Chapter 4: Fracture Points
Winter had begun to lift.
Morning frost still clung to the gutters in brittle sheets, but the air no longer bit with the same sharpness. Trees lining the schoolyard trembled with the promise of early spring. But for Aoi Tsukishiro, the season hadn't changed.
Now thirteen, Aoi walked the same path to school every day. Sat in the same seat in the back row. Watched the sun slant across the floor tiles and refract faintly through the window panes. Light always found its way in—but it never stayed long. By the time lunch ended, the shadows had returned.
People no longer whispered about his Quirk.
But they didn't forget.
Some classmates greeted him now with shallow politeness. Others ignored him entirely. A few stared at the gloves he wore longer than necessary, eyes tracing the reinforced fabric like it might catch fire. These weren't the ones he'd worn before. The old pair—frayed and stained from quiet practice sessions in the back yard—had long since given out. This set was cleaner, sharper. Meant for public use.
Aoi didn't blame anyone for staring.
They were right to be cautious.
He was, too.
Quirk Studies remained the only class he truly dreaded. Not because he didn't understand the material—but because it required demonstration. One by one, students were called to the front to show off their Quirks and explain the science behind them.
Explosive combustion. Sonic projection. Liquid manipulation.
Bright. Loud. Fast.
Aoi watched them all from his desk, hands folded in his lap. He always volunteered for cleanup duty afterward. It gave him an excuse to skip the practicals—and a chance to study how others moved. How they trusted their own power. How no one flinched when a mistake was made.
There was a boy named Nao with a fire-based Quirk. During training, he flung flame like ribbon, laughing as it danced across the air. When he overshot and scorched the far wall, the class applauded. No one backed away. No one watched him like a fuse left burning.
Aoi wondered what it felt like—to be dangerous and still accepted.
—
The city moved faster than he liked.
Light bounced off storefront glass and gleamed along high-rise windows, cutting across the pavement like knives. Traffic buzzed. Music bled from shop doors. He walked with his hood up and hands in his pockets, the black case tucked carefully under one arm.
Even now—even with his Quirk 'contained'—people gave him space. Not because they recognized him, but because he moved like someone trying not to touch the world. And in a city where touch could mean disaster, people noticed.
He'd told his parents he was picking up a new pair of gloves. That much was true. But he'd taken the long route on purpose.
He needed time. Quiet.
The shop was tucked behind a row of vending machines—wedged between a noodle bar and a shuttered book café. The faded sign above the door read:
KOBAYASHI'S SUPPORT GEAR — CIVILIAN FRIENDLY, PRO HERO APPROVED
The kind of place that didn't ask too many questions, so long as your paperwork was in order.
Aoi stepped inside.
The air inside was warm and smelled faintly of oil and vinyl. Shelves were crowded with reinforced gear and impact-tested accessories. Protective gloves. Quirk-insulating vests. Glass display cases lined the walls, tagged with disclaimers in sharp red text:
FOR CIVILIAN USE ONLY
NOT SUITABLE FOR AMPLIFICATION
REQUIRES CERTIFIED MEDICAL REFERRAL
Aoi moved toward a section labeled Fragile Emission-Type Quirks, his gloved fingers tracing the stitching of his old pair through the case.
From the back came the quiet creak of a stool. An older woman stepped out—silver-dyed hair twisted into a knot, heavy magnification lenses balanced across her eyes. She looked Aoi over without a word. When her gaze landed on the envelope in his hand, her expression shifted.
"Parental consent form?"
He nodded and held it out.
She unfolded the document, eyes skimming over the signatures: one from his mother, the other from Dr. Fushimi.
"Glassification," she murmured. "Okay. I see…" She looked back at him. "You the one who turned half a stair rail into glass and scared those kids downtown?"
Aoi froze.
"Didn't mean anything by it," she said, waving it off. "Word gets around. Parents come in all the time, worried their kid might sit next to someone who can melt a desk or turn pencils into shrapnel."
"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," Aoi said softly.
"Didn't say you did." She folded the form and handed it back. "Alright. I'll fit you with custom insulation mesh. No thread amplifiers, no emission nodes—just stability and containment. Sound good?"
"Yes. That's all I need."
She gave him a longer look. "You're a smart one. Most your age come in wanting blades or flash mods. You don't strike me as the flashy type."
"I just… don't want to break anything again," he admitted.
The woman was quiet for a moment. Then, she turned to unlock a case behind the counter.
"These are reinforced. Polymer fibers lined with ceramic mesh. Breathable. Durable. Reflective shock weave lining. They won't stop your Quirk, but they'll contain the splinters if something goes wrong."
She laid the gloves down on the counter, palms up. Aoi picked one up. Slid it on.
Cool. Snug. Like it belonged.
"They'll stain if your crystals bleed out," she said. "So try not to overdo it."
"I won't."
She arched a brow. "You sure?"
A pause.
"…No," he said honestly. "But I'm trying to be."
That earned the faintest of smiles. "Good enough for now."
Outside, the sun felt harsher than before.
He moved down the sidewalk, gloves in hand, watching his reflection stretch between glass windows. The crowd thickened as he turned onto a side street.
Just a few more blocks. Just a normal walk home.
But then—
A shoulder clipped his.
Hard.
Aoi stumbled, catching himself before the gloves hit the ground.
"Watch it!" a sharp voice snapped.
Three boys—older teens—blocked the path ahead. One stepped forward, broad-shouldered and smirking.
"Didn't your kind learn to stay outta the way?"
Aoi didn't answer. His throat had gone dry.
These weren't the boys from his old school. These were strangers—loud, confident, angry for no reason. City kids.
He tried to move past.
A hand grabbed the case.
"What's this?" the leader sneered, tugging. "Support gear? You some wannabe hero?"
"Don't—" Aoi reached for it, too late.
The case slipped. One glove popped out, skidding across the concrete.
The boy crouched to grab it—
"Don't touch that!"
Aoi lunged.
His hand, worn atop his old, ruined pair of gloves. Unfortunately, his palm hit a nearby railing.
And the world fractured.
A pulse of cold fire tore through his arm. The rusted iron beneath his palm shimmered—warped—transformed.
Glass veins exploded outward in jagged, branching lines. Light split through the alley, refracting in impossible angles.
"What the—?!"
The boy jerked back as the crystalline lattice spread.
A sharp crack.
One arm of the construct shattered. A blade-like shard zipped through the air, slicing into the brick wall behind them.
Another boy ducked, swearing.
Aoi hit the ground, clutching his temple.
The light—too bright. Too much.
He scrambled for the gloves, vision swimming. The fragments around him hummed like vibrating glass.
He couldn't stop it.
The construct was breaking.
And he couldn't—