become stronger?"
Something inside Eva cracked.
For just a heartbeat...
She wasn't looking at Shirou.
She saw purple light.
Weightless dancers.
A smiling man standing beneath roaring applause.
She heard the cheers.
She heard his voice.
She saw that same violet aura now flickering around her daughter's feet as emotion stirred her augment without her realizing it.
The air in the apartment vibrated with a low, steady hum.
Shirou didn't notice.
Eva did.
Her daughter wasn't just speaking anymore.
She sounded confident.
Powerful.
Unafraid.
The same confidence Kira Kirishima had carried every day of his life.
"No..."
Eva whispered.
Shirou frowned.
"Mama?"
"I've spent fourteen years trying to protect you..."
Eva's breathing quickened.
"...and you're becoming just like him."
Shirou's expression fell.
"What?"
"I don't even know him."
"You have his power."
"I have my power."
"You have his aura!"
"I didn't ask for this!"
The words echoed through the apartment.
For the first time in her life...
Shirou raised her voice.
"I didn't ask to be born!"
Silence.
The sentence hung in the room like shattered glass.
Eva stared at her daughter.
Not with anger alone.
But with fear.
Fear that she had failed.
Fear that everything she had tried to bury for fourteen years was standing in front of her.
And for the first time...
Shirou did not look like a frightened little girl.
She looked like someone ready to choose her own future.
Eva could not bear the thought.
Pain.
It was the only thing Shirou could feel.
Warm blood poured through trembling fingers as she instinctively clutched at her throat.
She tried to scream.
Nothing came.
Only a wet gasp escaped her lips.
Eva stood frozen.
Her vibration augment was still active.
Tiny distortions rippled through the air around her shaking hand.
"No..."
Eva whispered.
"I..."
Shirou staggered backwards.
Her vision blurred.
She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't even understand why her own voice had vanished.
Eva took one frantic step forward.
"Shirou..."
Another pulse of vibration escaped her uncontrollably.
The sound around them fractured.
Every instinct inside Shirou screamed one command.
Survive.
The purple aura she had hidden for years erupted around her body.
Not violently.
Desperately.
The couch between them groaned.
In an instant, gravity folded inward.
The heavy piece of furniture slammed downward with impossible force before launching sideways into Eva like an avalanche.
The impact hurled her across the apartment.
Wood splintered.
Glass exploded from its frame.
The vibration surrounding her hand disappeared as she crashed into the opposite wall.
Silence followed.
Shirou collapsed onto her knees.
She could barely remain conscious.
The room spun.
Every breath burned.
Blood continued to stain the floor beneath her.
The last thing she remembered was pounding on the apartment door.
Voices.
Someone shouting for an ambulance.
Darkness.
...
She awoke beneath white lights.
Machines hummed softly around her.
Bandages wrapped tightly around her neck.
A nurse noticed her eyes opening.
"You've been through surgery."
The woman's smile was gentle.
"You survived."
Shirou reached toward her throat.
Hope flickered inside her.
She opened her mouth.
...
Nothing.
Not a whisper.
Not a breath shaped into words.
Only silence.
The doctor's expression told her everything before anyone could write it down.
The damage to her vocal cords was irreversible.
Her voice...
was gone.
...
Eva Livinrock survived.
She confessed to the assault before investigators had even finished asking questions.
She offered no excuses.
No elaborate defense.
Only the quiet admission that she had spent years fighting memories instead of protecting the child who had never deserved any of them.
The court showed little mercy.
She disappeared behind prison walls, where the silence she had created became her own.
...
Shirou had no relatives willing to take her in.
Within weeks, she entered the foster care system.
Ironically, the home that accepted her was funded by one of the country's largest charitable organizations.
The Kirishima Foundation.
Its brochures promised hope.
Its buildings sheltered abandoned children.
Its donations appeared in newspapers every year beneath photographs of smiling volunteers.
Shirou never knew who had founded it.
No one ever told her.
And Kira Kirishima never once came to visit.
To the world, she was simply another child whose life had been saved through his generosity.
To him...
she remained a secret.
...
The first months were difficult.
Whenever another child raised their voice, Shirou instinctively recoiled.
If someone reached toward her too quickly, her shoulders tensed before her mind understood why.
She stopped standing with her back to open rooms.
She memorized exits without realizing she was doing it.
At night, she woke from dreams reaching for a voice that no longer existed.
The counselors encouraged her to write.
So she did.
Small notebooks slowly replaced conversations.
Words became ink instead of sound.
...
Training became the only place where the noise inside her mind grew quiet.
She threw herself into every exercise the instructors offered.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each drop of sweat became somewhere to place her anger.
Each completed drill became proof that what had happened would never happen again.
Among her two gifts, she favored gravity.
It demanded discipline.
Control.
Balance.
Everything her childhood had lacked.
The instructors praised her remarkable intuition, unaware that every movement was fueled by a promise she had made to herself in a hospital bed.
Never be powerless again.
...
Music, however...
she refused to abandon.
For weeks she avoided it entirely.
Passing melodies hurt too much.
Eventually, an elderly caretaker placed an old keyboard in the common room.
"You don't have to sing," he wrote on a notepad before sliding it toward her.
"You only have to listen."
The words lingered in her thoughts.
One hesitant note became two.
Then three.
Her fingers slowly remembered what her voice no longer could.
Months later she learned the violin.
After that came the piano.
Then the guitar.
She could no longer fill a room with lyrics.
So she learned to pour every feeling into strings, keys, and resonance instead.
People who listened often described her performances as strangely emotional.
They had no idea they were hearing conversations she could no longer speak.
...
Years later, when Shirou Livinrock entered Squad 4, many believed she was simply the quiet one.
The silent prodigy.
The girl who communicated through calm eyes and a notebook.
None of them knew that silence had once been stolen from her.
Nor did they realize that every flawless movement, every perfectly controlled gravity field, and every haunting melody she played was built upon a promise forged in blood.
She would never let anyone take another voice away again.
Not while she still had the strength to fight.