"What are we having for dinner?" A 15-year-old boy asked.
The knife hit the board in a steady rhythm.
"Curry," his sister said, not looking back.
The boy groaned from the couch. "Didn't we have curry yesterday?"
"And the day before," she replied. "And you ate it both times."
On the TV, a familiar opening blared.
Shizukesa ga shimikomu yo de iki o tometa gozen goji
Hijo kaidan de tsume o kamu asu wa docchi da?
The day has come
He didn't answer. He had his legs tucked up on the couch, remote abandoned somewhere near the cushions, eyes glued to the screen. My Hero Academia. He was rewatching after completing the final season.
Behind him, vegetables slid into a metal bowl.
"Turn it down," his sister said.
"It's not loud."
She gave him a look over her shoulder. The boy couldn't see her full face, but he knew the look anyway. He lowered the volume by two notches. Barely.
The doorbell rang.
His sister sighed. "Zen. Get it."
He didn't move. "You're closer."
"I'm holding a knife."
"You're still closer."
She stopped chopping. Slowly turned around. Her eyes narrowed just enough to promise violence later. Zen grinned and leaned back into the couch, triumphant.
"Tch." She set the knife down harder than necessary and wiped her hands on a towel. "You're dead after dinner."
"Threat noted."
She walked toward the door, ponytail swaying. Zen went back to the screen. Even though it wasn't his first time watching this, it had been too long since he watched it.
A few seconds passed.
"Who is it, nee-chan?" he asked, eyes still forward.
No answer.
Zen frowned. He muted the TV and twisted around on the couch. "Nee-chan?"
Still nothing.
He stood up, irritation replacing laziness, and took a few steps toward the hallway.
That was when something slammed into the side of his head.
The world tilted. His feet left the floor. He didn't even have time to shout before the ground rushed up and cracked his vision apart.
He hit the floor on his side. Something wet ran down his temple.
Zen tried to push himself up. His arms shook and gave out.
Shapes moved in front of him. Two of them. Big. Dark clothes. Shoes he didn't recognise on his floor.
Yakuza
They stepped over him like he was furniture.
"Search fast," one said. His voice was rough, bored.
The other kicked open a cabinet. "The place is small."
Zen's ears rang. His eyes burned. He dragged his gaze toward the door.
His sister was there.
Slumped against the wall near the door. One arm bent wrong beneath her. Blood streaked from her hairline down her cheek, dark against her skin. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused.
"Nee—" His voice came out thin.
She coughed. Her head shifted, just a little.
"Zen," she whispered. It sounded like it hurt to say his name. "Run away."
He tried to stand.
His legs trembled. He got one knee under him. The room swam, but he pushed through it. He took one step toward her.
Something hit him again.
Harder this time.
His head snapped back. Light exploded behind his eyes. He crashed onto his back, breath tearing out of him in a useless wheeze.
"Idiot kid," someone muttered.
Zen couldn't move. The ceiling blurred and darkened at the edges. His ears filled with a high, thin sound, like metal screaming.
One of the men spoke again. "This isn't it."
"What?"
"Wrong place. The address was off."
There was a pause.
A tongue clicked. "Shitty Luck."
Zen's chest hitched. He tried to roll his head to see his sister again. She was still there. Still breathing. Barely.
"They saw us," the man continued. "Can't leave witnesses."
The other hesitated. Zen heard it in his voice. "They're just civilians."
"And?"
"…You said I'd get experience in torturing on the next job, not this"
The first man laughed quietly. "This is the job. Real-time. Field work." He gestured down the hall. "Start with her."
Zen's heart slammed so hard it hurt.
"No," he croaked. His mouth tasted like iron. "Stop."
A boot came down on his stomach.
Pain folded him in half. Air refused to come back.
"Shut up," someone said.
He heard movement. A scrape. His sister made a sound—small, broken, nothing like her voice when she teased him or yelled at him or called him stupid for leaving his socks everywhere.
Zen screamed her name.
Something smashed into his face.
"Stop it!"
Again.
"Please don't do something to her!"
And again.
His vision shattered into red and white. He tasted blood. His jaw screamed. He couldn't tell if the sounds he heard were coming from his mouth or just inside his head.
Somewhere, absurdly loud in the background, the TV unmuted itself.
"Worry not, because I am here."
The words bounced off the walls. Bright. Confident.
Zen laughed. Or maybe he sobbed. He couldn't tell.
On the screen, a hero landed between a villain and a crowd, smiling like everything would be fine now. Music swelled.
In the hallway, nothing stopped.
Zen's world narrowed to the sound of breathing—hers, ragged and fading—and the dull thuds that followed it.
Heroes always came in the nick of time.
That was how it worked.
Except they didn't in reality.
Not here.
Not now.
No sirens. No crash through the window. No sudden light or booming voice. Just two men in his house, making a mistake and deciding to clean it up.
That day, a fifteen-year-old boy waited for someone to save his sister.
He waited for a hero.
None came.
And the lesson settled into him—deep enough that even death would not be enough to loosen its grip.
***
"AGGGGGGGGGGGGGH" Haru woke up screaming.
Air scraped into his lungs too fast, too shallow. His hands clawed at the sheets, fingers curling like they were trying to find something solid to grab onto. His vision swarmed.
His chest hurt. As if something had wrapped itself around his ribs and refused to let go.
"H—hey."
He felt somebody touching him on the side. It overlapped with a kick in his mind.
Haru jerked sideways, arm swinging up on instinct. His hand smacked into something warm and solid.
"Don't touch me!"
"What the fuck!?"
The world snapped into clarity in uneven pieces.
Wooden floor. Walls—A room. The smell of cooked food lingered in the air.
A blond boy sat beside him, clutching his wrist, eyes wide, more in surprise than anger.
"Katsuki," Haru breathed.
The name steadied something.
He was his classmate. The one with a short temper. And more importantly, the second protagonist of My Hero Academia.
Haru's arms still shook. He stared at his own hands, fingers twitching against the blanket, refusing to settle.
"I—" His throat closed. He swallowed and forced the rest out. "Sorry."
Katsuki glanced at him, then looked away. "Whatever."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by Haru's breathing as it finally slowed to something closer to normal.
'Right. I am in the camp. It's the first day. I slept after moving in here. It's dinner time.'
Haru looked at the door, and as expected, a few of his classmates were there.
Hanta spoke up. "You good, man?"
Haru nodded automatically. "Just a nightmare," he said. "Since it's evening, guess, duskmare." Haru smiled.
Denki grinned. "Guess, you can make such bad jokes, you are good. After hearing your scream, I thought that villains had attacked."
Haru's smile stiffened. He remembered what was going to happen soon according his meta-knowledge. However, all of that got eclipsed by his last moments of his previous lives.
He stood and made it halfway out before the nausea hit him properly.
The bathroom was a blur of cold tiles and harsh light. He barely made it to the sink before retching. His hands gripped the porcelain hard enough for his knuckles to pale.
When he looked down, his brain betrayed him.
For a second, the watery mess in the sink looked darker. Thicker. Red at the edges.
Haru squeezed his eyes shut until the image broke apart. He rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, and avoided the mirror.
"I need air," he muttered to no one in particular.
The forest beyond the camp was quiet in a way that felt earned. Leaves rustled under his feet.
WHOOSH
He turned to his right so fast that it could have smacked.
Nothing.
"...I am really cooked if the wind is messing with me."
He walked until the noise from the camp faded.
Then he stopped, leaned against a tree, and pulled out his phone.
His thumb hovered over one contact longer than the others.
Mom.
The call connected after three rings.