Morning doesn't announce itself so much as leak into the house.
Ken wakes to the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint clink of something metallic in the kitchen. For a moment, he lies still, staring at the ceiling, letting the events of last night settle into something solid. The watch is still there, snug around his wrist, inert and ordinary-looking, as if it hadn't rewritten his sense of reality less than twelve hours ago. He exhales, pushes himself up, and checks the time. Just past nine Downstairs, the lights are on. That alone is unusual. Ken pulls on a hoodie and heads down, steps careful on the stairs. The smell of eggs and toast hits him halfway down, warm and unmistakably domestic. In the kitchen, his dad stands at the counter, already dressed, sleeves rolled up, flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who doesn't cook often but commits fully when he does. "You're up," his dad says without turning around. "Good. Early worm gets the worm. Or survives the bird. Something like that."
Ken blinks. "That's… not how that goes." His dad grins over his shoulder. "Worked out fine for me." Two plates are already set on the table. Breakfast is simple—eggs, toast, some fruit—but intentional. Ken notices things like that more than he used to. Mom's is still a sleep. The house is quiet in that way it only is on weekends, when time feels softer around the edges.
They eat together, mostly in silence. Not an awkward one. Just the kind that doesn't need filing "So," his dad says eventually, wiping his hands on a towel. "Gym hunt." Ken nods. "Yeah."
"Thought so." His dad leans back in his chair. "Sunday's good for it. Less rush. We can actually look around instead of settling."
Ken hesitates, then asks, "You sure you're okay with this?"
His dad snorts. "You kidding? I wanted to do something like this when I was your age. Didn't stick with it." A pause. "Different reasons. But still."
Ken doesn't miss the way his dad looks at him when he says that. Not pressure. Something closer to hope, carefully restrained.They clean up, grab their jackets, and head out.
The city is awake but unhurried. Shops opening late. Streets busy but not frantic. They walk part of the way before catching a train, standing shoulder to shoulder among people heading nowhere in particular.
The first gym they visit is loud and cramped, packed with mirrors and machines that look more ornamental than practical. The second is too polished, all branding and promises, more about selling an image than building anything real. A third advertises quirk-enhanced training but focuses almost entirely on flashy applications—boosters, simulators, controlled bursts of power.
Ken watches quietly as his dad asks questions, nods, listens. None of it feels right.
"I don't want to rely on it," Ken says finally as they step back outside. "Not just the… extra stuff." His dad considers that. "You want your baseline solid."
"Yeah." They walk a bit farther than planned. Past a school. Past a cluster of older buildings that don't quite match the newer development around them. That's when Ken notices it—a sign tucked above a narrow entrance.
No neon. No holograms. Just painted lettering.
Finn's Training Hall Strength. Control. Discipline.
Inside, the space opens up more than expected. Mats line the floor. Free weights sit neatly racked along one wall. Wooden practice weapons hang in careful rows. There's a quiet here—not empty, but focused.
A man is adjusting a heavy bag near the far end. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like someone who doesn't train to look strong but because strength is simply part of his life. He turns as they enter, blue eyes sharp but friendly.
"G'day," he says, accent unmistakable. "You two lost, or just curious?"
Ken's dad gestures vaguely. "Looking for a place that takes training seriousl The man smiles. "You found it, then. Name's Finn."
They shake hands. Finn's grip is firm but controlled, like he's measuring rather than asserting.
Ken watches him carefully. There's no visible quirk activation. No shimmer, no distortion. And yet, something about the way he stands suggests power held in reserve.
Finn looks at Ken. "You the one training?"
Ken nods. "I want to be a hero."
Simple. Honest.
Finn doesn't laugh. Doesn't scoff. He just studies Ken for a moment longer than expected.
"Yeah," Finn says eventually. "I remember saying that."
Ken's dad raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Finn gestures around the hall. "This place isn't about shortcuts. I train people to make their bodies do what they're supposed to do—quirk or no quirk. Control first. Strength follows."
Ken feels something settle in his chest at that.
They talk logistics—schedule, expectations, rules. Finn explains that he runs the place himself. Mornings and evenings. Limited students. Focused training.
"I moved here not long ago," Finn adds casually. "Supporting family. This keeps me busy." Ken doesn't ask more. Something tells him Finn wouldn't answer anyway.
At one point, Finn asks Ken to step onto the mat.
"Show me how you move," he says.
Ken hesitates, then does. Nothing fancy. Basic stance. A punch he's practiced alone more times than he'll admit. Finn watches closely. Too closely.
"Not bad," Finn says. "But you think before you move." Ken flushes. "Is that… bad?"
Finn chuckles. "Depends. Thinking keeps you alive. Overthinking gets you hit." He taps Ken's shoulder lightly, faster than Ken expects. Ken barely reacts.
Finn steps back. "We'll fix that."
Ken's dad watches from the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable. When Finn turns back to him, there's a quiet understanding there—two men who know what it means to chase something and fall short, in different ways.
"This'll be good for him," Finn says. "Not just for fighting. For deciding who he wants to be when it matters."
Ken doesn't hear the rest. He's too focused on the way Finn said that—like it came from experience rather than theory. They leave not long after, enrollment set. As they walk back toward the station, Ken glances down at his wrist. The watch is quiet. But for the first time, he feels like he's taking a step that matters—even without it And somewhere behind them, in a modest training hall tucked away from the city's noise, Finn watches the door close and thinks, not for the first time, about how easy it is to start with good intentions—and how hard it is to keep them intact
They step back out onto the street, the door closing behind them with a dull thud.
The city noise rushes back in all at once—cars passing, voices overlapping, a bicycle bell ringing somewhere nearby. Ken blinks, like he's just come up for air. His shoulders are still tense, his mind replaying Finn's words, the way the man had watched him move like he was looking past the obvious mistakes and into something unfinished.
Ken breaks the silence first.
"That place was… different," he says.
His dad hums in agreement as they start walking. "Different how?"
Ken frowns, searching for the right word. "Not fake. Not like the others. He didn't try to sell anything."
"That's what I noticed too," his dad says. "No promises. Just expectations."
Ken kicks a loose pebble along the sidewalk, watching it bounce ahead of them. "He felt like a hero."
His dad glances sideways at him. Not sharply. Just enough to catch the tone.
"Yeah?" he says. "What makes you say that?"
Ken opens his mouth, then closes it again. He hadn't really thought it through. "I don't know. He just… stands like one. Like he knows when to move and when not to."
His dad smiles faintly. "That's usually the dangerous kind."
They walk another block before Ken adds, a little too quickly, "I wanna train there. Like—really. I can't wait." I figured," his dad says. "I got his number. We'll talk about schedules tonight, maybe tomorrow. See what works." Ken's grin is immediate. Too immediate. It's the kind that spills out before caution has time to catch up.
"Really?" His dad raises an eyebrow. "Try not to look like you just won the lottery."
Ken fails completely. They reach the station entrance, descending into the underground flow of people. The air changes—cooler, heavier. The sound becomes layered, echoes overlapping as trains roll in and out.
They stand side by side on the platform. Ken rocks on his heels, restless, energy buzzing under
his skin. After a moment, his dad speaks again. "So," he says, casual on the surface. "Being a hero." Ken stiffens. Just a little. "Yeah," Ken says. "What about it?" His dad doesn't answer right away. A train roars past on the opposite track, wind tugging at their clothes. When it's gone, he finally says, "Is that really what you want?"
Ken turns to him. "Of course it is." "That wasn't the question," his dad says gently. Ken's jaw tightens. "Why wouldn't it be?" They board the train together, finding seats near the door. Ken drops into one, arms crossed, already defensive. He hates when conversations start like this—slow, careful, like he's being walked toward something he doesn't want to hear.
His dad stays standing, holding onto the rail. "I'm not saying it's wrong," he says. "I'm asking if you've thought about what it costs."
Ken scoffs. "Everyone knows that. Danger, responsibility, whatever. That's part of it."
"That's part of the brochure," his dad says. "Not the reality." Ken looks away, watching the tunnel blur past the windows. "You don't think I can do it." "That's not what I said." "It's what you're thinking." His dad sighs—not annoyed, just tired in an old, familiar way. "Ken. I wanted to do it too." That gets Ken's attention. His dad shifts his grip on the rail. "I applied to U.A." Ken looks back at him, surprised. "You never said that." "I don't talk about it much," his dad says. "Didn't get in." The train slows at the next station. People get on, get off. The world keeps moving, indifferent. "I had a quirk that could've worked," his dad continues. "Absorption. Physical impacts, kinetic force. I wasn't flashy, but I wasn't useless either." Ken leans forward slightly, listening now. "I trained. I tried. And when I failed, I told myself it was because I wasn't good enough." His dad's voice stays steady, but there's something underneath it—something old. "So I stopped believing I could be."
The train lurches forward again.
"By the time I found that fire again," his dad says, "I was too old. Got licensed for civilian use. Self-defense. Rescue assistance. All legal. All safe."
Ken swallows. "Do you regret it?" His dad doesn't answer immediately.
"I regret giving up," he says finally. "Not the life I ended up with."
Ken doesn't miss the glance that follows—that quick, warm look that says you're part of that life.
They get off a few stops later and head back up into daylight. The neighborhood feels quieter here. Familiar. As they walk, Ken mutters, "I won't give up." His dad nods. "I know you think that." Ken snaps his head up. "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means you're stubborn," his dad says. "And impatient. And you hate being told no." Ken bristles. "That's not true." "You quit football after two months." "That coach sucked." "Badminton?" "Boring." His dad smiles faintly. "Exactly." Ken opens his mouth to argue, then hesitates. He hates that his dad isn't wrong.
"I'm serious this time," Ken says, quieter.
"I believe that," his dad replies. "I just want you to understand—wanting to be a hero isn't enough. You have to want the weight that comes with it." They turn onto their street. Home is just ahead now. Ken looks down at his hands. At his wrist. "I don't want to be safe," he says. "I want to matter." His dad stops walking. Ken turns, surprised.
"That," his dad says carefully, "is the right reason. And the most dangerous one."
He rests a hand on Ken's shoulder. Not heavy. Not restraining. "We'll take this step by step," he says. "Gym first. Discipline. Consistency. You show me you can stick with that, and we'll talk about the rest." Ken nods, a mix of frustration and relief twisting in his chest.
"Okay," he says. "But I'm not backing down." His dad smiles—small, proud, a little sad. "I wouldn't expect you to." They walk the rest of the way home together, the conversation not finished—just paused, like a promise waiting for the right moment to be tested