Earlier this morning

  Dante stood at the bathroom sink, hands under the running water. The tap was cold enough to sting, but he didn't stop. He scrubbed his palms, his fingers, the spaces between, watching the water swirl down the drain.

  Clean. They have to be clean.

  The water ran clear. It always did. But some mornings, he still saw red.

  "Dante! Corvo!" Chiara's voice rang from the kitchen, bright and forceful.

  He dried his hands on a towel—three passes, methodical—and headed downstairs. Marco sat at the small kitchen table, scrolling through his phone while sipping coffee. Chiara set a plate in front of Dante without asking: scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fruit.

  "Eat," she ordered.

  He ate.

  When he finished, he grabbed his bag and headed for the door. "Vado a scuola, Marco, Chiara."

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder before he made it two steps.

  Chiara spun him around, eyes narrowed. "Japanese, Dante. You live in Japan now. You need to be careful—we're trying to blend in, remember?"

  Her voice softened on the last words, just slightly. They'd pulled him away from Italy, from everything he knew, dragged him into this new life because staying meant staying with her. With the family. With everything they were trying to leave behind.

  Dante sighed, his head bobbing in a reluctant nod. "Mm."

  Mm?" Chiara's eyebrow arched. "Wow. An actual response. Next you'll be smiling."

  Marco snorted into his coffee. "Don't push your luck, Chiara. Kid's got a quota—three emotions per week, max."

  "Then he's already over budget," she shot back, but her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. She released Dante with a small shove toward the door, ruffling his hair as he passed. "Go. And don't forget your lunch!"

  Dante grabbed the bento box she'd left on the counter. Behind him, he heard Marco's voice, teasing and light. "You think he actually eats those, or just stares at them dramatically?"

  "Shut up and finish your coffee."

  He almost smiles, or if the smile is so small, even Chiara doesn't see it

  The city was alive.

  People moved like currents—businessmen in suits, students in uniforms, mothers with strollers. The streets hummed with conversation, traffic, the distant wail of a siren. Construction echoed from a nearby site, the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of metal on metal.

  Dante paused at a red light and watched the construction crew work. Most of them were ordinary—hard hats, reflective vests, tired expressions. But one stood out.

  A massive figure, easily distinctive for his size, with skin like cracked stone and no visible eyes. Just smooth, rocky ridges where a face should be. He worked alone, hauling steel beams that would take three men to lift, moving with careful, deliberate precision.

  No one spoke to him. The worker mingled, yet he was alone. No one even looked at him for long. Dante stopped to look at him for a while. It felt sad.

  He wondered if that man had once wanted to be a hero, too. Or if he’d realized early on that some faces were only meant to be seen in the shadows of a construction site, far away from the cameras and the cheering fans, because of judgment and prejudice.

  A humble giant, Dante thought.

  The light turned green. He kept walking.

  The schoolyard was chaos—kids everywhere, laughing, shoving, showing off quirks in ways that technically violated rules but never got punished. A girl with butterfly wings hovered above a group of friends. A boy with stretchy arms played keep-away with someone's hat.

  Dante kept his head down and walked toward the entrance.

  That's when he saw them.

  Kaito stood near the bike racks, shoulders hunched, staring at the ground. His bag lay a few feet away, contents scattered—notebooks, pens, a crumpled lunch bag. Three students loomed over him: Akari, flanked by her two friends, all wearing matching smirks.

  "Oops," Akari said, not sounding sorry at all. "Guess you should be more careful, Hero Boy."

  They walked away, laughing.

  Kaito didn't move. He just stood there, staring at his things like they were evidence of something he'd done wrong.

  Dante approached slowly. He knelt and started gathering the scattered papers, stacking them carefully.

  Kaito flinched when he noticed. "You—you don't have to—"

  Kaito flinched when he noticed Dante kneeling beside him. His eyes darted toward the school gates—checking for Akari—then back to the scattered papers. "You—you don't have to..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She'll come back. They always do."

  "It's fine," Dante said quietly. He handed the stack to Kaito, who took it with trembling hands.

  "Thanks." Kaito's voice was a low hum. He glanced over his shoulder, checking if anyone was watching. "But really, you shouldn't... I mean, you don't want them to bother you because of me."

  Dante frowned. "Why do they bother you at all?"

  Kaito looked away. "It's nothing. They're just... playing around."

  Playing around.

  It wasn't the first time Dante had seen this. In the eight months since he'd transferred, he'd watched Akari and her friends circle Kaito like vultures. Mocking him. Tripping him in the halls. "Accidentally" spilling drinks on his things. And every time, Kaito made excuses because he looked scared.

  They're just playing around. It's not that bad. I don't want to cause trouble... bullshit!

  Dante didn't understand.

  They walked to class together in silence. Kaito kept his head down, clutching his bag like it might fly away if he let go. Dante walked beside him, hands in his pockets, lost in thought.

  Why does he take it? Why doesn't he fight back?

  The answer came to him, quiet and bitter as he was surrounded by students with quirks.

  Because he can't.

  Homeroom felt longer than usual.

  Their teacher, Mr. Tanaka—a tired-looking man in his forties with graying hair—stood at the front of the class and cleared his throat. "Alright, everyone. I know it's early in the year, but it's time to start thinking about your futures."

  Groans rippled through the room.

  "I'm passing out forms. I want you to write down your goals—what you want to do after junior high, which senior high schools you're interested in, and career aspirations. Be honest. This is for you."

  He handed out the papers and left the room, muttering something about needing more coffee.

  The moment the door closed, the room exploded with chatter.

  "I'm applying to Shiketsu!"

  "UA for me, obviously."

  "Hero course, all the way!"

  Dante stared at his blank form. He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't let himself think about it.

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  Beside him, Kaito picked up his pen and started writing, his handwriting small and precise.

  Akari noticed.

  "Oh my God," she said loudly, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Is Kaito seriously writing down a hero school?"

  The room went quiet.

  Kaito's pen paused. His jaw tightened, but he kept writing.

  Akari stood up, chair scraping against the floor. She walked over to his desk, her two friends trailing behind her like shadows. "You can't be serious. You're quirkless."

  "I can still help," Kaito said quietly. "Support heroes. Work in rescue operations. There are ways—"

  "'Ways, who needs help from a quirkless guy haha!'" Akari mocked, her voice dripping with condescension. She snatched the paper off his desk. "Let's see... 'I can support heroes.' Wow. Delusional much?"

  "Give it back." Kaito reached for it, but she held it out of reach.

  "You think you can be a hero? Without a quirk?" She laughed, sharp and cruel. "You'd just get in the way. You'd be useless."

  Her friends laughed too. A few other students joined in, nervous and half-hearted.

  Kaito stood up, fists clenched. "I can still make a difference. Even without—"

  Akari's hand ignited.

  Flames licked across her fingers, bright and hot, and she held the paper over them. The edges curled, blackened, caught fire.

  "Oops," she said, dropping the burning paper to the floor.

  Kaito stared at it, ash crumbling at his feet.

  Dante's hands curled into fists under his desk.

  Stop. Just stop. Why are you doing this? Someone stop them.

  "You know what?" Akari leaned in close, her voice low and venomous. "You'll never be a hero, Kaito. You'll never be anything."

  Kaito's voice cracked. "That's not true."

  "Isn't it?" Akari's flames grew brighter, hotter. She stepped closer, and Kaito stumbled back, his chair clattering to the floor.

  Dante stood up.

  His left hand slipped behind his back.

  "Akari, stop."

  His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.

  Everyone turned to look at him. Akari's smile faltered.

  Behind his back, a small orange portal swirled to life—no bigger than his palm, spinning lazily like water circling a drain. He imagined it the way he always did: a doorway to somewhere else, somewhere wrong. The air around it shimmered with heat that wasn't heat.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said stop." Dante's heart pounded, but he kept his voice steady. His hand pushed through the portal, vanishing up to the wrist. On the other side—wherever other was—his fingers brushed against something cold and shifting. "You're going too far."

  Akari's expression twisted into something ugly. "Stay out of it, transfer student. This doesn't concern you."

  "Yes, it does."

  She raised her hand—flames dancing across her palm—and for a moment, Dante thought she might actually do it. Might actually hurt Kaito.

  And then she swung.

  Kaito ducked, throwing his arms over his head, eyes squeezed shut—

  Dante moved.

  He didn't think. Didn't plan. His body just moved.

  "Limbo Shade."

  The transformation rippled through him like ice water flooding his veins. Four seconds—that's all it took when he did it right, when he made contact on the other side first. His skin shifted, mottled blue-gray stone texture crawling up from his submerged hand, spreading across his arm, his shoulder, his chest. Shadows peeled off him like smoke. The light died.

  The portal behind his back winked out.

  The transformation had left him cold.

  Not physically—though his skin still felt strange, like it didn't quite fit right—but inside. Empty. The Limbo form always did that. Stripped away everything soft, everything human, left him with nothing but clinical detachment and the hollow awareness of bodies moving around him like pieces on a board.

  No fear. No anger. No guilt.

  No feeling at all.

  It was useful. Made him efficient. Made decisions simple when empathy couldn't cloud his judgment.

  It also made him nothing.

  Even now, sitting in the Principal's office with Marco and Chiara flanking him, with Akari parents glaring daggers across the room, he felt it—that lingering numbness, like frostbite spreading through his chest. The edges of it were starting to thaw, emotions bleeding back in slow and unwelcome, but the core remained frozen.

  He couldn't control it yet. Couldn't turn it off when the transformation ended. The detachment clung to him like a second skin, minutes or hours depending on how long he'd stayed in that form.

  Right now, watching Eri clutch her bandaged wrist and her mother's fury and the Principal's concern, he felt distant. Like he was observing all of this through thick glass.

  This is a problem, some analytical part of him noted. But I can't make myself care.

  Not yet.

  "Dante."

  The Principal's voice cut through the fog, sharper this time.

  He blinked. The numbness cracked, just slightly, and warmth trickled back in—uncomfortable and unwelcome. Guilt. Confusion. The creeping realization that he'd hurt someone and couldn't remember feeling anything about it in the moment.

  He blinked again, focusing on the man's tired face. Principal Hayashi stood behind his desk, hands clasped, expression unreadable.

  "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

  Dante opened his mouth. Closed it.

  What could I say? That I was trying to help? That I couldn't feel anything when it happened?

  ""It was my fault," he said quietly, bowing his head low.

  The motion was automatic. Practiced. Like he'd done it a hundred times before.

  Marco and Chiara went still beside him. He didn't see their faces, but he felt Chiara's hand tighten on his shoulder—not in comfort, but in something closer to grief.

  Akari's mother made a noise of vindication. Her father checked his watch again, satisfied.

  "Unacceptable," Akari's mother said coldly, rising from her chair. "He should be expelled. Immediately. Do you understand what this could do to our family's reputation? To my daughter's future? If word gets out that she was attacked by some—some transfer student with a dangerous quirk—"

  "Now, hold on—" Marco started, leaning forward, but Chiara's hand shifted from Dante's shoulder to Marco's arm, stopping him mid-sentence.

  "Dante made a mistake," Chiara said, her voice calm but firm as steel. "But he wasn't the aggressor. Your daughter was threatening another student with her quirk. Threatening to burn him. That's against school policy."

  Akari's mother's face flushed red. "Are you accusing my daughter—"

  "I'm stating facts." Chiara's smile didn't reach her eyes. "There were witnesses. CCTV footage. Your daughter used her quirk first. In a classroom. Against a quirkless student."

  The room fell silent.

  Akari's father finally looked up from his phone, eyes narrowing slightly, calculating.

  Principal Hayashi rubbed his temples, mustache drooping. He glanced between the two families—Dante, head still bowed like a soldier awaiting punishment; Akari, clutching her wrist with practiced victimhood; Marco and Chiara, tense and protective; the parents across from them, radiating wealth and expectation.

  This could ruin me, he thought. One wrong move, and the board will have my head. Quirk incidents are under more scrutiny than ever. If I expel the boy, his guardians could file a complaint. If I don't punish him enough, her parents will make sure every news outlet in the district knows about it.

  He exhaled slowly.

  "Given the circumstances," he said carefully, "and the evidence available... I'm issuing suspensions to both students."

  Akari's head snapped up. "What?"

  "Akari, three days for unauthorized quirk usage in a non-training environment and threatening behavior toward a fellow student." He turned to Dante, whose head remained bowed. "Dante, two weeks for excessive force and causing injury to a classmate. Additionally, your guardians will need to monitor your behavior closely and report back to the school."

  "Two weeks?" Akari's mother's voice climbed. "For defending herself?"

  "She wasn't defending herself," Principal Hayashi said, his voice firm now, the kind of firmness that came from years of dealing with entitled parents. "She instigated the situation. The footage is clear. Both students acted inappropriately. Both will face consequences."

  "This is outrageous—"

  "It's my final decision." He met her gaze, unflinching. "This meeting is over."

  Akari's mother stood abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her husband followed suit, already typing something on his phone—likely a message to their lawyer, or the school board, or both.

  "You'll be hearing from us," she said coldly, gathering her designer handbag. "Mark my words, Principal Hayashi. This isn't over."

  She swept out of the office, her husband and daughter trailing behind. Akari shot one last look at Dante—part anger, part something else he couldn't read—before the door closed behind them.

  The silence that followed felt heavier than the argument.

  Principal Hayashi sank into his chair, suddenly looking much older than his years. He stared at the closed door, jaw working like he was chewing on words he couldn't say aloud.

  Was that the right choice?

  The school's reputation was already fragile. Quirk incidents made headlines. Parents demanded safety. The board demanded results. Walking this tightrope—punishing both students, trying to be fair when fairness itself was so subjective—felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

  But the footage didn't lie. Both kids had crossed lines. Both deserved consequences.

  Even if it costs him his job.

  He looked at Dante, still sitting with his head bowed, hands clenched in his lap. Marco and Chiara flanked him like guards, but their expressions weren't angry. Just... sad. The kind of sad that came from watching someone you cared about punish themselves.

  "Dante," Principal Hayashi said quietly. "You can go."

  The boy stood without a word, without looking up, and walked toward the door like he was heading to an execution.

  Marco and Chiara followed, their hands hovering near him but not quite touching, like they were afraid he might break.

  The door closed softly behind them.

  Principal Hayashi sat alone in his office, rain still streaking down the windows, and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his career.

  Or the only fair decision in an impossible situation.

  The walk home was silent.

  Marco and Chiara flanked Dante, their expressions unreadable. Rain had started again, light and cold, soaking through his uniform.

  When they reached the apartment, Chiara went straight to the kitchen. Marco sat on the couch and rubbed his face with both hands.

  Dante stood in the doorway, dripping water onto the floor.

  "Dante." Marco's voice was tired. "What happened?"

  "I told you. It was my fault."

  "That's not an answer." Chiara appeared in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. "Why didn't you defend yourself? You had every right—"

  "Who would believe a monster?" The words came out harsher than he intended.

  The room went silent.

  Marco and Chiara exchanged a look—one of those wordless conversations adults had when they thought kids weren't paying attention.

  "You're not a monster," Chiara said softly.

  "That's not what they thought." Dante's voice was flat. "That's not what he thought."

  "Who?"

  "Kaito. The kid I was trying to help." Dante's hands curled into fists. "He looked at me like... like I was the villain."

  "Who would believe a monster?"

  The words didn't just hang in the air. Chiara flinched as if Dante had slapped her.

  "Don't use that word, you are Dante Corvo," Marco said, his voice dropping an octave. It wasn't a request; it was a command. "We didn't bring you all the way from Italy to Japan just for you to give up on yourself."

  "The quirkless kid ran from me, Marco," Dante whispered, staring at his reflection of the tile floor, a blurry mess. "The bully used her fire, and everyone cheered. I used my 'curse' to save him, and he looked at me like I was the one who was going to kill him. The world has already decided what I am."

  "I need some air." He turned toward the door.

  "Dante, wait—"

  But he was already gone, pulling his hood up, disappearing into the afternoon to clear his head.