"I found out I was in another body... Just like those stories my niece used to tell me. Back when I was—"
Ester paused, frowning.
"I tried checking for a system, but... nothing. No screen, no stats. Just me."
He sat alone in a luxurious room—fancy, polished, and filled with bowls of glossy fake fruit. It felt hollow, unnatural.
I wonder if that boy is okay... Ester bit his fingernail, chewing until a bitter taste hit his tongue.
The door creaked open.
Two strangers entered. One was tall, with blazing red hair and flames literally leaking from his body. The other was shorter, keeping his head low and face hidden under dark bangs.
What... How is he not burning alive? Ester stared. I must be dreaming.
He bit his nail again—too deep this time. Blood welled up.
"Ouch," he whispered.
A cold, stern voice cut through the moment.
"Ester. Don't bite your nails. It'll become a bad habit."
The flame-haired man stepped forward, wrapping Ester's bleeding fingers in a towel with mechanical gentleness.
Ester tried to smile, but it came out wrong. To them, it looked like the blank smile of a doll—expressionless and eerie.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Something inside held him back.
The man continued, voice still cold.
"I'll be adopting you, Ester. I heard about the... accident. With the other kids."
The flames around his mustache flickered higher, as if echoing something he wasn't saying.
"And—"
He was interrupted.
"T-The kid... is he okay?" Ester's voice was shaky, but he managed.
He didn't want to be the cause again. Not again.
The man's eye twitched—only for a second.
"The boy with the head injury? Yes. I had my people tend to him. He'll live."
His gaze pinned Ester like a predator inspecting prey.
"Now, enough of that." The flame-man straightened. "Since you don't know me—"
He gestured toward himself.
"I'm the number two Pro Hero. Endeavor. The so-called Flaming King."
He said it like it disgusted him.
Then he looked at the shorter figure.
"This is my son. Show your face, boy."
His tone didn't shift. Not warmth, not pride—just command. As if his son were furniture in the room.
The boy uncovered his hoodie, and that's when I saw it—
Half white, half red hair, split right down the middle.
A scar near his eye, faint but deep... it looked painful, but in a way, it also looked kind of cool.
His face? Cold. Just like the man standing next to him. But something in his eyes—
It wasn't harsh. It felt... helpful. Or maybe tired. I couldn't tell.
"My name is... Shoto," he said quietly, avoiding my eyes.
There was nothing in his tone. Nothing in his face.
Just empty.
I smiled a little. "Shoto? Nice to—"
But then... it hit me.
Like a punch to the brain.
A memory. My niece. Her voice going on and on about that anime she loved—
My Hero Academia.
No.
No way.
My head started spinning, the room tilted, and I could hear her voice in my head again:
"Uncle! You'd love Todoroki! He's so cool! He's got FIRE and ICE powers!"
My heart dropped. My fingers trembled.
I—I was in it. I was inside the anime.
And before I could stop myself, I blurted out—
"IS... IS THE NUMBER ONE PRO HERO ALL MIGHT?!"
Everything froze.
Shoto's head turned fast. His eyes wide.
Then he looked at his father—Endeavor.
And Endeavor's face...
Darkened.
Like a storm rolled in behind his eyes.
Shoto tried to say something. Tried to stop me.
"Ester, don't—"
BAAAM!
The floor shook.
Glass shattered.
And fire exploded through the walls.
The building—
It was on fire. Burning fast.
But it wasn't Endeavor's fire.
He looked shocked. Like he didn't expect it either.
Like something had gone very, very wrong.
Shoto jumped forward, using his ice to block falling wood, the heat almost unbearable.
I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
Then—
I heard it.
A scream. A child.
High-pitched. Full of pain.
I looked through the smoke and flames—
And my heart cracked.
It was him.
The little boy.
The same one who'd taken the hit for me earlier.
He wasn't safe.
His head was bleeding, his body twitching, and his eyes—
They were looking at me.
Begging.
"Help... please..."
My legs moved on their own. I had to get to him. I had to.
But a hand grabbed me. Tight.
"I'm not letting my money go to waste, boy," Endeavor snapped.
"Shoto! Let's go!"
"No—wait! Let me go!" I cried, trying to reach out.
But they pulled me back.
Shoto and Endeavor dragged me away, and all I could do was watch...
Watch that little boy—
The one who didn't even know my name—
Get swallowed by flames.
And his eyes—
They were still staring.
Still begging.
Still hoping someone would save him.
__
As the flames finally died down, the scent of ash lingered in the air.
Police and heroes combed through the wreckage, searching—hoping—for survivors.
But there were none.
None they could find, at least.
It was strange. Some kids were... missing. Maybe four.
But with everything burnt beyond recognition, they couldn't even tell who was who.
They marked every child as dead.
Closed the case.
A mysterious fire.
Just another tragic headline.
Weeks passed.
But the weight of it didn't.
Ester couldn't forget.
That kid's face... those eyes begging for help.
He had wanted to save him.
He should've saved him.
But just when he had moved to help—
That man, the one who called himself his father, dragged him away.
Why? Why him?
Why was I the one who lived?
He sat outside on the porch of the fancy house, lost in thought. In his hand, he held a small ant, watching it crawl along his skin before slowly crushing it between his fingers.
"It's weak... too weak," he muttered under his breath, barely noticing what he was doing.
A shadow loomed behind him. Someone sat down quietly beside him.
"Ester?" a calm voice said.
"Don't feel down... You'll get over it."
Ester blinked, turning slowly. It was Shoto.
"I lost my older brother in a forest fire," Shoto said, his voice even, eyes locked on the horizon. "So... yeah. You'll get over it."
His face stayed cold. Like always. But his eyes? They looked... tired.
Ester stared at him.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
And laughed.
"Haha... That's— That's the first time someone's told me something like that. Like... tried to comfort me."
Shoto raised an eyebrow, a little confused by the reaction.
But then—he chuckled too.
He didn't know why.
The laugh didn't feel right.
But it felt real.
And something about that moment—quiet and strange—felt like the last time either of them would feel something that wasn't burning.
--
A few months had passed.
Ester found himself back where it all began—the same alley, the same grime-caked dumpster. He stood quietly, just listening to the flies buzz and rats scurry. It stank of old milk and something worse.
He clutched a small, worn notebook to his chest.
Inside, page after page were filled with everything he remembered—how he got here, what this world was, the characters his niece used to talk about, the plotlines she wouldn't shut up about. Somehow, this world was that world. Her world.
My Hero Academia.
He let out a breath.
So weird... am I getting too attached? To something not even real?
But at least... I can walk. I can move. I can feel.
Better than sixty years of being paralyzed in a hospital bed... watching my body rot like those old flowers.
The memory made his stomach twist. He rubbed his wrist absentmindedly—right over the spot he always cut. He didn't know why, but when he bled, something happened. Strings. Threads. Sharp and red. He thought maybe it was... something supernatural.
Or maybe he was just broken.
Today, he tested it again.
He pulled out a small blade—a piece of scrap metal he found on the way—and sliced just deep enough to bleed. No hesitation anymore. Just a numb acceptance. As the blood spilled, it whipped itself into a fine, strong string. And with a flick of his fingers, it zipped out and killed a rat instantly.
Dead.
Ester crouched over the rat's body, watching the blood trickle from its side.
"Too easy..." he muttered. "Maybe... maybe if I use the rat's blood next. Or... no. That'd be gross. Or smart?"
He stood up, dizzy for a moment. The cut still dripped. He wrapped it in tissue and left the alley, heading toward a nearby convenience station. He needed band-aids. Again.
As he wandered the aisles, lost in thought, his arm throbbed. The tissue wasn't holding well. The blood had soaked through, sticky and dark.
Then—
BUMP.
He slammed into someone. His shoulder hit a firm chest, and before he could react—
SPLASH.
Boiling coffee poured down his injured wrist.
"AHHH—OW!" Ester cried out, his voice cracking as he clutched his arm. The pain was sharp, raw—like fire eating his skin and nerves. His knees nearly buckled.
The man he'd bumped into stared, expression unreadable. Dark hair. Droopy eyes. A scarf around his neck.
The man's gaze dropped to Ester's wrist.
Blood. Coffee. Bandaged with tissue. A knife in his hoodie pocket.
"Damn it..." the man muttered under his breath. "Kid..."
Without a word, he grabbed Ester's wrist.
"H-Hey—!" Ester panicked, trying to pull away, but the man was already at the sink behind the counter, barking something at the store clerk.
He turned on the faucet, running cold water over the burn.
"You've gotta be careful with open wounds," the man said, voice low but firm. "Hot liquid like that can infect deep cuts."
Ester winced as the man dabbed alcohol next.
"Agh—it stings!" he hissed.
"It's supposed to."
The man wrapped the wound with clean gauze and finally added a thick wool band-aid, tightening it just enough to stop the bleeding.
Then he stood back and stared at Ester.
"...What's your name?" he asked, voice unreadable.
"...E-Ester," he muttered, avoiding his gaze.
The man's expression darkened just a little.
"You should talk to someone, Ester. If you're hurting that bad... there's better ways to ask for help than cutting yourself."
Ester blinked, confused. "What—?"
"I'm not judging you," the man interrupted. "Just... think about it."
And with that, he turned and left, scarf trailing behind like a shadow.
Ester stood there in silence, staring down at his wrapped wrist.
He wasn't suicidal... at least, he didn't think he was.
He just... didn't know what else to do.
__
I think I might be pacing the story a bit too fast! Haha! Writing is so much fun, but I have so many ideas that don't quite fit with the fanfiction I'm working on. What are your thoughts on today's chapter? Is it too fast, too slow, or just right?
Stay tuned, as Ester will be trained by his stepfather, Endeavor, which is going to have a significant impact! I'm trying to make Ester act more mature since he's an old soul, but he has never explored the world, so he might come off as childish at times, or even... wicked?