The activation of my Quirk was the most absolute and immediate joy I had ever known. The first time the sparks flew from my palms, I was flooded with the sweet, metallic scent of caramel and gunpowder. The tiny explosions weren't just sound; they were echoes of the boundless power and destiny I felt churning within my chest. Everyone else had secondary skills or strange mutations; I had a literal force of nature—hot, loud, immediate, and totally under my command. I was undeniably the best, and I demanded that the world acknowledge it.
My superiority was a given, and I enjoyed flaunting it. We were practicing near the park slide, and I sent a satisfyingly huge burst into the air, the heat momentarily stinging the air. Izuku, predictably, came rushing over. His small hands flapped nervously, and his face was scrunched up in that familiar, irritating mask of gentle worry. He approached me not as an admirer, but as a guardian.
The pity in his voice, the quiet assumption that I needed his gentle warning, struck me as an existential insult to my destiny. (Dialogue) "Kacchan, be careful! That was too big!" He was always reminding me of my own limits, of the care I should supposedly take, as if his Quirkless hands could ever hope to contain my greatness. That sound, that tiny tremor of concern, was the source of my deepest rage.
My fury solidified in that moment, fueled by the burning, absolute need to prove that I was fundamentally above his concern. He had to learn that I was too powerful to be worried about, too exceptional to be subject to his timid advice. His pity made me feel small, and I needed to obliterate that feeling entirely.
The feeling of being watched by someone inferior, someone who was not allowed to judge, became unbearable. The rivalry wasn't born out of competing for power; it was born out of my frantic need to remove the stain of his pity from my otherwise perfect path to glory.