Chapter 2: Glass Between Us
The hospital lights weren't as bright as the explosion.
That was the first thing Aoi noticed when he opened his eyes again—everything felt dull, filtered, like the world had dimmed on purpose to keep him from breaking it further.
Bandages wrapped across the bridge of his nose and over both palms, thick and padded. His right hand throbbed with a pulsing sting, dulled by ointment and something numbing they'd given him through an IV. Every now and then, he blinked, just to make sure the faint prism of light overhead wasn't about to fracture again.
But the room stayed intact.
He was alone for a while. Nurses came and went, one checking the bandages, another asking if he could sip water. They moved quietly around him, speaking gently. Carefully. Like loud sounds might crack the walls.
Eventually, his parents arrived.
His mother sat closest to the bed, her coat draped over her arms, sleeves wrinkled from where she'd been gripping them. She kept brushing his hair back from his face, even though it didn't really need it. Her other hand trembled slightly in her lap.
His father stood near the door, arms crossed, eyes locked on the monitor beside the bed.
No one spoke for several minutes.
Aoi wanted to say something—"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't know"—but his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His words didn't make it out. Just air.
Then, the door creaked open again.
A tall man in a long white coat stepped in, flipping through a slim tablet. His hair was silvered at the temples, glasses perched low on his nose, and his expression was neutral—not cold, but practiced.
"Tsukishiro-san," he said with a small nod to the parents. Then, to Aoi: "And Aoi-kun. How are you feeling? Any nausea, blurred vision, tingling?"
Aoi hesitated, then shook his head.
"No fever either," the doctor said, checking the monitor. "That's good. That means your Quirk flare didn't overload your nervous system. We've had cases where crystallization quirks did cause sensory backlash."
Aoi looked up, slowly. "…So it's real?"
The doctor met his eyes. "Yes. You've manifested a Quirk. A unique one. We've taken preliminary data from the site and from your skin readings. It's touch-based, with material transmutation elements—likely structural, crystalline in nature."
His father frowned. "In plain terms?"
The doctor tapped the screen, turning it so they could see a model of the destroyed railing.
"Your son's Quirk—tentatively labeled Glassification—transmutes solid materials into a glass-like state on contact. Not simple glass, but a reinforced molecular hybrid that retains the original shape for a few seconds. After that, the structure becomes unstable. The stress lines inside the crystal web exceed support tolerance, and it shatters."
Aoi's hands clenched under the blankets.
"So I broke it," he said softly. "I broke the railing."
"You transformed it," the doctor corrected. "And the result was unstable. That's not the same as breaking. You had no control or understanding of what was happening. First awakenings are often volatile."
"But it could've hurt someone." His voice wavered. "It did."
There was silence.
His mother glanced down. His father didn't speak. And Aoi suddenly felt like there was glass between them all—thin, clear, and cold.
The doctor continued gently. "The shards caused minor lacerations to two students. Both were treated with standard Quirk-resistant bandages and released to their families. No long-term injuries. The school will be filing a report, but as far as we understand, this was an involuntary manifestation."
"Involuntary or not," his father said quietly, "it wasn't safe."
Aoi flinched.
The doctor nodded, but with a calmer tone. "No Quirk is inherently safe, Tsukishiro-san. The difference lies in understanding and control."
He turned back to Aoi. "Have you ever felt anything like this before? Sensations when touching materials—heat, light, pressure, resonance?"
Aoi blinked. "I… I always wore gloves. I don't like how things feel sometimes. Some things feel… wrong. Too loud. Too heavy."
"Your body likely has heightened material perception. It's a precursor trait—your Quirk was communicating with surrounding matter even before it activated."
"So I've been broken this whole time," Aoi murmured.
"No," the doctor said firmly. "You've been developing. And now that we know what we're working with, you'll be able to start learning control."
He paused, then added more gently, "It's normal to be scared. Especially after a violent awakening. But you should also know—many Pro Heroes had worse first incidents than yours. Strength Enhancing types, Fire types, Gigantification types. Accidents happen. What matters is what you do next."
Aoi didn't answer.
After the doctor left, the silence returned.
His mother finally spoke first.
"You protected yourself," she whispered. "You were scared. That's… that's okay."
"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," Aoi said. "I just—"
"We know." Her voice trembled.
His father exhaled through his nose. "We'll have to figure out precautions. Gloves with reinforced threading. Quirk training. Maybe specialized therapy."
Aoi didn't look at either of them.
He stared at the IV line, the way the light bent inside the tubing. Even here, light couldn't move in a straight line.
"Can I go home soon?"
"Maybe tomorrow," his mother said. "If the bandages stay clean."
Aoi nodded.
But what he didn't say—what he couldn't—was that home wouldn't feel like home anymore.
Because something had cracked. Not just the railing. Not just the air.
Him.
And every time he blinked, he could still see the moment it happened: the way the light split apart, the way their faces turned from mockery to terror. The moment beauty turned dangerous. The moment he did.