The midday sun reflected off New York's skyscrapers, lighting up the bustling streets and the constant flow of pedestrians. Street vendors called out to customers from the sidewalks, tourists snapped pictures near Times Square, and traffic moved in its typical rhythm — loud, but orderly. It was one of those days that seemed almost too normal for a city so used to the unpredictable.
At a corner restaurant, a couple was having lunch on the patio, enjoying a rare moment of peace. The man, wearing a gray suit and a tired expression, scrolled through his phone while the woman, smiling softly, took a sip of wine.
"It's been a while since we've had a day like this," she said, looking out at the street. "No alarms, no evacuations, no crazy villains breaking things."
Her husband let out a short laugh.
"Yeah, looks like the city decided to give us a break today." He set his phone down. "Although the news says attacks have been increasing. Last week, a group tried to hold an entire train hostage."
"I saw that." She put down her glass, crossing her arms. "That's why I said we should leave earlier today. Nights have been chaos lately."
"Relax, honey." He reached across the table, taking her hand. "Today's gonna be quiet, I promi—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
An explosion rocked the block, making the restaurant's windows rattle and dishes crash from the tables. The couple dove to the ground as a cloud of smoke and debris rose from the building next door. Screams filled the air, alarms blared, and chaos erupted in seconds.
From the smoke, five figures emerged. They wore masks and heavy jackets, each carrying bags of money, one of them pushing a trolley piled with gold bars. They laughed loudly, thrilled with the success of their heist.
"I told you their vault was a joke!" shouted one, slapping his partner's shoulder. "No safe can stop the Masterhands!"
"Quit bragging and move your ass!" yelled the driver, opening the back door of a black van. "Cops'll be here any second, so haul your fat butts over!"
The five scrambled inside, tossing the bags and gold in. The van screeched away, tires squealing, leaving behind a trail of smoke and shattered glass.
Seconds later, sirens filled the air. Several police cars appeared from the nearby streets, blocking exits and opening fire with containment rounds.
"This is the NYPD!" an officer shouted through a megaphone. "Stop the vehicle immediately!"
"Ha!" laughed the thug riding shotgun, grabbing a heavy rifle. "How about you stop my bullets first!"
He kicked open the van doors, hanging from them as he fired at the police cars. Windows shattered, tires burst, and one vehicle spun out of control, jumping the curb straight toward a woman and her child.
The woman screamed, shielding her son—But before the car could hit them, a thick wall of ice erupted in front of them, stopping the vehicle with a sharp crack. Ice crystals scattered across the pavement, and the air grew so cold that their breath turned to mist.
The mother and child opened their eyes, trembling, until the boy pointed excitedly.
"Mom, look! It's Frozone!"
From up the street, a freezing trail wound its way between cars, curving smoothly around corners. Riding atop it, Frozone glided with grace and speed, creating ramps and pillars of ice as he went. He controlled every surface with precision, steering vehicles out of danger and stabilizing the area with swift motions of his hands.
"Everyone, stay off the road!" he shouted, raising a wall of ice to block traffic. "Things are about to get slippery!"
Inside the van, the gunman paused, trying to aim.
"Hey! It's Frozone!" he warned. "That black popsicle's here!"
"What?!" the driver glanced at the mirror, eyes wide. "He's not supposed to be in this zone! He works downtown!"
"Yeah…" said a deep voice from in front of the van.
The driver looked up—And barely had time to see a massive red silhouette appear in the road ahead before the impact hit.
A deafening metallic crash echoed as the van came to an abrupt stop, its rear lifting nearly ninety degrees, throwing the crooks against the windshield.
The vehicle hung for a moment.Outside, Mr. Incredible held the front bumper in both hands, muscles flexed, feet digging into the cracked asphalt. He peered inside, seeing the five criminals squished against the glass, and smiled firmly.
"It's not good to get distracted while driving," he said calmly. "You might end up hurting someone."
With a controlled motion, he released the van. It slammed back onto the ground, shaking the dazed crooks inside.
"Ugh… damn it…" groaned the gunman, trying to sit up.
Before any of them could move, a bluish shadow appeared behind them. Frozone stood at the open rear doors, smiling lightly.
"You guys look a little tense," he said, raising his hand. "Chill out."
A blast of freezing mist filled the van. Within seconds, the entire interior was coated in a translucent layer of ice. The villains were frozen solid, expressions of shock locked on their faces.
Outside, Mr. Incredible placed his hands on his hips, watching as the police surrounded the van.
"You always have to make a dramatic entrance, huh?"
"Of course," Frozone grinned. "It's part of the charm."
The sound of sirens faded more and more with each passing minute, the ice slowly melting under the afternoon sun. After talking with the police and filling out reports, Bob and Lucius walked down the sidewalk toward a corner diner — one of those old ones, with flickering neon signs and the smell of grease and fresh coffee in the air.
They entered still wearing their uniforms, drawing the attention of a few customers who whispered among themselves, but no one dared to ask for an autograph. It was one of those moments when even heroes just wanted to be two tired guys grabbing a bite.
Bob sat in the booth by the window, letting out a long sigh.
"Haven't sat down for a decent meal all week," he said, removing his mask.
Lucius chuckled, taking off his sunglasses and leaning an elbow on the table.
"Yeah, you should do that more often, old man. Age's catching up with you, huh?" he teased with a mischievous grin.
Bob raised an eyebrow.
"Old man? Look who's talking—to someone who's forty-four," he replied, half laughing.
"Forty-four and still in top shape, my friend," Lucius shot back proudly. "You, on the other hand, are two steps closer to fifty and still think you can toss cars around. You're gonna break a hip before you know it."
Bob gave a short laugh.
"You sure talk a lot for someone who was complaining about back pain last week."
"Hey, that was because I hit a lamppost, alright?" Lucius countered, raising a finger. "But seriously, Bob… with three kids at home and things getting riskier every year, you should think about slowing down."
The waiter arrived just then, setting down their meals — double cheeseburgers with melted cheese, crispy fries, and tall glasses of iced soda. The smell was irresistible.
Bob thanked him, took a long sip, and then replied.
"I've been thinking about that for a while now, you know? You don't have to remind me every time we hang out."
Lucius popped a fry into his mouth and gave a half-smile.
"I only say it because I care, man. Ever since George was born, I've started to get what you meant about that whole 'fatherly instinct' talk." He swirled a fry in the sauce, glancing at his friend. "It's like everything around you feels… more fragile. The danger, the risk. Every time I go out on a mission now, all I can think about is how my kid would react if I didn't come back."
Bob looked down at his burger, not replying right away.
Lucius went on, between bites:
"I've already decided that in two years, I'm done for good. I wanna be there to see the little guy grow up. Honestly, I don't know how you do it. Three kids at home, work, responsibilities… and you still throw yourself into fights with crazy villains."
Bob chuckled softly, but there was weight in his eyes.
"Helen's been saying the same thing. That I should take a break. Sometimes I think she's right…" He paused. "Maybe it's time to live a bit more as 'Bob' and a bit less as 'Mr. Incredible.'"
Lucius nodded, satisfied.
"Now you're finally starting to sound like a sane man, my friend."
That was when a metallic voice cut through the air, coming from the television hanging over the counter. The news was on, the sound just loud enough to draw attention:
"The NSA has declared a state of maximum vigilance over the hero community. The number of kidnappings involving high-level Pro Heroes and independent agents has increased significantly since last month. There is still no confirmation on who is responsible, according to the NSA…"
The screen showed helicopters flying over Washington, agents in black uniforms, and photos of missing heroes flashing in the corner.
Lucius, mouth full, pointed at the TV with a fry.
"See? That's what I'm talking about!" he said between chews. "These guys are getting bolder. The NSA's on alert, the world's changing—and you still wanna keep risking your neck?"
Bob let out a heavy sigh, staring at the reflection of the newscast in the window. Outside, the city buzzed and roared as always, but he couldn't shake a chill that ran down his spine.
"Yeah… maybe you're right, Lucius. Maybe it really is time to slow down."
Lucius gave a small grin and raised his glass.
"Now that's what I like to hear, Bob. Here's to the retirement that never comes."
Bob laughed and clinked his glass against his friend's.
"Cheers… but only if the world lets us."
As they toasted, the TV behind them flashed a red headline:
"Heroes Continue to Vanish Under Mysterious Circumstances — Authorities Remain Silent."
----------------------------------------
The morning sun had barely broken through the clouds when Ryo tied the last lace of his sneakers. The apartment was silent, cold, and impersonal as always — white walls, no paintings, no life. He wore a simple workout outfit, the same one he used every day, and adjusted the timer on his smartwatch. The screen blinked as it displayed data: heart rate, running time, calories burned. This routine was part of a "physical and emotional stability program" assigned by the government — or, as Ryo preferred to call it, a leash disguised as a pretty program.
He left without a word, closing the door with a sharp click. The streets were calm, only the sound of his rhythmic steps and controlled breathing accompanied the path.
As he ran, the memories of that day returned with force. The office, the director's cold gaze, the calm and persuasive voice of Nezu.
"I believe you can still change the way the world sees them..."
"You can clear your mother's name. You can prove that she — and you — are not the monsters they say you are."
Ryo clenched his teeth and picked up his pace.
"I don't need to prove anything to anyone…" he muttered between his teeth.
Anger grew with every step, and Nezu's words echoed like an open wound. Clear his name? Prove his innocence? As if he needed to kneel to be forgiven for something that wasn't his fault.
After a while, the sound of waves began to rise, mixed with the rustling of plastic scraping against itself. Ryo reached the top of the hill overlooking Dagobah Beach.
The beach was completely buried in trash. Mountains of debris, scrap metal, broken bottles, and pieces of appliances formed a grotesque carpet that stretched to the sea. There were days when the stench of rot was almost unbearable.
Ryo stopped, taking a deep breath.
"Worse every day…" he murmured.
He watched that place every week. It was a living reminder of human nature — proof that people's filth didn't stay only in their hearts. "It all started with one person," he thought. "And soon everyone thought it was normal to toss another piece." That's how the world worked. One does it, the rest follow. One errs, the rest err. And when it becomes common, the mistake stops being a mistake and becomes normal.
Just as Ryo was about to continue his run, a metallic clang and a shout caught his attention. He turned his head and frowned. A little farther ahead, in the middle of the junk, stood Izuku Midoriya — sweating, his hands covered in grease, his body trembling with effort. He was trying to push an old, rusted pickup truck that, by the look of it, must have weighed nearly a ton.
Beside him was a thin man — almost skeletal — wearing clothes far too big for his frail body. His pale skin and determined eyes contrasted sharply with his weak appearance.
Ryo remained silent, watching. The man spoke with wild energy, encouraging Midoriya with almost childlike enthusiasm.
"Come on, boy! You managed to move that refrigerator yesterday, remember?" the man's voice rang out firmly. "You're not going to let a truck beat you now, are you? Show the power of your youthful spirit!"
Midoriya yelled, pushing the truck with all his might, but the front wheel spun helplessly in the soft sand.
Ryo sighed, annoyed by the motivational speech.
"Spirit power, huh?" he muttered, crossing his arms. "These guys are delusional."
He watched Midoriya keep pushing, his body trembling, muscles straining beyond their limits, while the thin man cheered him on with a smile. The scene was pathetic to Ryo's eyes — two people fighting against something pointless, trying to fix a collective mistake with individual effort.
"He should just give up already…" he said quietly, glancing away and adjusting his smartwatch. "One person alone can't change the consequences of everyone else's actions."
With that, he started running again. The sound of Midoriya's shouts and the man's encouragement faded behind him, swallowed by the roar of the sea and the wind sweeping over the place.
----------------------------------------
[Location: Central Headquarters of the Department of Singularity Control and Security — D.C.S.S., Tokyo]Time: 07:43 — Underground Meeting Room 03
The sound of papers being shuffled and pens tapping the table filled the stifling room. The walls, reinforced with metal alloys and lead insulation, echoed the heavy atmosphere hanging over everyone present.
At the head of the oval table, the Chief Minister of National Security, Hiroshi Kagemura, adjusted his glasses and looked at the freshly delivered report. His face was pale — and understandably so. The document contained Ryo Tanaka's Annual Report on Energy Stability and Emissions, dated the previous day.
"The accumulated energy levels have risen again... one hundred and twenty-three percent compared to last year," Kagemura said in a low but firm voice. "And the emission spikes during emotional crises are getting longer. Almost double the time recorded in 2024."
Across the table, the Minister of Health, Dr. Naoya Saitō, rubbed his temples with his fingers before speaking:
"It's not just that, Minister... the boy's psychological state is deteriorating by the day. He shows signs of functional psychosis and recurring auditory hallucinations. That means if he loses emotional control for long enough... we're not just talking about a single city being wiped out. the entire country could disappear."
A tense murmur ran through the room. Several officials exchanged worried looks.
The Director of Special Operations, Lieutenant-General Masaru Inoue, slammed his fist on the table in anger.
"For years we fed, educated, and monitored that damned boy! Everything was simple while he was just a calm, passive child — but since the awakening of that damned quirk, hell began!"
"Do you remember the Himawari Garden Incident?!"
His voice echoed through the room.
"Seventy-three children and eleven adults were killed! All contaminated by the gamma radiation he emitted in less than five minutes!"
The silence that followed was almost tangible. Everyone remembered "Tanaka's Day Zero," as the media had called it, before the government covered up the case and erased every public record of the event.
The tension was broken by the cold voice of one of the advisers, Takemoto Renji, head of the Strategic Analysis Division:
"With all due respect... I still maintain that we should dispose of him."
A dry sound echoed as Kagemura slammed the folder onto the table.
"Have you lost your mind, Takemoto?! Saitō, tell him what your analyses show!"
The Minister of Health let out a heavy sigh.
"We've already tested every possible hypothesis. If Ryo Tanaka dies, whether by natural causes, induced, or even deep anesthesia — the accumulated energy in his body will be released instantly. The result would be... a thermonuclear explosion equivalent to 47 Tsar Bombas."
"And even if part of Japan were to survive, the contamination from the blast would leave no land fit to live on afterwards."
A chorus of exclamations and muffled curses took over the table. The Minister of Defense let out a swear, while others tried to grasp the scale of the disaster described.
It was then that Kusabane Itsuo, director of the Energy Infrastructure Sector, leaned forward with a thin, calculating smile.
"Gentlemen... what if, instead of trying to contain or eliminate the boy... we used him?"
Everyone looked at him with confusion and revulsion. The Minister of Defense was the first to speak:
"Use him? How? That boy is a living bomb! A single wrong word and he could condemn the whole country!"
Kusabane laced his fingers together and kept his tone calm, almost serene:
"A bomb... or a battery? Think about it. The readings show that the energy he generates is increasing and practically endless. His body is, in effect, an organic nuclear reactor — one that feeds itself, without fuel. If we can develop a way to extract that energy safely..."
"...we could power the entire country. Eliminate dependence on foreign energy. A pure, inexhaustible source — and under our supervision."
The silence that followed was different from before. It was no longer fear — it was temptation. A dangerous thought began to take shape in everyone's minds.
Kagemura, however, kept a cold expression and murmured:
"You're suggesting we turn a child into a nuclear power plant, Kusabane?"
"No, sir..." he replied with a faint smile, "I am suggesting we turn Japan's threat... into its greatest strategic resource."
----------------------------------------
Ryo walked in silence, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor, almost reflecting his image.
In one hand, he carried a small bouquet of tsubaki — red camellias, flowers with firm petals, symbols of resilience and devotion. It was always the same kind. Always the same gesture.
The boy made his way to room 407 — his mother's room. The constant sound of the machines, the neutral tones of the walls, and the cold hospital air no longer bothered him. They had become part of his routine, like breathing or his morning runs.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by the fragile, motionless body of his mother, her chest rising and falling slowly, sustained by the machines around her.
He approached the small bedside table, removed the old vase, and placed the new flowers in its place.
"Hey, Mom... I brought your flowers again," he murmured softly. "The last ones were starting to wilt."
Ryo pulled the usual chair and sat beside the bed, resting his hands on his knees.
"Today was another busy day. Did my usual run. The people from the program monitor everything—you know how they are. If I skip a single training session, they show up at my door the next morning with that fake look of concern."
He let out a short, joyless laugh.
"But I did it right, okay? Finished the whole route. Dagobah Beach is still the same. I don't think it'll ever be cleaned again."
Silence. The same silence as always.
Ryo intertwined his fingers and stared at the floor.
"Ah... and a few days ago, that hero school principal came to talk to me. His name was Nestlen, I think..."
He gave a half-smile.
"You'd believe it if you saw him? Small guy, all neat and tidy, looked like some kind of stuffed toy. Spoke full of hope. Said he could help me change the way people think about us. 'Set an example,' that's what he said."
The smile faded.
"I turned him down, of course. Told him straight to his face I don't need to change anything. I've got nothing to prove. He gave me that pity look—like they all do. Pity... that look makes me sick."
The boy sighed deeply, leaning back in the chair.
"They always think they can fix what they call a mistake. But they're the mistake. They always were."
For a while, silence seemed to weigh on him. The sun tilted through the window, reflecting off the bed and illuminating the woman's pale face.
Ryo looked at her again and gently took her hand. It was cold, lifeless, but he held it as if that alone could bring back the warmth it lacked.
"But it's okay, Mom. Let them talk. Let them think what they want. I don't need them... I just need you."
His words were firm, but the sound quickly faded. He leaned forward a little, his eyes fixed on her hand — and then noticed something. A subtle movement.
Small. A touch that didn't seem caused by wind or muscle reflex. That fragile hand... had squeezed his.
Ryo froze.
"...Mom?"
His eyes lifted to her face. Slowly, her eyelids moved, opening with effort. The boy leaned back just enough to see her clearly.
"Mom, it's me... Ryo."
Her eyes fixed on him, though blurry and unfocused. The effort was visible. Her lips moved, trying to form a word.
"Ryo... I..."
Her voice barely came out — hoarse, almost nonexistent.
But before the word could finish, her body suddenly relaxed. The muscles loosened, the air escaped her lungs.
The steady rhythm of the machine stopped.
Ryo stood frozen, staring at her, unable to understand. Then despair hit him.
"N–no, no, no, Mom! Mom! MOM!"
He shot to his feet, knocking the chair over, and ran out of the room.
"SOMEONE! HELP! PLEASE!"
Voices echoed in the hallway. A medical team rushed in, pushing Ryo aside.
"She's gone into cardiac arrest! Start compressions!" one of the doctors shouted.
"Get the defibrillator ready!"
Ryo was grabbed by a nurse and pulled away.
"Mr. Tanaka, please! You have to leave!"
"NO! I WANT TO STAY WITH HER!" he yelled, struggling to break free.
The door closed, and all that remained was the muffled sound of voices and machines.
The medical team worked fast—one keeping the rhythm of compressions, another injecting medication, while the lead doctor muttered numbers and instructions.
Her face—the same face he had seen for years—now seemed distant. With every passing second, the world grew smaller, more suffocating.
The nurse beside him tried to speak, but her words didn't reach him. Ryo couldn't hear.
He could only see.
He saw his mother's body react to each attempt at resuscitation, but barely respond most of the time.
The nurse tried to hold him back, calling his name, but he didn't respond. A strange chill filled the air. The watch on his wrist began to flicker without reason, and the hallway lights trembled for a moment.
A faint green glow appeared around his hands.
It was weak, barely visible—but constant.
Inside the room, his mother's body remained still with every failed attempt to bring her back.
Outside, her son stood there, eyes hollow and distant, as the air grew heavier—dense, as if the very atmosphere feared him.
And in that silent instant, Ryo Tanaka became the epicenter of a grief that could, if it wished, burn the entire world that had trampled him.