"The perpetrator of the Kita Bay City car dismemberment case from last week is still at large. The male victim was saved by Pro Heroes. The female victim, a nurse at Kita Bay Medical Clinic, did not survive. The two were married. Their only surviving child, a five-year-old boy, is currently receiving treatment. We now turn to further details…"
The television clicked off.
A doctor stood quietly at the bedside, glancing at the child who lay motionless beneath the dim hospital lights. He gently drew the curtain aside, studying the boy's condition.
Five years old.
His injuries were horrifying.
Burn scars covered most of his face, the skin warped and uneven. Deep blade wounds stretched from his neck down across his torso and limbs, some so severe that even after treatment, raw flesh was still visible beneath barely healed skin. The cuts looked almost deliberate, as if someone had tried to carve him apart piece by piece.
The doctor exhaled softly, his gaze heavy with pity.
He had just reviewed the final report.
The boy's quirk had suffered irreversible damage from extreme overuse. With current medical technology, there was no way to restore it.
He would still be able to use it, technically. But only in a limited, weakened state.
For a child born into a family known for powerful healing abilities, that might as well mean having no quirk at all.
In a world where nearly eighty percent of people possessed quirks, strength often determined one's place in society. Heroes stood at the top. Those without strong quirks… did not.
"What a waste," the doctor murmured under his breath. "A rare healing-type quirk, ruined."
He hesitated, then spoke more gently.
"Your father gave his life to protect yours. You need to live well, alright?"
He let the curtain fall and stepped out of the room.
The moment the door shut, a faint, stifled sob echoed from inside.
Kurose Kuro.
Five years old. The sole survivor of the Kita Bay City case.
He had lost his parents.
And his future.
With no remaining relatives, he was placed under government care and sent to an orphanage.
Ten years later.
Morning at Nekohoshi Orphanage began, as always, in chaos.
A small army of kittens had claimed Kuro's bed as their kingdom.
He rubbed his head, peeled a stubborn tabby off his hair, and stared at it for a moment. The cat blinked back lazily, unimpressed.
After a silent three-second standoff, Kuro set it aside and got up.
Behind him, the cat flopped into the warm space he'd left behind, curling up like it had just won a territorial dispute.
Kuro washed up and reached for a black cloth from the shelf, wrapping it carefully over his face and neck.
The scars hadn't faded.
Time had done nothing to soften them. If anything, they seemed more severe against his now older features. Just a glimpse was enough to unsettle most people.
And he had learned that the hard way.
A new girl at the orphanage had once seen his face by accident. She'd been so frightened she ran a fever that night.
Kuro let out a quiet breath.
Even smiling felt wrong. Distorted. Unsettling.
Better to keep it hidden.
If his quirk were still strong… maybe things would be different.
The Kurose family had once been known for their rare ability: transferring damage.
In its prime, the quirk allowed injuries to be shifted from one target to another. Severe wounds could be taken on, reduced, or even redirected elsewhere. In combat, it meant near-endless endurance. In medicine, it was invaluable.
But it came with a cost.
Every use wore down the user's life.
No one in the Kurose family had ever lived past forty.
His grandfather had died at thirty-seven.
His uncle, Kurose Daichi, hadn't even made it to thirty.
Kuro's thoughts drifted… then snapped back as a voice called out.
"Kuro, you're up early again."
Fujita Emi stood in the hallway, rubbing her eyes, her voice still thick with sleep.
"One of the kids knocked over a vase yesterday. Could you take a look at it? Sorry to ask."
"It's fine," Kuro replied.
The broken vase sat on a small table nearby. It hadn't shattered completely, just split into a few large pieces.
He picked one up, aligning it carefully with the rest. Then his palm began to glow faintly.
The cracks softened.
The fragments seemed to melt back together, fusing seamlessly.
A few seconds later, the vase was whole again.
Kuro lowered his hand and glanced at his palm.
A faint white mark lingered where the quirk had activated. No bleeding this time. No torn skin.
"About fifty percent," he murmured.
His quirk, Damage Transfer, was still functional… but far from what it once was.
He could redirect damage from objects, animals, or plants onto himself. But human injuries were no longer transferable.
There were limits.
Objects had to be repaired within three days of being damaged. Living things within twelve hours.
And the cost?
The damage he absorbed ranged from half to the full severity of the original.
In other words, using his quirk meant taking the injury himself.
Helping someone could easily mean crippling himself.
Still, he continued.
By the time the sun climbed higher, Kuro had already finished most of his routine.
Cooking breakfast.
Cleaning the courtyard.
Packing school supplies.
Waking the younger kids one by one and making sure they brushed their teeth.
Preparing a separate meal for the orphanage director.
Nekoyama Fumiko, better known as Granny Neko.
She was an elderly woman with a cat-like appearance, complete with ears and a tail. Her personality matched just as well. She insisted on fish with every meal.
"Kuro, your cooking keeps getting better," she said, satisfied.
"Eat while it's hot," Kuro replied, already clearing dishes. "I need to head out soon."
"Young people are always in a rush," she muttered, setting down her spoon. Then her tone shifted, more thoughtful.
"You're fifteen this year, aren't you? Have you decided on a high school?"
Kuro paused.
"Probably a nursing program," he said after a moment. "I never planned to follow my mother's path, but… it feels useful."
He turned to leave, but Granny Neko called out again.
"The Kurose family has produced Heroes for generations," she said. "Have you considered applying to a Hero course?"
Kuro stopped.
Slowly, he turned back.
His face was hidden behind the cloth, his expression unreadable. But there was a faint curve to his voice.
Heroes.
A path that burned through his family's lives like dry tinder.
"A Hero, huh…"
The words lingered in the air, carrying something sharp beneath their calm surface.
What a ridiculous idea.