Chapter Text
He has a quirk factor.
Every test confirmed it. The doctors declared it beyond reasonable doubt.
And yet…
He learnt, very quickly, that having a quirk factor meant absolutely nothing if there was no quirk to show for it.
No super strength.
No flashy elemental powers.
No mutation.
He might as well have been quirkless.
There might not have been a damning diagnosis stamped on all of his legal documentation, like a brand burnt into his skin, but it was still the same.
The whispers. The mocking laughter. Teachers and adults looking at him with pity, some not even bothering to hide it. Smiles that became tight whenever he said that he wanted to become a hero when he grew up.
Children are cruel in simpler, visible ways. Adults are just as cruel, in quieter ways.
Despite that, he endured.
Maybe out of stubbornness, spite, desperation, or some mix of all three.
Because surrendering, giving up, meant admitting that everyone had been right about him from the very beginning.
He clung onto the hope that his quirk existed somewhere beneath the surface, waiting for the right opportunity to manifest, once all the pieces had fallen into their rightful places.
He refused to give up hope, because heroes inspired hope against the cruelties of humanity, symbolising justice against those who abused their quirks for greed, violence and suffering.
Heroes didn't give up.
Heroes saved people.
Heroes mattered.
…
…
But it seemed, dreams didn't matter.
Not in a society built around power and strength that can be seen by the masses.
Years passed, and his quirk failed to show itself.
Bit by bit, the pressure wore him down.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
Just slowly.
Like water eroding stone, shaving off layer by layer, piece by piece.
Every hushed whisper. Every laugh full of mockery. Every pitied gaze. Every well-intentioned word that came veiled with hurt and condescension.
It was clear, society had no place for someone like him. In its collective view, it was better if he did not exist anymore.
Yet it was not society that broke him.
Fate would do it instead.
When life becomes too much, sometimes, ironically, the knowledge that death can come at any moment gets pushed into the furthest recesses of the human mind.
He certainly had no idea what was coming.
He didn't see the truck barrelling towards him until it was too late.
His body didn't freeze.
He didn't see his life flash before his eyes.
He didn't even get the chance to scream.
One moment, his feet was on the tarmac.
Then the next -
He is flying.
A flash of blinding pain. A piercing ringing in his ears.
Then the dull thud of his body hitting the tarmac, bouncing a few feet, then skidding to a stop.
There was nothing dramatic.
No final scenes of horror, realisation, or emotional lamenting.
His death comes like a light being switched off.
Just black.
To Be Continued.