Chapter 1: The Phantom Diagnosis
The hardest part about waiting for a profound change is that eventually, the waiting itself becomes your entirely normal routine. It settles into your bones, colors your perception of the world, and turns every morning into a quiet repetition of unfulfilled expectations. For Soren, this routine had begun exactly seven years ago, and it had not wavered for a single day since.
Soren stood motionless in front of the bathroom mirror, listening to the rhythmic, mundane sound of water dripping from the faucet into the ceramic sink. He raised a hand and wiped the thick condensation from the glass, revealing his own reflection. He stared at himself with the practiced, numbed apathy of someone who had performed this exact ritual thousands of times. He ran his fingers through his ash-grey hair. The strands were thick and unruly, catching the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom to give off a faint, almost metallic silver sheen. His eyes, a striking and piercing shade of amber, stared back at him from the glass. They were eyes that seemed far too old for a twelve-year-old boy, carrying a quiet, heavy resignation that did not belong on the face of a child.
He focused his amber eyes on his own reflection, searching for any subtle shift. A spark of static electricity. A sudden change in his pupils. A lingering warmth in his fingertips. Anything that would indicate that his biology was finally catching up to the rest of the world. He stood there for three full minutes, holding his breath, flexing the muscles in his hands, trying to force an energy he could not even feel to the surface of his skin. The silence in the bathroom remained unbroken. His body remained ordinary, entirely bound by the standard laws of physics. He let out a long, quiet sigh, his breath fogging the mirror once again, obscuring his face.
The aroma of toasted bread and warm herbal tea drifted through the crack beneath the bathroom door, accompanied by the familiar clinking of plates. It was time for breakfast. It was time to rejoin the world of the extraordinary, while remaining completely ordinary himself.
Soren opened the door and walked down the narrow hallway of their family apartment. The living space was modest, filled with shelves of old books, potted plants that thrived near the large balcony window, and the comforting clutter of a family that had lived in the same place for over a decade. He stepped into the kitchen, greeted by the sight of his mother standing near the stove.
She was a kind-looking woman with hair a few shades darker than his own. She was currently humming a soft, nameless tune while making breakfast. Without turning around, she reached out a hand toward the wooden cabinet above the counter. A faint, nearly invisible ripple distorted the air around her fingers, and a ceramic mug gently floated out of the cabinet, drifting smoothly through the air until it landed softly on the dining table. It was a minor telekinetic quirk, limited by weight and distance, entirely unsuited for any sort of professional hero work. Yet, it was undeniably superhuman. It was an effortless manipulation of reality, woven seamlessly into the fabric of their daily domestic life.
His father sat at the small dining table, reading the morning newspaper. He was a broad-shouldered man who worked in civil construction. As he turned the page of his newspaper, his thumb brushed against the paper's surface. His quirk, a localized friction manipulation, allowed him to slide his fingers over the fragile paper without leaving a single crease or causing the slightest tear, smoothing the pages perfectly flat against the wooden table.
"Good morning, Soren," his mother said, finally turning around with a warm smile. She placed a plate of scrambled eggs and golden-brown toast on the table, alongside a steaming mug of tea. "Did you sleep well?"
"Morning, Mom. Morning, Dad," Soren replied softly, pulling out his chair and sitting down. "I slept fine."
His father glanced up from the newspaper, offering a gentle, reassuring nod. "Eat up, kid. You have a long day at school today."
Soren nodded quietly, picking up his fork. He watched his parents for a moment. They were entirely normal people living mundane lives, yet they possessed abilities that broke the fundamental rules of nature. They didn't think twice about using them. It was as natural to them as breathing. For Soren, watching them was a constant, glaring reminder of his own physical silence. There was a quiet, unspoken tension that always lingered around the breakfast table. His parents loved him deeply, unconditionally, but they also carried the heavy, shared burden of his mysterious condition. They tried their best not to bring it up, to treat him exactly like any other boy his age, but the careful, overly gentle way they sometimes looked at him betrayed their hidden sorrow. They felt helpless, and Soren knew it.
He took a bite of his food, his mind inevitably drifting back to the origin of this heavy atmosphere. Today marked exactly seven years since the medical appointment that had changed nothing, yet fundamentally altered the trajectory of his entire life.
He could still recall the sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic that permeated the clinic's waiting room. He remembered being five years old, sitting on a crinkly paper sheet covering the examination table, his legs dangling over the edge. He remembered his mother's nervous hand squeezing his small shoulder, her anxiety causing the medical magazines on the nearby desk to hover an inch above the surface. He remembered his father pacing the small room, his shoes unintentionally smoothing the linoleum floor until it was dangerously slippery.
But most vividly, Soren remembered the elderly doctor's completely baffled expression as he held up the translucent X-ray film against the bright viewing light.
"It is completely, utterly normal," the doctor had said, his voice filled with genuine professional confusion. He adjusted his glasses, squinting at the skeletal structure of Soren's foot. "There is no extra joint in his pinky toe. The bone structure indicates the evolutionary advancement necessary for quirk manifestation. Genetically, biologically, neurologically... your son is perfectly equipped to develop an ability. In fact, looking at his blood work and his nervous system's pathway density, it is highly unusual. His internal networks are incredibly thick. An ability should have manifested years ago."
"Then why hasn't it?" his mother had asked, her voice trembling, wavering between profound relief that her son wasn't fundamentally lacking, and deep confusion as to why he was still essentially quirkless.
"Sometimes, highly complex or internally demanding abilities remain dormant in the body," the doctor theorized, tapping the glowing white bones on the X-ray with a pen. "They are not like simple elemental emitters or physical mutations. They require a specific, intense physical or psychological trigger to jumpstart the biological engine. The body might be subconsciously holding the ability back because the physical vessel is not yet ready to handle the strain. It could happen tomorrow, it could happen next year, or it might require a specific environmental pressure. Just give it time. Live normally. Do not force it."
Time. Soren had given it seven long, agonizing years.
He finished his breakfast in relative silence, the memory of the doctor's words echoing in his mind. Just give it time. It was the most frustrating advice he could have possibly received. If he had been diagnosed as officially quirkless, if the extra joint had been present in his toe, he could have moved on. He could have grieved the loss of his potential, accepted his reality, and found a different path in life. But the doctor had given him a diagnosis of delayed inevitability. He was a locked door with no key, assured by experts that the treasure was inside, but left completely in the dark on how to open it.
"I'm heading out," Soren announced, standing up and taking his empty plate to the sink. He grabbed his school bag from the hallway, swinging it over his shoulder.
"Have a good day at school, sweetheart," his mother called out, waving gently. "Come straight home after, okay? We're having baked fish and rice for dinner."
"I will. Bye."
Soren stepped out of the apartment building and into the bustling morning streets of Musutafu. The city was a sprawling metropolis, a vibrant intersection of modern architecture and the chaotic reality of a superpowered society. The morning air was crisp and cool, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and the low hum of thousands of people starting their day.
He walked at a steady, measured pace, keeping his head down but his amber eyes constantly observing his surroundings. To him, the walk to his middle school was a daily exhibition of the world he was excluded from. Across the street, a local shop owner with an elongation ability was casually stretching his arms to clean the massive windows on the second floor of his bakery. A few blocks down, a postal worker with large, feathered wings descended gracefully from the sky, dropping a bundle of letters into a neighborhood mailbox before launching himself back into the air with a powerful thrust. Even the children rushing past him on the sidewalk displayed minor mutations—a girl with blue skin, a boy with small horns protruding from his forehead.
Everywhere he looked, humanity proudly displayed its evolution. It wasn't just about heroes fighting villains on television; it was about the fundamental way society functioned. Quirks were integrated into construction, logistics, entertainment, and everyday convenience. To lack a quirk was to lack a fundamental organ of modern human interaction.
Soren adjusted the strap of his backpack, feeling the familiar, heavy weight settling in his chest. He was twelve years old today. Another year had passed, another milestone reached without a single spark of change. He wasn't bullied at his middle school in the traditional, violent sense. The other students didn't corner him in the hallways or steal his belongings. It was much worse than that. He was simply ignored. He was treated like a fragile, outdated antique. His classmates viewed him with a mixture of pity and awkwardness, unsure of how to interact with someone who lacked the basic currency of their social hierarchy.
He didn't want to be a top-ranking hero who saved thousands with a flashy, destructive power. He didn't want fame or recognition. As he approached the large iron gates of his school, looking up at the imposing brick building, his desire was much simpler, yet infinitely more out of reach.
He just wanted to understand his own body. He wanted to know what was hiding beneath his skin, dormant and silent. And as he walked into the school courtyard, a quiet, unshakeable determination began to take root in his mind. Waiting had yielded nothing. Time had proven to be a liar. If his body needed an intense physical trigger, if his internal engine required immense pressure to finally start, then he would stop waiting for life to provide that pressure. He would create it himself.