[Location: The Hexagon — Main Headquarters of the National Superhero Agency (NSA), USA.]
The building, a colossal structure of steel and glass shaped after the geometric figure that gave it its name, rose over the heart of Washington as a symbol of vigilance and power. Outside, flags fluttered under the cold winter wind; inside, the corridors buzzed with hurried footsteps, hushed voices, and tense expressions.
In the central conference room — an oval amphitheater of dark metal and cold light — a group of officers and analysts argued with fervor. Maps, reports, and holographic projections floated above the table, displaying faces of missing heroes, crime statistics, and downward-sloping charts.
"We're losing more Pro Heroes every year!" one of the directors exclaimed, slamming a hand on the table. "Three disappeared last year, five just this semester! If this continues, our defensive lines will collapse before the year's end!"
Another member, dressed in a gray suit with tired eyes, crossed his arms."And that's not all... the villains seem to celebrate it with each passing day. The crime rate has gone up nearly twenty percent in the last three months. They're feeling emboldened to commit more and more crimes."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"The police can't keep up," said a woman with thin glasses. "Even with tactical support, they're not the same as heroes. They're too easily overwhelmed and outmatched by villains."
"Then why not authorize Quirk use for the police while on duty?" asked another man — tall, bald, with a heavy Texan accent. "We've got hundreds of officers with abilities that could help control this wave of crime."
"It's not that simple," the woman countered. "They don't have the field training Pro Heroes do, nor the damage control discipline. Imagine the chaos if they started acting without coordination or proper knowledge."
Voices began to rise, overlapping one another. The tension in the room was palpable — a buildup of fear and frustration ready to explode.
Then the main doors opened with a metallic sound.
Silence fell instantly.
Kamala Harris entered — Director of the NSA. A tall woman with an elegant bearing and a gaze that inspired both respect and unease. Her Quirk had given her the appearance of a spotted hyena, with short ears, brownish fur speckled with dark markings, and deep hazel eyes that seemed to scrutinize every soul in the room.
She wore a fitted navy-blue jacket paired with a pencil skirt of the same shade. The smile on her face was serene, yet there was something predatory about her calm.
Kamala walked to the central seat at the table and sat down. She took a deep breath, massaging her temple before extending a hand for the report.
"Let's get to the point," she said firmly. "Bring me up to speed."
One of the aides stepped forward, handing her a tablet with the latest data. Kamala studied it in silence, her eyes darting quickly across the numbers, then she let out a long sigh.
As one of the directors began explaining the details, another group resumed their debate, speaking over each other. Kamala raised her hand — and the silence returned as if a blade had sliced through the air.
"I've already thought of a possible solution," she said, interlacing her fingers atop the table.
A murmur rose again. Kamala gestured for her aide to step forward once more.
"According to the analysis of the last ten years," began the young man, adjusting the microphone, "all disappearances occurred within U.S. territory. Not a single elite hero who remained abroad for an extended period has shown signs of vanishing. This includes members of the Fortune Agency who operated temporarily in Japan and Europe."
The murmur turned to astonishment. Many exchanged glances, as if a missing piece of the puzzle had finally clicked into place.
Kamala continued:
"Therefore, I propose two measures. First: reinforced surveillance on all top-tier Pro Heroes — guards, cameras, sensors, the full package."
A man immediately objected:
"Director, that's a direct violation of privacy! These heroes are national icons! We can't treat them like prisoners."
Kamala arched an eyebrow, her tone still calm."Would you rather treat them as missing persons?"
Silence fell once more.
"But don't worry — participation is voluntary. The second option is for those who refuse surveillance. They'll be sent overseas — under the cover of diplomatic or cooperative missions. We want to test if the territorial hypothesis holds. If it's something limited to our borders... then we need to understand why."
One of the generals leaned forward."Sounds like casting bait into calm waters and hoping no fish bites," he said in a somber tone.
Kamala crossed her legs, resting her chin on her hand."Perhaps. But we don't have many options right now... so we'll have to take the risk and see what comes of it."
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The chief doctor's office was cold, lit only by a pale white light that reflected off the sterile walls. Ryo Tanaka sat in front of the desk, his gaze lost on the floor as he listened to the doctor's calm, distant voice.
"Your mother suffered a severe cardiac arrest," the man began, flipping through the medical file. "We managed to bring her back… but she's fallen into a deep coma."
The words hit like lead.
"Her body was pushed to its limit. The stress she's been accumulating was the main cause. We'll keep her stable, but… as for when she might wake up, no one can say."
Ryo didn't respond. He didn't even look up. He just sat there, motionless, fists clenched in his lap. The doctor's voice faded into a distant hum, muffled by the storm brewing inside him.
"And… I recommend you get some rest as well. The daily visits, the long hours… they won't do you any good. The staff was worried after the last alarm in the ward — and with good reason."
The memory struck him sharply: the deafening sound of the radiation detectors blaring when he lost control of his emotions for just a moment. Luckily, it hadn't amounted to anything truly dangerous or significant.
He stood up without a word, gave a mechanical bow, and left.
The hospital corridor seemed endless. The lights stretched out like a white tunnel without horizon, and with each step the echo of his shoes sounded hollower. He wanted to go back… to see his mother one more time. But part of him knew that might have been the last.
When he stepped out into the parking lot, the night greeted him with an icy wind. The stars were hidden, and the city lights flickered like distant embers. He got into the car, and the world around him dissolved into blurs. He couldn't remember the drive, nor how long it took — only the silence.
When he arrived at his small apartment, the sound of the key turning in the lock echoed louder than anything else. The room was dark, the air still. The turned-off television reflected his still silhouette. Everything there — the table, the shelf with a few books, the futon — felt emptier than before.
He walked to his room and lay down. The peeling ceiling stared back at him, mocking his solitude.
"I don't want her to die…" he murmured.
Silence was the only reply.
For a few seconds, he believed the world would simply ignore him. But then, a face appeared upside down, invading his field of vision.
It was a child. Four years old, maybe less. Large, empty eyes.
"Why?" she asked, her voice sweet yet emotionless.
Ryo blinked, his heart racing.
"Leave me alone…" he muttered, turning to the side.
Another child was sitting there on the floor beside him.
"You didn't want people to die either, right? But… we died anyway."
Ryo frowned.
"Enough."
He turned the other way — and saw three more children. Their faces were melted, as if molded from wax and left under the sun. Their voices echoed together, childish yet grotesque:
"You killed us, Tanaka-kun. Even if you didn't mean to."
He sat up sharply, eyes wide. The once-empty room was now filled with dozens of small figures, their bodies burned, their mouths stretched open into twisted smiles.
"You've always been the problem, Tanaka-kun," one of them said. "You bring death to those around you. You always have."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
"You're a threat. To everyone. Even the country fears you."
He clenched his fists, his teeth grinding.
"Shut up…"
A man appeared beside him — half of his face exposed, as if the flesh had melted away.
"It's your fault, Tanaka. Your mother's like that because of you. You've always been cursed."
Another emerged on the other side, eyes hollow and accusing.
"If you hadn't been born… none of this would've happened."
"SHUT UP!"
The sound of his own voice startled him. He covered his head with his arms, fingers tangled in his hair. The air around him seemed to vibrate, distort — as if reality itself was unstable at that moment.
And then, amidst the despair, his eyes landed on something: the pill bottle on his study desk.
He lurched to his feet, nearly stumbling. With trembling hands, he opened the bottle and swallowed the pills one after another, tasting the bitterness spread across his tongue.
He closed his eyes and began to count.
One. Two. Three…
By the time he reached ten, the silence had returned.
Ryo opened his eyes.
The room was empty. Moonlight streamed through the window, spilling a pale glow across the floor.
But there was one child standing before him now — perfectly healthy, with clean skin and calm eyes.
"If Tanaka-kun doesn't want to change…" she said softly, almost sadly, "…then he shouldn't expect the world to change for him."
Before Ryo could respond, she vanished.
He stood there, motionless, beneath the cold light of the moon. The shadows of the room had gone back to being just shadows — but the guilt, the fear, and the echo of her words… still lingered in Ryo Tanaka's mind.
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In the silence of the night, the roar of the Incredimobile's engine echoed through the nearly empty streets of Metroville. The city lights shimmered across its chrome hood as the car made its way toward a secluded house perched on a hill — the Parrs' new home, modern yet rustic, fully automated and surrounded by trees.
Bob parked the car in the garage, the metal door closing behind him with a low mechanical rumble. He removed his mask and let out a long sigh. The sweat on his face and the tension in his shoulders said more than words ever could — another heavy day, another rescue, another pile of reports and red tape.
Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath and stepped through the side door that opened into the main hallway. From the living room came the hum of a vacuum cleaner.
Helen was there, her back turned, dusting the shelves. When she noticed her husband, she smiled — and her neck stretched naturally toward him, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek before returning to her work.
"Welcome back, honey," she said in that calm, sweet tone of hers.
"Hey, sweetheart," Bob replied, smiling faintly, clearly exhausted.
Helen glanced sideways at him, easily spotting the weariness etched across her husband's broad face.
"Still stressed about that new NSA order?" she asked, turning off the vacuum.
"Oh, that?" He let out a tired half-laugh. "No… not exactly. It was just one of those days that make you wanna bury your head in the ground."
Helen raised an amused eyebrow.
"What happened this time?"
"Ha." He snorted. "Today it was a Karen. I saved her house from a fire, and now she wants to sue me for 'moral and material damages.' Apparently I was supposed to put out the flames without getting her imported rug wet."
Helen chuckled softly, wiping down the table again.
"Let the NSA deal with that, dear. They cover that kind of thing."
"I know, I know…" he muttered, heading up the stairs. "It's just frustrating, you know? Being a hero feels more dangerous because of lawyers than because of villains."
As he disappeared down the hall, Helen called out,
"Have you decided which security option we're going with?"
Bob's voice came muffled from upstairs.
"Not yet… maybe the surveillance one. It seems safer, at least."
Helen sighed, crossing her arms.
Before she could say anything else, a silhouette shimmered into view — Violet, now eighteen, in her hero suit, materializing from invisibility.
"Seriously? Dad's actually considering that?" she said with a disgusted look. "Being watched all the time? Gross."
Helen turned toward her.
"Hello to you too, dear."
"Hey, Mom," Violet replied, already heading upstairs. "I'm just saying… privacy should still be a thing."
Moments later, Bob came back down, now wearing a plain T-shirt and sweatpants. He met Violet halfway, exchanged a quick smile, and she disappeared down the hall.
Back in the living room, Helen gathered the vacuum's cables, putting everything away."I wouldn't go for that surveillance thing either. I've got enough cameras and phones pointed at me when I'm out on missions." She rolled her eyes, resting a hand on her hip. "To make it worse, people are starting to call me Elastimilf instead of Elastigirl."
Bob coughed, trying not to laugh.
"Well… hard to deny you still turn heads."
Helen playfully slapped his arm.
"I'll pretend that was a compliment, big guy."
Before Bob could answer, something suddenly climbed onto his shoulders — Dash, now fourteen, a blur of energy and excitement, still wearing that mischievous grin.
"I vote for the second option!" he blurted out, barely breathing, already leaping from his dad's shoulders to the floor and zipping around the living room. "Like, think about it! We could go anywhere! Paris, London, Egypt, Australia, Africa, Mars— okay, maybe not Mars, but I could—"
"Dash!" Violet's voice rang out as she came down the stairs in casual clothes. She raised her right hand, and a translucent force field appeared around her brother, trapping him mid-run.
"Hey!" he complained, struggling inside the barrier.
"You're gonna wreck the living room again if you keep running around like that," she said with a annoyed look. "But… I'm in favor of the second option too."
Helen arched a curious eyebrow.
"Really?"
"Tony's been in Japan for three months, remember?" Violet replied, crossing her arms. "It'd be great to see him again."
Dash's eyes widened inside the bubble.
"Japan?! Like… where U.A. is?! The most famous hero school?! I want to get in there! I've finished middle school, so I can start high school! I want to take the hero course there, and I also want to see that All Might guy!"
A small voice echoed from somewhere above, distant and muffled.
"All Might!?"
A tiny portal opened right over Bob's head, and out popped Jack-Jack, falling straight into his father's arms with a pair of dinosaur toys clutched in his hands. The five-year-old blinked, his big eyes sparkling with joy.
"I wanna go to Japan too, Daddy! I wanna see All Might!"
Bob blinked, speechless for a moment. He looked at Helen, then at the kids. The whole family was staring at him, he was at a loss for words.
Helen rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, smiling softly.
"Come to think of it… it's not such a bad idea. Japan's beautiful, Dash could study there, Violet could get into a good university… and I heard they have the most amazing hot springs."
Bob sighed, rubbing his face — but a faint smile started to form.
"You guys really won't let this go, huh?"
"Nope," Violet and Dash said in unison.
Jack-Jack giggled.
"Japan! Japan! Japan!"
Helen laughed, wrapping her arm around her husband's waist.
"So, honey… I guess the decision's made."
Bob looked at her — tired, but happy.
"All right… Japan it is."
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The following months passed slowly, almost dragging on. Ten months had gone by since Ryo's mother's heart attack, and in that time, almost nothing had changed—except for him.
His routine stayed the same, simple and rigid. He woke up every day at six, folded the futon, took a shower, and went out for a run—always on the same route, at the same time, the same pace. It wasn't a choice anymore—it was a habit that had become a way to escape the loneliness he felt. His body moved on its own, as if it needed constant motion to avoid falling apart.
News about his mother came irregularly, delivered by email or relayed over the phone by the head doctor. No change. No progress. Her body remained stable, but her brain was still inactive. It was as if she were only sleeping, but the boy already knew it was the kind of sleep that never ends.
He kept visiting her, even against the doctor's advice. He would go to the hospital, sit in the same chair, and just stay there in silence. Sometimes he said a few words, but rarely. Other times, he just looked at her and tried to imagine if he was still dreaming.
The hallucinations had gotten worse over time.
At first, they were just faint voices, distant whispers. Then came the shadows—figures that flashed at the corners of his eyes. Now, he could hear entire conversations, laughter, footsteps. Sometimes it was his mother's voice. Other times, the voices of the children from the incident.
The pills helped for a few hours, but the effect seemed to fade faster every week. The doctor had increased the dosage, then changed the medication, but nothing seemed to have a lasting effect.
Loneliness grew along with exhaustion.
He no longer ate properly, slept poorly, and his eyes looked sunken, his expression dull and lifeless. Sometimes, he stood before the mirror and wondered if he was still the same boy staring back at him. Other times, he didn't care enough to look.
And then came a Saturday morning.
Ryo put on his black tracksuit and worn-out sneakers and went out for his morning run.
The earphones hung around his neck but stayed off. He preferred the silence—or what was left of it. The voices never really left him.
As he ran, they started again.
"You're wasting time."
"Look at you… you think this changes anything?"
"Your mother's still in a coma."
"You're still the same."
"The world doesn't want you."
He ignored them. Kept his steady pace, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. But the whispers didn't stop.
"Always running, always trying to escape."
"You can't run away."
"You can't escape from yourself…"
"People will always be afraid of you."
"You're too dangerous to live."
His leg muscles burned, and his chest started to ache, but he didn't stop.
This time, though, one of the voices sounded clearer.
"Even if you tried to change everyone, you'd still accomplish nothing."
His steps slowed until they stopped.
Ryo stood still, eyes empty, staring at the ground. He knew it was true. He'd known it from the start.
Even if he did everything right, nothing would change.
Even if he tried, even if he apologized, the world would never accept him. There was no place for him here.
For a few seconds, he just stood there, breathing slowly, his shoulders rising and falling at a steady rhythm. Then, gradually, he lifted his gaze.
The sight before him made his thoughts stop.
He was at Dagobah Beach—the same one he always passed on his runs, the same pile of trash and debris that served as a dumping ground for half the city's residents. Except now… it wasn't the same.
The garbage was gone.
The mountains of rubble had vanished. The sand was clean, smooth, golden under the morning sun. The sea, once coated with oil and plastic, looked clearer.
Ryo blinked, startled. For a moment, he thought it was another hallucination.
Then he heard a scream.
"AAAAAAHHHHH!"
He turned quickly. At the top of what was left of a junk pile, a shirtless boy stood with his arms raised, sweating and panting. His muscles trembled from exertion, but the smile on his face was genuine.
Izuku Midoriya.
The same boy he had seen months ago, trying to push an old truck, tripping and falling dozens of times. His former weak and determined classmate who had said he wanted to become a hero.
Ryo had expected him to give up. That kind of boy—full of foolish dreams and no sense of reality—should have realized how ridiculous it was to try to fix everyone's mistakes alone.
But he was there.
And he had done it.
Ryo looked around—the clean beach, the fresh air.
All of it had been transformed—not by some powerful Quirk, not by a team effort, but by the sheer persistence of one random boy.
Midoriya looked out at the sea, taking a deep breath, smiling again, completely unaware of the silent observer watching from afar.
Ryo remained still, breathing heavily.
For a moment, he wondered if he could do the same—not clean a beach, but cleanse himself from the inside out, remove the trash piled up in his own head, the weight holding him down.
He looked at his own hands, feeling the strange warmth building within them.
"I… I want to try something…"