Chapter 1: THE BLANK CANVAS OF A BROKEN HEART
"People don't look at heroes to see if they win. They look at us to see if it's still possible to try. We aren't here to solve the world's problems, honey; we're here to prove that the world is worth fighting for."
Worth fighting for.
Those were the last words of Miyuri Sheets, the woman the world worshipped as the Pro Hero: Pulp Queen.
To the public, she was a titan. A woman who could turn a handful of sawdust into a fortress. To Sherlock, she was simply "Mom"—the person he loved the most in this world.
There was a time when the Sheets household smelled of cedar and resonated with laughter. Sherlock remembered his father, Arthur Sheets, using his Molecular Glaze quirk to create shimmering, unbreakable bubbles for him to chase.
They were a family of light.
But when the skyscraper collapsed and Miyuri gave her life to hold the foundation to protect other people from dying, that light was snuffed out. Arthur buried himself in his multi-billion-yen corporation, and Sherlock retreated into a shell of apathy. He became a loner—a boy who could learn anything, but felt nothing.
In the sterile silence of the Sheets Industries lab, Sherlock practiced with a lethargy that masked his lethality. He flicked his wrist, and a deck of cards—each weighted with high-density fibers—fanned out in a perfect, rotating circle.
[QUIRK: PAPER MANIPULATION]
The Core: A sophisticated mutation. Sherlock manifests, shapes, and commands paper at will.
The Source: He can secrete a fibrous pulp through his sweat that hardens into thin sheets (Limit: 5–10 sheets).
The Buff: By applying a "Glaze," his paper becomes immune to water and as hard as tempered steel.
The Cost: Highly vulnerable to fire, electricity, and oil. Overuse causes extreme physical exhaustion.
He wasn't a genius—he just saw the patterns others missed. He was a Jack of all trades. He had mastered the cello, five languages, and advanced calculus simply because he could. But he lacked the passion to call any of it his own.
He was powerful, yes. But he was fundamentally lazy.
His only constant was the leather holster on his hip. It held his deck. Without them, he felt a raw, gnawing anxiety—a sensation of being utterly naked. In a world of fire and chaos, those fifty-two slips of glazed paper were the only things that made him feel "clothed."
The black sedan glided through Musutafu. Beside him, Arthur Sheets stared at a holographic tablet.
"The Yaoyorozu Corporation and Sheets
Industries are more than partners, Sherlock," Arthur said, his voice cold. "Mr. Yaoyorozu and I built this world together. Be respectful. They know what we've lost."
Sherlock didn't answer.
He just tapped his card deck. He was only here because of pressure. He was only taking the UA exam because of a promise. To him, it was just another chore.
The Yaoyorozu estate was a fortress of gold and tradition. As the meal began, the contrast between the two heirs became a chasm.
"So, Sherlock," Mr. Yaoyorozu beamed. "The UA Recommendation Exam is only days away. You must be vibrating with excitement."
"I'm not," Sherlock said plainly. "I'm prepared. Excitement requires energy I'd rather not spend."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "He's been training, of course."
Sherlock looked across the table at Momo Yaoyorozu. Her eyes were wide, glowing with a fierce, burning determination.
She's so... bright, Sherlock thought. She has that fire. She actually wants this. On the other hand, there was him. No ambition. No "Why."
"You don't seem to care at all, Sherlock," Momo whispered. "This is UA. Why are you acting like it's a doctor's appointment?"
"Because to me, it is," Sherlock replied. "I'm just a guy who's good at folding paper."
The Business of Potential
In the study, the adults spoke in hushed, heavy tones.
"He has Miyuri's potential," Mrs. Yaoyorozu whispered to Arthur. "If Sherlock became serious... he could be a force of nature. He could surpass his mother within a year."
Arthur took a slow sip of his drink. "I hope so," he said, his voice rasping with exhaustion. "But right now, he is a masterpiece painted in shades of gray. He has the engine, but I cannot give him the heart."
Later, Sherlock slumped onto the velvet couch in the living room.
"I'm lazy, Momo," he muttered. "I don't care about the legacy. I just want to be left alone."
Momo sat near him, her gaze soft. "Is that what you really think?"
"I'm a master of nothing because I don't care about anything. It's easier that way. Less to lose."
Momo looked away, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She remembered the boy who would fold paper roses just to see his mother smile.
"You haven't 'changed' into someone who doesn't care, Sherlock," she whispered. "You've just hidden the part of you that does under fifty-two layers of glazed paper."
Sherlock's grip on his deck tightened.
"You're not a master of nothing," Momo continued. "You're just a master of hiding."
Sherlock closed his eyes. The silence was heavy with a truth he wasn't ready to face.
"Whatever you say, Momo. Just don't expect me to be your rival. I'm just there to punch a clock."
"We'll see," Momo replied. "I think the world is going to ask more of you than you're willing to give."