Three years old. Thirty-six months of diapers, pureed vegetables, and the slow, agonizing crawl toward something resembling autonomy. I could walk now—properly, without toppling over every few steps—and I could string together sentences that didn't sound like a drunk parrot. But my body still felt foreign, this small vessel that refused to obey my adult mind with any grace.
I spent most of my days watching. Observing. Learning the rhythms of this household that was, against all odds, becoming my true home in my lifetime.
The apartment was cramped for six people—my parents, me, and my three older sisters. We lived on the fourth floor of a aging building in a working-class district of Musutafu. The walls were thin enough that I could hear the neighbor's TV at night, and the elevator had been broken since before I was born. But Betta had filled every corner with small touches of warmth: a potted plant on the windowsill, colorful magnets on the fridge, family photos crammed onto a cluttered shelf and a warm breeze which always entered the house to create a calming vibe.
And then there were my sisters, which I finally got used too.
Yuki, the eldest at 15, was the serious one. She had our mother's warm tea-colored eyes and our father's sharp jawline. Her quirk was minor telekinesis—she could move small objects with her mind, but only if she concentrated hard enough. She spent most of her time studying, her nose buried in textbooks, aiming for a good high school. She rarely spoke to me, but sometimes I'd catch her watching me with a curious, almost protective gaze, like she was trying to figure out if I was worth the trouble or just another annoyance towards her studying. She didn't really like me, but I could tell she has a warming feel towards me.
Hana, 13, was the opposite. Loud, brash, and endlessly nosy—thanks to her enhanced hearing quirk, she could pick up whispers from two rooms away. She was the one who'd announced to the whole family that I'd said my first word ("Mama") before I'd even crawled over to Betta, and yes I am still getting used to calling her Mom, to say it properly. She had a habit of barging into my room without knocking, demanding to know what I was thinking about, because apparently my "silent staring" creeped her out, and I would just reply with random words, which disappointed her. I do like her as she seems nice to talk too but her hearing is becoming insanely bad.
"You're like a little old man trapped in a toddler's body," she'd say, poking my cheek. "It's weird. Stop it."
And then there was Emi. Sweet, gentle Emi, who was 7 and had the most adorable quirk of all: she could change her hair color at will. Pink, blue, green, rainbow—she'd cycle through them like a mood ring. She was the only sister who actually sought me out to play, who'd drag me to the living room and set up her dolls, chattering away about heroes and princesses while I nodded along.
"It's okay if you don't talk much," she'd told me once, her hair turning a soft lavender. "I'll talk enough for both of us."
I'd smiled at that—a real smile, not the strained one I put on for adults. Emi got the real me, or at least the closest version I could show within this stubby toddler body.
But even with all this, I still felt like an outsider. A ghost haunting a body that wasn't mine to use. The memories of my first life—the hunger, the cold, the loneliness and the pain—were fading, but they never fully disappeared. They lurked at the edges, whispering that none of this was real, that I'd wake up any moment on that hospital bed, dying alone.
I pushed those thoughts away. I had work to do.
I truly believed this chance was meant for me only.
---
The first real breakthrough came on a rainy afternoon in early spring. I was three years and eight months old, give or take a few weeks. Betta, mother, had gone to the grocery store, leaving me with my sisters under Kenji's supervision. Yuki was in her room studying. Hana was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone. Emi was trying to teach me how to fold origami, her little fingers clumsy but determined.
"No, Suon, you have to fold it here," she said, pointing at a crease on the paper. "Like this, see?"
I tried to follow her instructions, but my chubby fingers kept slipping. The paper crumpled, and I let out a frustrated sigh. It wasn't fair—in my old life, I'd had steady hands, hands that could assemble a makeshift shelter or pick a lock with a paperclip. Now I had these useless little sausages.
"Maybe you're just not good at it," Hana called from the couch, not even looking up. "Some people aren't made for arts and crafts."
"Shut up, Hana," Yuki's voice drifted from her room, sharp and dismissive.
Emi's hair turned a sad gray. "Don't listen to her. You'll get it. Just try again."
I wanted to snap at her, to tell her that I wasn't a child who needed coddling. But the look on her face—so earnest, so full of faith in me—made my anger dissolve. Instead, I took a deep breath and tried again, folding the paper more carefully this time.
And then something strange happened.
The paper slipped from my fingers, and instead of falling to the floor, it hovered for a split second. I blinked, thinking I'd imagined it. But Emi gasped, her hair shooting up into a bright yellow, her hair usually represents her emotions.
"Suon! Your hand!"
I looked down. My right arm was stretching—not just a little, but visibly, like a piece of taffy being pulled. The skin didn't tear, didn't hurt; it just elongated, reaching toward the fallen paper as if it had a mind of its own.
I didn't panic. I felt a surge of joy, of recognition, because this was the moment I'd been waiting for. The power was waking up. My smile beamed for the first time in a while inside my body.
I reached for the paper, and my arm followed, stretching a full foot before my fingers closed around the origami. For a heartbeat, I just held it there, amazed. Then I focused, and my arm snapped back to normal, leaving no trace of what had just happened.
The room went silent.
"What the hell was that?!" Hana shrieked, jumping off the couch. Her eyes were wide, her quirk-enhanced ears probably picking up the faint pop of my joints. "Did you just—your arm—it was like rubber!"
Emi was bouncing in place, her hair cycling through a rainbow of colors. "That was so cool! Do it again! Do it again!"
From the doorway, Kenji appeared. He must have heard the commotion. He stood there, arms crossed, his face unreadable. For a long moment, he just stared at me, his jaw tight.
Then he spoke, his voice low and rough. "Suon. Come here."
I felt a chill run down my spine. My father rarely addressed me directly, except for the occasional grunt of approval or disappointment. I got up slowly, my legs shaky, and walked over to him.
He knelt down so we were eye level, his hands gripping my shoulders. His grip was firm, almost painful. "Show me again. Stretch your arm. Now."
I wanted to tell him that I didn't know how I'd done it, that it had been an accident, a fluke. But the look in his eyes—desperate, hungry, demanding—made me swallow my protests. I closed my eyes, trying to feel that drumbeat, that warmth in my chest.
Nothing.
I tried again, reaching out with my will, picturing my arm extending like before. My limb twitched, but stayed stubbornly normal.
"I… I can't," I said, hating how high-pitched my voice sounded. "It just happened. I don't know how to control it."
Kenji's grip tightened on my face, his hands squishing both sides of my cheek whilst his smile was, for the first time ever, evident in his face to me. "You will control it. You hear me? You're my son. You're going to be strong. You're going to be a hero. This quirk—whatever it is—is your ticket. Don't waste it."
The words hit me like a slap. Don't waste it. Was that what he thought of me? A potential waste?
"Dad, I'm trying," I said, my voice trembling despite myself. "I just need time—"
"Time?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it, as his voice turned serious for a moment. "I've been waiting three years for you to show something. Three years of wondering if you'd be quirkless like me. And now you show me this, and you can't even do it on command?" He stood up abruptly, letting go of my face. "Figure it out. Or don't. But if you're going to be a deadbeat, I'd rather know now."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards. I stood there, frozen, feeling tears prick at my eyes. But I refused to let them fall. I'd cried enough in my first life to last two lifetimes.
Hana was quiet for once, her face pale. Emi looked like she was about to cry. Even Yuki had emerged from her room, her expression troubled whilst wearing her study glasses.
"Dad's just… stressed," Yuki said awkwardly, breaking the silence. "He doesn't mean it."
I didn't answer. I just walked back to the living room, picked up the origami paper, and tried to fold it again. My fingers were shaking, and I messed it up. I tried again, and messed it up again.
But I kept trying.
Because if there was one thing my first life had taught me, it was that giving up only led to more pain. And I was done with this constant feeling of pain.
---
That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I lay in my futon, staring at the ceiling. The drumbeat in my chest was faint, but I could feel it now, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It was like a muscle I'd never known I had, waiting to be exercised.
I thought about Nika's words: "The power won't be fully yours, and you'll have to work hard to unlock the true potential."
Work hard. That was fine. I'd worked hard my whole first life, even when it got me nowhere. But this time, I had a reason. A purpose. A family that, for all its flaws, was still better than anything I'd ever had in my pathetic life.
I closed my eyes and focused on that drumbeat, let it fill my mind. I thought about Emi's smile, about Betta's lullabies, about the way Yuki had defended me earlier. I thought about Kenji too—about his disappointment, his desperation. It hurt, but it also made me angry, knowing how he must feel.
I won't let you down, I told myself, but also, in a strange way, I was telling my father. But I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. For the freedom to choose my own path, the wish I never got granted in my lifetime.
The drumbeat grew louder. Stronger.
And then, without warning, my body started to change. It wasn't painful, just… strange. My skin felt warmer, looser, like I was wearing a too-big suit. My limbs seemed to lengthen, not stretching like before, but transforming into something different—something more elastic, more fluid. I looked down at my hands in the dim moonlight, and they looked… larger. Slightly cartoonish, with rounded edges, like I'd stepped into a different body. I took a few steps to the mirror, being careful to not wake up Emi sleeping near me, and looked at myself, with my mini white clouds surrounding my neck in a horseshoe shape and my hair turning white alongside my eyes, it felt euphoric,
I opened my mouth to speak, and my voice came out deeper, more playful, almost like a laugh.
"Heh… hehehe…", the laugh echoed a little, sounding like Luffy was right there. It sounded a little high pitched due to my younger body, but I knew it was there.
I wasn't scared. I was amazed. This was Nika's gift—the warrior's form, the dancer's body. I felt lighter, stronger, filled with an energy that had no outlet. I wanted to run, to jump, to stretch my arms across the room and hug everything in sight.
But I held back. I'd learned my lesson about losing control.
Instead, I sat up slowly, testing my new limbs. They moved with a fluidity I'd never felt before. I reached out and touched the wall, and my arm elongated just enough to brush the surface. I pulled it back, and it snapped into place perfectly.
Okay, Suon. Calm down. You've got this. You've got the power. Now you just need to learn how to use it.
I stayed in that form for about five minutes, savoring every second. Then I focused on reverting, and the transformation faded like a dream, leaving me as a normal three-year-old boy again, panting and sweating on my futon.
But I was smiling.
For the first time in this life, I felt hope. Real hope. Not just the distant promise of a god I barely understood, but something tangible, something mine.
I fell asleep with that smile on my face, the drumbeat humming softly in my chest like a lullaby.
---
The next morning, I didn't tell anyone about what had happened. Not Betta, not Yuki, not even Emi. I wanted to keep this secret for myself, at least for now. I needed to understand it before I shared it.
But my father caught me off guard.
He found me in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal alone. The others were still getting ready. He sat across from me, his face unreadable and serious, as usual.
"Last night," he said, his voice low and in a sense of a whisper. "I saw you. Through the crack in your door. You changed."
I froze, my spoon halfway to my mouth. He'd seen me? How had he—?
"I'm not going to punish you," he continued, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not going to tell your mother. But I want to know what you're capable of. And I want to help you." He paused, and for the first time, I saw something other than disappointment in his eyes—something almost like pride. "I was quirkless, Suon. I know what it's like to be powerless. But you're not. You're going to be powerful—more powerful than anyone in this family, and even your sisters and possibly even All Might. And I won't let you squander that."
I didn't know what to say. This was the most he'd ever spoken to me, the most he'd ever offered. So I nodded, my cereal growing soggy by the minute.
"Okay, Dad," I said quietly, matching his tone. "I'll try."
He nodded back, and for a moment, we just sat there, father and son, sharing a silent understanding I yearned for.