The shopping district buzzed with that weird afternoon energy—office workers grabbing lunch, kids dragging their parents around, the usual chaos. Mom had this whole plan: clothes first, then school supplies, then "whatever else my growing boy needs." She'd been saying that phrase all morning like it was some kind of magic spell.
"How do these fit?" she asked as I stumbled out of the changing room, still half-asleep from this morning's... revelations.
The jeans were fine. The black hoodie didn't make me look like a walking tent. "Good," I said, catching my reflection in the mirror. "These work."
She was staring at me again. That look—like she was trying to memorize my face or something. "You've been quiet since breakfast. Everything okay?"
"Just thinking about this afternoon. The assessment thing." It wasn't exactly a lie. I was nervous, just not for the reasons she thought.
"That's normal, sweetheart." She grabbed a few more shirts, holding them up against me. "But you don't need to prove anything to them. They just want to understand your quirk better."
'If only it were that simple.'
As we wandered through the store, I kept sneaking glances at her. Was there any part of her that suspected? That the son she'd lost seven years ago wasn't exactly the one who came back?
"Mom," I said, trying to sound casual while we waited in line, "when I was little... you said I used to talk about dreams? What was that about?"
Her face went soft, that sad-but-fond expression parents get when remembering their kids being weird. "Oh, honey, you used to have the most vivid dreams. You'd wake up talking about places that didn't exist, people you'd never met. You described them in such detail..."
My stomach dropped. "What did you think was happening?"
"I took you to see Dr. Hayashi—you remember him? That nice child psychologist?" She shook her head. "I was worried it might be some kind of... I don't know, dissociative thing. Or maybe your quirk manifesting early in strange ways."
'Shit.'
"And?"
"He said you had an incredibly active imagination. That some kids create elaborate fantasy worlds to process things." Her voice got quieter. "After your father died, the dreams got more frequent. I thought maybe it was your way of coping."
"Did they... did they feel real to you? When I talked about them?"
She squeezed my hand. "They felt real to *you*, and that's what mattered. You'd wake up crying sometimes, missing people who didn't exist. It broke my heart."
'People who didn't exist.'
Except they had existed, hadn't they? In another world, another life.
"The dreams stopped after you disappeared," she continued, then caught herself. "Well, obviously. When you came back, I half-expected them to start again. But you seem more... grounded now."
Because I wasn't the same person. The thought sat in my chest like a stone.
"Yeah," I managed. "Guess I grew out of it."
The rest of the shopping trip was a blur of mom chattering about practical stuff while my brain went in circles. If the original Rei had been like me—remembering another life—what happened to him? Did someone figure it out? Did he disappear on purpose?
By the time we got to the Hero Commission building, I felt like I was drowning in questions I couldn't ask.
"Takumi family?" The receptionist looked exactly like yesterday's—efficient smile, tablet in hand. "Agent Yoshida is waiting on the 15th floor."
The elevator ride felt like forever. Mom kept making encouraging small talk while I stared at my reflection in the doors, wondering who was really looking back.
Agent Yoshida met us as the doors opened. Same professional smile, same crisp suit. "Ken, Mrs. Takumi. Right on time. How are you feeling?"
"Like I want to get this over with," I said honestly.
"Good attitude. Follow me."
She led us down a hallway that screamed 'government facility'—sterile, beige, doors marked with things like 'Testing Room 3' and 'Psychological Assessment.' "We'll start with some basic questions, then move to psych eval, then physical testing, and finish with quirk demonstrations. Should take about four hours."
"Psychological evaluation?" Mom's voice had that edge parents get when they're trying not to panic.
"Standard procedure for anyone with unusual abilities," Yoshida said smoothly. "Especially given Ken's... circumstances. We need to make sure he's mentally prepared to use his quirk responsibly."
'How do you psychologically evaluate someone who's technically from another world?'
"What exactly are you testing for?" Mom asked.
"Power classification, potential risks, training recommendations. We need to understand not just what Ken can do, but how his abilities might develop."
She opened a door to what looked like the world's most expensive therapy office—comfy chairs, low table, definitely not the interrogation room I'd been expecting.
"Please, both of you, sit. Ken, I want to be clear—this isn't an interrogation. We're here to help you understand your abilities and make sure you get the support you need."
"Okay," I said, settling into a chair that was way too comfortable for a government building.
"First question—when did you first notice your enhanced abilities?"
"Three weeks ago. When I woke up in that alley."
"Did they all appear at once?"
"No. The barrier thing was first. Then the strength. The rods came last."
She tapped notes on her tablet. "That's actually normal. Most quirks develop gradually, though yours seem to be progressing faster than usual."
"Is that bad?"
"Not necessarily. There are documented cases of trauma-induced quirk evolution. Given your situation..." She gestured vaguely. "Either could apply."
Mom leaned forward. "Is it possible someone was suppressing his quirk? Maybe whoever took him?"
"It's possible. There are quirks that can interfere with others, certain drugs that affect development." Yoshida made another note. "We'll run some tests to check for residual effects."
The questions kept coming—how did my abilities feel to use, any side effects, limitations I'd noticed. I answered as honestly as I could while tiptoeing around the whole 'I'm not actually from this world' thing.
___
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