Kaito Asahina woke to the muted hum of the city seeping through the window, sunlight slipping lazily across the polished floorboards of his bedroom. At fifteen, mornings were no longer the carefree stretches of childhood he once knew. Eight years had passed since the world had tilted violently on its axis, stealing from him what mattered most: his mother. The memory of her laughter, the warmth of her hand on his cheek, the smell of her cooking—the small comforts of a life once whole—still lingered, but they had been tempered by a harsh reality, a relentless training regimen, and the shadow of a father who loved through discipline rather than affection.
He stretched his lean frame, every muscle finely tuned from years of gruelling training. His father's methods had been brutal but effective, forging Kaito into someone capable of standing toe-to-toe with men far older and stronger than himself. A quirk-enhanced body, honed reflexes, and mind sharpened through countless drills and exercises; all of it a gift, a survival tool, a legacy from a man who had seen what unchecked weakness could cost. He flexed his fingers absently, noting the familiar ache of muscle memory lingering from the morning spar, and allowed a small smirk to tug at the corner of his lips. Eight years of work, sweat, pain, and endurance had molded him into someone who could rival his father in strength and speed. And unlike his father, he carried his mother's blessing quietly within him, a fire that whispered of purpose and resilience.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and straightened the covers with meticulous care, the kind of cleanliness that had been instilled in him alongside martial discipline. The room was immaculate, every item in its place—his life, his space, a reflection of the order he had fought to maintain amidst the chaos that had defined his childhood. As he finished, a voice rang out from the kitchen below, warm and firm, cutting through the morning air.
"Kaito! Breakfast's ready! Don't make me come up there!"
His father's call carried an unusual lightness, a rare warmth that still surprised him. The tone was casual, teasing even, though not without underlying authority—the kind only a man who had weathered his own loss could command. Kaito left his room, moving silently down the wide staircase of their luxurious home. Wealth had followed them in the wake of his father's career as a pro hero. The Asahina name carried weight, recognition, and expectation, though Kaito had grown accustomed to living in the shadow of that reputation. Most people knew of his father, fewer knew of him, and none ever spoke of his mother. That had been a choice, a silent respect, a secret that lingered in the background of his life.
The kitchen was bright, sun spilling across polished countertops and stainless steel appliances. His father, clad in a simple shirt and apron, moved with practiced ease, stirring a pan with one hand while checking the contents of the oven with the other. Breakfast filled the room with the familiar, comforting smells of eggs, bacon, and fresh bread—a symphony of ordinary domesticity that felt almost surreal given the undercurrent of loss and training that shaped Kaito's mornings.
"You've been recommended," his father said, breaking the silence as Kaito sat at the table. "U.A. wants you. You don't have to take the entrance exam. That's… rare. Exceptional, actually."
Kaito nodded, expression unreadable, though a faint smile played across his lips. He had expected as much; the work, the results, the strength he had honed meticulously—it was not surprising that U.A. would notice. Still, the confirmation carried weight.
"Thanks, Dad," he said simply. His words were small, but the weight behind them was not. For a brief moment, his father's stoicism faltered. A smile, fleeting and almost fragile, appeared at the corner of his mouth, lasting barely half a second before retreating back into the mask of composure that he wore like armor.
"Go to school. Don't dawdle," his father said, voice returning to its usual commanding tone.
Kaito rose, carrying the tray back to his room to dispose of it. His private school, Shimizu Academy, was only a short drive away. It was an elite institution, rigorous in academics and extracurriculars alike, known for nurturing children who would go on to do extraordinary things. Kaito's bag slung casually over one shoulder, he stepped into the driveway, letting the morning breeze ruffle his silver-white hair as he walked to the gate.
By the time he reached the entrance, he spotted her. Black hair catching the light, a striking presence even among the well-dressed students milling about. Momo Yaoyorozu—intelligent, attractive, and exuding quiet confidence. She noticed him at almost the same instant he noticed her, and for a fleeting moment, the usual bustle of the school fell away.
A smirk tugged at Kaito's lips. With a subtle manipulation of his quirk, a shimmer of energy shifted around him, and before she could react, he appeared at her side.
"Looking for me, Momo?" he murmured, voice teasing, a playful edge that only slightly concealed his usual charm.
She jumped, startled, and immediately turned to scold him, puffing her cheeks slightly. "Kaito! You scared me! Don't sneak up on me like that!"
A laugh escaped him, soft and amused, watching her transition from annoyance to a small, reluctant smile as his own grin widened. "Relax," he said, shrugging effortlessly. "You know me. I like keeping people on their toes."
As they walked side by side toward the main building, Kaito's bag slung over one shoulder with casual ease, they began discussing the rare opportunity U.A. had offered them both. Momo had been recommended through her own merits, a combination of intelligence, quirk mastery, and her standing among her peers.
"I didn't expect this," she said softly, eyes flicking to him briefly. "U.A. doesn't usually take students without the entrance exam."
Kaito shrugged, smirking. "Guess we're exceptional." He allowed the confidence in his voice to be playful, teasing, not cocky—yet not entirely without truth. Momo rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, the softening of her features betraying amusement.
When they arrived at the classroom, Kaito slipped into his usual seat near the back, by the window on the left. A few glances followed him—curiosity, recognition, awe—but he ignored them, settling in quietly. Momo took a seat in the middle row, glancing toward him with a quiet smile that lingered for a few seconds before returning to her own space.
The class passed predictably, English, science, math. Kaito let his mind drift, eyes often trailing to the window, watching the trees sway in the morning breeze, sunlight dancing across their leaves. Momo occasionally glanced toward him, her expression softening, curious about the young man who moved through life with such quiet confidence.
At the end of the day, the teacher addressed the students, discussing the U.A. applications, the opportunities that awaited those who sought heroism as a vocation. Kaito listened silently, absorbing everything, but his gaze remained fixed outside. Momo, noticing him, allowed herself a private observation, wondering about the thoughts that clouded his eyes, the shadows that lingered there despite his otherwise composed demeanor.
After school, they walked back together. Momo, hesitant, finally asked the question she had long held back. "Kaito… after all these years… does becoming a hero… revolve around your mother?"
Kaito paused mid-step, one eyebrow raised, considering the question. He had avoided it for years, never speaking of her to anyone outside of fleeting, intimate memories. Why now, he wondered. He glanced at the sky, running a hand through his hair, letting out a soft sigh. The wind tugged at his silver strands, brushing against his face, and for a moment, his eyes darkened to a shadowy grey before lightening again almost to white, an ethereal reflection of thought and memory.
Momo's cheeks flushed slightly as she caught the fleeting change, shaking her head, chastising herself silently for letting her imagination run wild. Kaito, however, refocused on her, smirk returning to his lips.
"Who knows?" he said lightly, laughter threading through the words. Then, without another word, he moved ahead, Momo following, her curiosity and concern mingling with amusement.
As they neared the field, Kaito slowed, glancing over his shoulder. His smirk widened. "She'd want me to be a hero."
Momo's expression softened, understanding settling in her eyes. "Even if it means… possibly dying in action?" she asked, concern threading her voice.
Kaito let the wind tug at his hair again, brushing it from his face as he shrugged, a quiet, confident statement. "You know me, Momo. How can I lose? To whom?"
They both laughed, the sound light, easy, a temporary balm over the lingering shadows of the past. Momo shook her head slightly, smiling. "Cocky… but not untrue," she murmured.
When they parted ways, Kaito returned home, only to find the house quiet, his father absent. A note on the fridge explained that he was out on hero duties, not expected back for several hours. Kaito exhaled, letting the familiar solitude wash over him. He changed into comfortable clothes, the quiet shadows of the kitchen welcoming him, and prepared a simple meal for himself: grilled salmon, lightly seasoned, with a side of rice and vegetables. He ate slowly, savoring the flavors, comparing them internally to the meals his mother had prepared, the comforting taste lingering as a memory he held tightly.
His thoughts wandered back to U.A., to the rare opportunity, and to Momo's question. He lingered on it, letting it settle into his mind, a silent affirmation of purpose and the fire that guided him.
After finishing and cleaning up, he returned to his room, straightening the bed and organizing his space once more. As he prepared for sleep, his phone buzzed—a text from Momo: Good night, Kaito.
He smirked, replying with a simple, Good night. And as he settled into bed, letting the memories of the day, the thoughts of the future, and the echoes of the past mingle in his mind, sleep claimed him. Dreams took him gently, the flicker of a glowing chest swirl, the shadows of a silver-haired boy running with wind in his hair, racing toward a future of heroism, legacy, and his own defining path.