The first call came sooner than anyone expected.
Not a villain attack.Not a catastrophe.No collapsing bridges, no flashing sirens, no headlines preparing themselves.
Just a simple dispatch ping on the new device clipped to Renya's belt:
FIELD REQUEST – LEVEL GREENLocation: East Musutafu Market DistrictNature: Escalating dispute / crowd tensionAssigned: Kurotsuki Renya (Independent) + Partner (Hoshi)
He frowned.Hoshi, waiting near the training grounds, saw the look and jogged up.
"First assignment?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"You sound thrilled."
"I'm reevaluating my life choices."
She grinned. "Too late now, Field Hero."
He ignored the title. "Let's go."
They took the tram instead of a patrol vehicle.
Renya had insisted; if the work was to understand crowds, he wanted to arrive inside one, not above it.Hoshi stood near the door, one hand looped casually around the bar, eyes tracking little details: the anxious leg bounce of a salaryman, the way two kids argued over a handheld game, the woman tapping a message and deleting it three times.
"Breathe," he said.
"I am breathing," she replied.
"Breathe for yourself, not for the situation."
She smirked. "You say that like they're different things."
"They are. That's why you're here."
She blinked. "I thought I was your check."
"You are," he said. "But you're also here to remember that we're people first."
She watched him. "And what are you?"
"Temporarily useful," he said.
East Musutafu Market District was color and noise jammed into three blocks of old stone streets.Produce stalls. Electronics booths. Clothing racks. Toy vendors.Voices layered over each other — bargaining, shouting, laughing, complaining.
Today there was another sound under it all: tension stretched thin.
They spotted the disturbance before they reached it.A knot of bodies near a corner stall.Raised voices.Three men in delivery uniforms.One older woman — the stall owner — red-faced and furious.Crates on their sides, fruit rolling into gutters.
"Scope?" Hoshi asked quietly.
Renya scanned the scene.
"Delivery company," he murmured. "Stall space. Probably a collision. Maybe property damage. Crowd hungry for a villain."
Hoshi's fingers twitched. "Do we go in?"
"No," he said. "We go around."
They approached from the side, slipping between onlookers until they stood close enough to feel the heat of words.
One delivery worker shouted, "I said I'm sorry!"The stall owner slammed a hand on her table. "Sorry doesn't pay for smashed crates!"A bystander filmed.Someone else muttered, "Heroes never show up for this kind of thing."
Renya nudged Hoshi with his elbow. "Lesson time. What do you see?"
She inhaled.
"Three people trying to solve three different problems," she said quietly. "Delivery guy wants to leave. Owner wants compensation. Crowd wants story."
"And you?"
She watched a younger worker shifting from foot to foot, hands shaking.
"I see someone about to choke on guilt," she said.
"Good," he said. "We start there."
They moved.
Renya stepped in not as a commander, but as an interruption — the human kind that doesn't announce itself with a shout.
He raised one hand slightly, not in warning, not in threat. Just enough to be seen.
"Good afternoon," he said.
The stall owner glared. "You one of them?"
"No," he said. "I'm here for the mess."
The older delivery worker scowled. "We already said sorry. She's trying to bleed us dry."
"Then this will be quick," Renya said.
Hoshi slid to the side, putting herself just in front of the younger worker. Not blocking, just placing herself in his field of view.
"You okay?" she asked him, low.
He flinched. "I… I didn't mean— I just tripped—"
"Breathe," she said. "We're not here to punish you."
His shoulders dropped half an inch.
The filming bystander kept the camera up. Hoshi made a mental note of his face, then let him be. Not every lens is a threat. Some are just hungry.
Renya turned to the stall owner.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
She jabbed a finger at the overturned crates. "They came around the corner like they own the street! No warning, no respect. Knocked everything over."
He looked at the workers. "Accurate?"
The oldest one grimaced. "We were behind schedule. Ran the turn too fast. He—" he jerked a thumb at the younger one "—lost his footing. We offered to pay. She wants twice the value."
"And you?" Renya asked the younger one.
The boy swallowed. "It was my fault. I'll work it off if I have to."
The crowd buzzed. Someone muttered, "At least he cares."
Renya knelt and picked up a bruised apple, turning it over in his fingers."Half these can be sold," he said. "Half are done."
The owner folded her arms. "Customers don't want damaged goods."
"Some do, at a discount," Renya said. "And some people in this city don't care how their apples look as long as they can eat."
She hesitated.
Hoshi caught it. "How much is one crate worth wholesale?" she asked.
"Five thousand yen," the owner said.
"And how much do you charge per apple?"
The owner named a number. Hoshi did quick mental math.
"So you'd net… about three times the wholesale cost if everything sells," she said. "And here we've got… maybe half salvageable."
Renya stood. "So they owe you one full crate plus half in labor. Not two."
The owner bristled. "Since when are you my accountant?"
"Hoshi," Renya said quietly.
Hoshi stepped forward.
"Ma'am," she said, "we're not here to take their side. We're here to restore balance."
The younger worker looked at her like she had just named something he'd been carrying.
Renya raised his voice just enough for the crowd to hear.
"Here's the Field Dialogue version," he said.
He counted off on his fingers.
"Ask: who's harmed? You. Your stall. Your day.Look: who caused it? Him. And schedules above him.Act: stop the shout, stabilize the loss.Check: did we listen to all sides? Just did.Own: they admit fault. Good.Repair: we decide what 'fixed' means — together."
The bystander kept filming.
"Fine," the owner snapped. "One and a half crates. He works tomorrow morning. I want the shelves restocked."
The older worker frowned. "We can't just—"
The younger one cut him off. "I'll do it," he said. "I'll clock out early, if I have to. I want to fix this."
Hoshi lowered her voice. "You sure?" she asked him.
He nodded. "I don't want her thinking we just run away."
Renya watched them both.The stall owner's shoulders had softened.The crowd's interest faded; without violence or humiliation, the story was no longer profitable.
"Then we're done," Renya said. "Unless anyone here wants to turn this into content."
The bystander filming hesitated.Lowered the phone.Put it away.
The situation deflated like a balloon with a slow leak instead of a pop.
As they walked away, Hoshi exhaled.
"That was… small," she said.
"It was appropriate," Renya said.
"No one cheered."
"If they had, we would have failed."
She frowned. "You really believe that?"
"If they cheer us, they forget themselves," he said. "The goal is for them to forget we were here."
She thought about that.
"Then why did we wear the tags?" she asked, thumb brushing the corner of her provisional badge.
"So the law knows where to send the paperwork," he said.
She laughed.
The second call of the day came while they were still in the district.
FIELD REQUEST – LEVEL YELLOWLocation: East Musutafu Middle SchoolNature: Student panic / building lockdownAssigned: Kurotsuki + Partner
Hoshi stiffened. "That's close. Five minutes."
Renya nodded. "Let's go."
They cut through side streets and back alleys. The school building came into view — old bricks, newer security doors, a cascade of windows.
Outside the main gate, teachers huddled with a handful of students.Police tape fluttered over the entrance, not fully deployed yet.A patrol officer saw their tags and gestured them over.
"False alarm, maybe," he said. "Student reported 'something wrong' in the science wing. Administration called a lockdown protocol. We cleared the first floor. Second floor classes refuse to leave."
"Why?" Hoshi asked.
"Some kind of mass anxiety," the officer said. "Kids convinced that leaving the room is unsafe, even after we tell them it's clear."
"Who reported it?" Renya asked.
"A girl," the officer said. "First-year. She won't talk to us now."
"Where is she?"
"Inside, second floor, Room 2-C," the officer said. "Teacher's with her. Doors locked from inside. We can override, but…"
"But you don't want to escalate," Renya finished.
The officer nodded.
Renya glanced at Hoshi.She was already thinking.
"This is yours," he said.
Her head snapped toward him. "What?"
"Lead," he said. "I follow. I'm your check."
She swallowed. "What if I fail?"
"Then you learn," he said. "Better today than when the building's on fire."
They took the stairwell, steps echoing softly in the school's corridors.Students' voices hummed behind closed doors.Teachers glanced out through narrow glass slits, eyes tight with worry.
At Room 2-C, the homeroom teacher stood outside, palms pressed to the doorframe.
She looked exhausted.
"I'm Kurotsuki," Renya said. "This is Hoshi. We're here to assist."
The teacher nodded. "They're spooked. It started when one girl said she 'felt something bad in the hallway.' Lockdown drilled kicked in. Alarm, announcements, the whole drill. We checked. There's nothing. But now they won't exit protocol. They keep saying, 'It's not over.'"
Hoshi stepped closer to the door. "Are they hearing us?"
"Yes," the teacher said. "They just… don't believe."
Hoshi placed her hand gently on the door."You used the alarm?" she asked.
"Yes," the teacher said.
"Do you have a different sound to mark 'all clear'?" Hoshi asked.
The teacher winced. "Not really. Just announcements. We're supposed to wait for police confirmation."
"So everything sounds like urgency," Hoshi murmured. "Nothing sounds like safety."
She glanced at Renya.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
She took a breath.
Knocked on the door three times — steady, spaced.
"2-C," she called, voice level. "My name is Hoshi. I'm a student from U.A. I'm not here to drag you downstairs. I just want to talk to one person. No alarms. No protocols. Will you talk to me?"
Silence answered. The charged kind.
Then a voice: small, hoarse, muffled through the door.
"…Why should we trust you?"
Hoshi smiled slightly. "You shouldn't. That's the point. I want you to trust yourselves."
Renya's lips twitched. He stepped back half a meter, intentionally leaving the space to her.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"…Miyu."
"Miyu," Hoshi said, "you did something brave. You said something when you felt danger. That's good. That's what drills are for. But drills don't always know when to stop. People do."
Miyu's reply quivered. "It's not over. The feeling's still there."
"What does it feel like?" Hoshi asked.
"…Like… like the floor is tilted," Miyu said. "Like if I move, something will slip."
Hoshi nodded to herself. "That sounds like a body that's been scared for too long."
She turned to the teacher. "How long have they been in lockdown?"
"Forty minutes," the teacher said.
"Too long," Hoshi murmured.
She called through the door again. "Miyu, can I make a deal with you?"
"…What kind?"
"I won't ask you to come out," Hoshi said. "Not yet. I'll ask you to do something smaller."
"…Smaller?"
"Stand up," Hoshi said. "Just stand. Don't touch the door. Don't move toward it. Just stand. And tell me if the floor tilts more or less."
A pause. Then: "…I'm standing."
"What does it feel like?"
"…A little less bad."
"Good," Hoshi said. "Then sit down again. You just proved something."
"What?" Miyu asked.
"That the feeling changes when you move, not when alarms stop," Hoshi said. "Which means you have some control."
Renya watched her work — simple steps, precise questions, reframing fear into experiment.
He was impressed.
"Next deal," Hoshi said. "Pick one other person in the room. Take their hand. Both stand up. Tell me how it feels."
A longer pause.
Two voices now: Miyu's and another girl's.
"…We're up.""…It's… weird. Not as bad."
"Good," Hoshi said. "You're building a Chairline in the room."
Renya almost laughed.
The teacher blinked. "A what?"
"Doesn't matter," Hoshi said. "Miyu, last deal for now. Stay standing. Everyone else can choose: stand or sit. No one is wrong. But if you want this to end, at some point you will have to move toward the door on your own. Not because we tell you. Because your body believes it can."
"…How?" Miyu asked.
"By practicing small moves until the big one is just another step," Hoshi said.
She turned to the officer. "Can we kill the corridor lights?"
He hesitated, then radioed it in. The hallway dimmed. The fluorescent glare softened.
"2-C," Hoshi called, "we're lowering the hallway brightness. No more emergency feeling out here. When you're ready, someone can come look through the door window. Not to leave. Just to see us."
Minutes passed.
One face appeared at the narrow glass — pale, anxious, curious. A second joined. Then a third.
Renya stepped back so they could see Hoshi clearly.
"Hi," Hoshi said softly, meeting their eyes. "You did well. You called for help. Now we'll teach your bodies it's okay to turn the drill off."
She didn't rush them.She didn't command.She didn't appeal to authority.
She waited until someone inside touched the knob.
"Can I open it a little?" Miyu's voice called.
"Yes," Hoshi said. "Only as much as you want."
The door opened a crack.Hoshi didn't move closer.The teacher wiped at her eyes.
"Good," Hoshi said. "Here's the new rule: this door opens when you choose. Not when the alarm tells you. Not when I tell you. When you decide the feeling in your stomach and the facts in your ears can work together."
Slowly, like a tide, the door widened.One student stepped out.Then two.Then the rest.
No stampede.No tears.Just weary faces easing into something like relief.
Renya caught Miyu's eye.
"Well done," he said.
She swallowed. "I… I panicked everyone."
"You alerted them," he said. "Panic is what happens when systems don't respect that."
She nodded slowly, not fully understanding the words, but understanding the tone.
Hoshi knelt so they were eye-level. "Next time you feel something off, you can call for help. But remember this part, too—how you turned it off. You did that."
Miyu's brow furrowed. "…We did that."
Hoshi smiled. "Exactly."
On the way back down the stairs, the officer muttered, "You two should be therapists."
"We're teachers," Renya said.
"That's worse," the officer said. "Less pay, more guilt."
He wasn't wrong.
They rode the tram back to campus.
Hoshi leaned her head against the window, watching the city scroll by. "Did I do okay?" she asked.
"You did your job," Renya said. "And more."
"Which job?" she said. "Partner or student?"
"Both," he said. "And something else."
She eyed him. "Something else?"
"You began," he said.
She frowned in thought, then eased into a quiet grin.
"That was your first day as a field hero," she said.
"No," he said. "It was everyone else's."
"Poetic," she said. "Annoying, but poetic."
He didn't deny it.
When they arrived at U.A., the sun was folding itself into the horizon.Aizawa met them by the gate, hands in pockets.
"Reports already came in," he said. "Market incident resolved, no escalation. School lockdown ended without casualties or trauma escalation. Commission is… grudgingly impressed."
"Good," Renya said. "Keep them grudging."
Aizawa eyed Hoshi. "And you?"
She straightened. "I didn't break anything."
"You fixed something," Aizawa said. "More than one something."
She flushed.
Renya spoke before she could deflect. "She led the second call."
Aizawa turned to her, expression unreadable. "Then you're further along than you think."
She swallowed. "It felt… good. Not the praise. The… outcome."
"Remember that," he said. "Not the feeling. The work."
Later, on the dorm roof, Renya sat with the metal tag in his palm.
The city below hummed with late trains, warm windows, people trying.The tag was small, light, and absurdly powerful for its size.
He turned it over, reading the engraving again.
FIELD HERO – KUROTSUKI RENYA.
From another life, he remembered different titles — some feared, some reviled, some spoken in reverence he'd never asked for.
This one felt… earned?No.Not yet.
But it felt like a line drawn.Not in stone.In motion.A boundary he could move with his own choices.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Aki: Heard about the market and the school. You walked the verbs today. Proud?
He typed: No. Relieved.
She replied: Good. Pride comes after a decade. Relief is for first days.
Another message from Airi: Dinner's in the fridge. Heat it, hero.
He smiled.
Not a large one.
Small.
Real.
He pocketed the tag.
Tomorrow would bring other calls.Bigger ones.Harder ones.Days when the verbs failed, and he would have to live with the gaps between what he taught and what he managed to do.
But today, the line had held.He had stepped into harm.He had stepped out with people more whole than he found them.
For a first step, that was enough.
He stood, turned from the edge, and walked back inside.
The path was signed.
Now he would walk it.