Megumi Fushiguro came into the world quietly.
The nurses expected crying, flailing, panic, but instead he blinked up at the lights with calm, dark eyes, as if he already understood that noise wouldn't change anything.
His mother laughed through her tears. "Oh… you're so gentle." Her fingers trembled as she traced his cheek. "Megumi. My blessing."
Toji hovered somewhere near the side of the bed, unsure if he was supposed to step forward or leave. He'd never had a reason to stay anywhere before. Never had something or someone to tie him down.
When she held Megumi toward him, he hesitated only for a breath before taking the tiny bundle. Megumi stared back at him, quiet, serious.
Toji cleared his throat. "…Megumi. Yeah. That's you."
His mother beamed. "He likes you."
"He likes the warm hands," Toji muttered.
"No," she teased softly, "he likes you, Toji."
Those early days blurred into a rhythm.
Not perfect but warm.
She carried Megumi everywhere, humming softly as she cooked, folding laundry with him balanced on her hip, laughing whenever Toji awkwardly tried to help. She smelled like lavender soap and always had flour on her hands.
Megumi learned her face first: soft eyes, gentle smiles, warm cheeks.
He leaned into her touch automatically, like he'd been born knowing it.
Toji watched them more than he spoke. His silences weren't angry, they were cautious, like he feared he'd break the moment if he moved too fast.
Sometimes at night, Megumi would wake to overhear them talking quietly in the living room.
"Sit down, Toji. You're pacing."
"I'm thinking."
"You always think like you're waiting for something to go wrong."
"…Maybe I am."
"You don't have to be afraid of being happy."
Toji never answered that.
In the mornings, she drank tea at the counter, smiling faintly as she tied her hair back. Megumi would waddle over in tiny pajamas, and she'd scoop him up, kissing his forehead.
"There's my boy. You hungry? Let's make pancakes."
Toji inevitably burned the first batch every time, and she'd laugh, bumping his shoulder.
Those small moments mattered.
Because without anyone saying it, something in her began to fade.
She moved slower some mornings, rubbing her temples with tired fingers. She winced sometimes when she reached too quickly. She fell asleep on the couch more often than not.
Toji noticed.
He just didn't know what to do about it.
"You okay?" he'd ask gruffly.
She'd always smile. "Just tired."
"Too tired."
"Everyone gets tired, Toji."
But some nights, when she thought he was asleep, she sat on the edge of the bed, holding her chest like trying to steady her heartbeat.
Megumi didn't understand why she felt colder some days, or why her hugs lingered longer.
He only knew he felt safest in her arms.
Until the morning he woke up without them.
He padded into their bedroom, clutching his stuffed bear, expecting her sleepy smile, the soft warmth of her blanket.
Instead, the sunlight fell across her still face.
Her eyes didn't open.
Her hand didn't lift when he touched it.
He tugged her blanket once.
Twice.
"Mama…? Wake up."
When she didn't move, he stood silent, small and confused until Toji woke un, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
The moment Toji saw her, the air changed.
He froze.
His breath left him all at once.
"M-" His voice broke. He moved past Megumi with shaking hands, cupping her face, calling her name in a voice Megumi had never heard.
He whispered her name again and again, softer each time, until it collapsed into silence.
Megumi tugged at Toji's sleeve. "Dad?"
Toji didn't respond.
He stayed kneeling beside her for a long time.
Megumi didn't understand the word "death"
He understood the emptiness it left behind.
That night, he lay curled in bed, small hands clenched around his blanket as he cried into the dark. His sobs echoed in the room, sounding too big for someone so small.
Then the shadows shifted.
They crawled slowly out from under the bed, pooling like spilled ink. Two small shapes rose uncertain, trembling, but trying. Canine silhouettes pressed their heads against him gently.
He sniffled and stroked them with tiny fingers.
"…Thank you."
He slept between them.
In the morning, Toji stood at the doorway, staring at the fading patches of darkness with hollow eyes.
"Megumi… did you… do that?"
"They helped," Megumi whispered.
Toji dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily.
His mother's voice echoed in his memory
He'll be good, Toji. Because you'll be good for him.
He looked at Megumi, then at the shadows, and something in him shut down. A wall. A fear he didn't have the words for.
Three days later, he said:
"We're getting your quirk checked."
Megumi held his stuffed bear as Toji led him through side streets and narrow alleys to a dingy clinic tucked between dead storefronts. The flickering sign buzzed overhead.
Inside, a small, round doctor looked up from his cluttered desk.
"Ah! Early quirk awakening? Come in, come in."
Toji lifted Megumi onto the exam table. Sticky pads were placed on his skin. The machine hummed sharply.
"Fascinating…" the doctor murmured. "Assistant! I need another pair of eyes."
Soft footsteps approached.
A tall man stepped into the light, wearing a clean white coat. His face was half-shadowed, but his posture was polite, composed.
"Yes, Doctor," he said warmly. "Let me take a look."
Megumi watched him, thumb brushing the ear of his stuffed bear. The air around the man felt strange... not cold, not hot, just… heavy.
But his smile looked gentle.
"Hello there," the man said softly.
Megumi blinked at him.
"May I check something?" he asked, raising one gloved hand.
Megumi didn't pull away.
Right before the fingers touched his hairline-
chrrk… tchhk.
A tiny grinding sound.
Like a gear turning once under strain.
Faint. Easy to miss.
Megumi furrowed his brows. "…What was that?"
The assistant paused only briefly, lowering his hand.
"These old machines," he said with a light laugh. "They make the oddest noises."
The doctor jumped in quickly. "Yes, yes! Very outdated equipment."
Toji looked sharply at the shadows at Megumi's feet, which twitched once, barely noticeable and settled.
Megumi barely glanced down.
He was bored.
"You have a very rare ability," the assistant said, voice soft. "I look forward to seeing what you become."
Megumi only shrugged.
The man's eyes lingered for one heartbeat too long before he stepped away.
When Toji picked Megumi up to leave, the boy tugged at his father's shirt.
"Dad… the machine sounded weird."
Toji's jaw tightened.
"…Don't think about it."
Megumi didn't.
By the time they reached the street, he'd forgotten the faint grinding sound, the strange heaviness in the air, the assistant's hand that never quite touched him.
Megumi never turned back.
He didn't know that the soft grinding sound had been the first warning.
That an invisible gear had shifted its weight.
That fate had changed its path.
He only knew the shadows felt warm when he needed them.
And that night, in the quiet room where his mother's absence still hung heavy, he whispered into the dark:
"Goodnight."
Something shifted softly in response.