The first time Daiso Reveles disappeared, no one noticed.
He was seven years old, barefoot on cracked pavement, standing between two apartment buildings that leaned too close together. The air smelled like rust and hot concrete. Somewhere above, an argument echoed through an open window, sharp and tired.
Daiso held a plastic grocery bag against his chest with both hands.
Inside were cans, bread, and a carton of milk sweating through thin plastic. His arms were skinny. His knees were scraped. His light brown skin was marked with dust that never quite washed off no matter how hard his mother scrubbed.
He took a step forward.
Then he wasn't there anymore.
The world folded inward without sound.
Daiso reappeared three feet ahead, stumbling as his bare feet slapped the ground. The grocery bag slipped from his hands, cans clattering and rolling across the alley.
He stared at the empty space behind him.
Then at the space in front of him.
His chest burned like he'd run too fast. His vision swam. He dropped to one knee, palms flat against the pavement, breathing shallow and quick.
For a moment, he thought he was dying.
Then the feeling passed.
Daiso stood slowly, legs shaking, and looked around to make sure no one had seen.
No one had.
He gathered the groceries with clumsy hands, stuffed them back into the bag, and walked home like nothing had happened.
That night, he didn't tell his mother.
The second time, it hurt more.
Daiso was helping carry water up the stairwell when the power went out again. The building groaned like it always did when the lights died. Someone cursed on the third floor. A baby started crying.
The bucket slipped.
Daiso reached for it—
And the stairwell vanished.
He slammed into the landing below, water exploding around him. Pain shot up his legs and into his spine. He cried out before he could stop himself.
His mother rushed down the stairs, panic already in her eyes.
"What happened?" she asked, grabbing him, checking his arms, his head, his ribs.
"I fell," Daiso said quickly.
It wasn't a lie.
Not exactly.
By the third time, people noticed.
It happened at school.
A desk scraped. A chair tipped. A kid stumbled backward, about to hit the concrete edge of the courtyard steps.
Daiso moved without thinking.
He blinked—
And was suddenly standing where the other boy had been.
The boy landed safely behind him, startled but unharmed.
Daiso hit the ground hard, breath ripped from his lungs. His head rang. The world tilted.
The courtyard went silent.
Teachers stared. Kids whispered. Someone laughed nervously, then stopped.
Daiso pushed himself up, face burning hotter than his scraped palms.
"I slipped," he said.
No one believed him.
They started watching him after that.
Not closely. Not yet.
Just enough.
People asked questions he didn't know how to answer. Officials came with polite smiles and tablets full of forms. They tested his pulse, his reflexes, his eyes.
His hair was still dark then—short, wavy, barely touching his forehead. His eyes were brown. Ordinary.
They told his mother he had an ability.
Teleportation, they called it.
The word sounded big. Important.
Daiso didn't feel important.
He felt tired.
Every jump left him shaking. Every movement burned. Sometimes his nose bled afterward. Sometimes he slept for hours and still woke up exhausted.
They told him it would get easier.
They didn't tell him how long that would take.
At night, Daiso lay on his thin mattress staring at the ceiling, listening to sirens outside and pipes rattling inside the walls. He practiced breathing slow. In and out. In and out.
He didn't dream about being strong.
He dreamed about being on time.
About getting there before something broke.
Before someone screamed.
Before it was too late.
Years later, people would say Daiso Reveles was born different.
They would be wrong.
He wasn't born powerful.
He was born early.
And he learned very young what it meant to arrive first—and stay anyway.