— Age 5 —Midori Elementary.
The classroom was in chaos. Tail swipes. Spark flares. A girl floated mid-air and giggled as she bounced off the ceiling. The teacher scribbled notes on a tablet, not even pretending to manage the room.
Reiji sat at his desk, arms folded, legs still. His pencil tapped a rhythm against the wood. One-two. Pause. One-two. Pause.
A kid leaned over from the next desk. Loud, curious.
"What's your Quirk?"
Reiji blinked. "…I don't have one yet."
A second kid leaned in. "Wait, really? Like, nothing?"
Reiji hesitated. "Not yet. Maybe it's just late."
The first kid wrinkled his nose. "That's weird. Mine showed up last year."
Someone behind them muttered, "Blank spot."
Laughter trickled in. Just enough to sting.
Reiji looked at his hands. Opened, closed. Palms clean. Empty.
Maybe it's late.
Or maybe it's hiding.
No one said anything to his face again. But at recess, no one picked him. In classes, no one sat near him. In PE, the ball always rolled past him without a call.
That afternoon, during art class, the teacher crouched beside him.
"You okay, Reiji?"
He blinked. "I think so."
"Even if you don't have a Quirk, you're still special."
He looked at her, then down at his drawing: a little stick figure with fists up. He'd drawn tiny arrows to show how the hips should twist during a punch. Next to it, a set of circles—beats. A rhythm chart, simple and instinctive. check this
"That's the kind of thing they say about dogs that don't win Best in Show." he said.
The teacher didn't know what to say to that.
— Age 6 — Preliminary Quirk Sorting Day
Most kids already had their Quirks. Today was just a formality.
Reiji stood at the edge of the gym as the teachers clipped colored tags onto students' uniforms— element, Strength, Support, Hybrid.
When they got to him, there was no color. Just a plain white sticker with a single word:
UNCONFIRMED
The teacher hesitated before pressing it onto his chest. Her clipboard shifted in her grip.
"You'll sit this part out, okay?"
He sat cross-legged, eyes tracking every movement. The boy who shot foam missed his target. The levitating girl spun too fast and crashed into a mat.
She should've tucked her knees. That would've slowed her down.
That punch came too early. Looked cool, but it wouldn't land. Their power's flashy. But the control sucks.
When it was time to pick teams, no one looked at him.No one asked if he wanted to try.
At recess, He just watched—patterns, timings, breathing.
That evening, on the walk home:
"What muscles make you punch faster?"
Rika blinked. "Huh? What kind of question is that?"
"I want to get strong,"
She stared at him for a second and crouched down to his level.
"Why now?"
"Everyone else gets help from their Quirk, and i don't " Reiji said.
She slowed a little. looked down at him. So small. So serious.
"Alright," she said. "Then you start with your legs. Power comes from the ground up. Then your core—that keeps you steady. And speed…"
She tapped his chest.
"Speed's about rhythm"
Later that week, Daigo found him in the living room doing push-ups. in Pajamas. Face flushed.
"Training for something, kiddo?"
Reiji kept going. "Everyone else has a Quirk. I don't. So I have to work harder."
Daigo raised a brow. "That so? And how exactly are you training?"
"I watch how they mess up. Then I make sure I don't."
He paused to breathe. "And I learn how my body moves."
Daigo watched him for a moment. Then he knelt beside him, checked the form, adjusted his elbow slightly.
"Alright. Keep your back straight. And breathe through your nose."
Reiji gave a small nod, never breaking rhythm.
Under his breath, he whispered it again.
One-two. Three-four. One-two. Three-four.
— Age 7 —
The school sports festival was loud. Flashy Quirk demos. Group routines. Some kids shot fire into the air while others bounced off walls or skated through wind tunnels.
Reiji stood at the edge of the gym. No one had asked him to join anything.
He didn't mind. Not really.
From where he stood, he could watch everyone. Observe. Measure.
"Hey," Rika said, crouching next to him with a juice box. "You okay, kiddo?"
He turned. Rika crouched beside him, holding a juice box. Her brow creased a little.
"Why aren't you with the other kids?" she asked.
"They didn't need me," he said quietly.
Rika tilted her head. "That bother you?"
He shrugged. "I can still learn from here."
Daigo stepped in behind them, arms crossed. "You always this quiet during big events?"
"I'm counting," Reiji said, eyes still on the performers. "They keep messing up the second beat."
Rika smiled a little. "You and your rhythm."
He took the juice box. Didn't say anything else.
-At home
"You're still going?" he said, leaning against the doorframe. "Didn't you do enough watching at school?"
"I wanted to try something."
Daigo walked over. "Yeah? What are you working on?"
"Timing," Reiji said. "Breath and motion. Together."
Daigo nodded, then crouched beside him. "And why's that matter to you so much?"
Reiji paused.
"Because they don't have to think about it. Their Quirks do half the work. I don't have that. So I have to make it automatic."
Daigo watched him for a second, then ruffled his hair.
"Alright. Just don't forget you're seven. Go easy sometimes."
Reiji gave a tiny nod. He didn't smile.
But his fingers started tapping again. Quiet. Steady. In time.
— Age 8 —
By now, no one asked why Reiji never joined group work.
He was just the quiet one. The kid who watched from the sidelines and took notes.
He didn't care.
During PE combat drills, he sat cross-legged near the wall, notebook open, eyes tracking every move. Some kids forgot he was even there.
One teacher finally stopped mid-demo. "What are you writing all the time?"
Reiji didn't look up. "I'm analyzing their Quirks. Weak spots. Overextensions. How long they can hold their breath while boosting. Stuff like that."
The teacher stared. "...That's specific."
Reiji nodded. "I want to know when people break rhythm. That's when they're open."
Later, in the locker room, a second-year brushed past and shoved him hard.
"Watch it, Blank."
Reiji didn't flinch. Just shifted his weight, logged the angle, the shoulder speed, how much power was behind it.
Filed it.
A week later, during sprint trials, Reiji beat that same kid's record. By two and a half seconds.
A week later, during sprint trials, Reiji beat that same kid's record. By two and a half seconds.
No one cheered.
He didn't need them to.
That night at dinner
"You're faster again," Rika said.
Reiji ate a few more bites before answering. "I know my tempo now. And how to break it on purpose."
Daigo looked over. "break it?"
Reiji tapped the table twice—then a third time, just off-beat.
"When you're always on rhythm, people predict you," he said. "But when you break it—just once—"
He paused.
"—that's when you hit."
Daigo raised an eyebrow. Rika didn't say anything, but her mouth twitched like she might.
Neither of them stopped him when he stood up after dinner and got back to training.