I wake up in the backseat of a limousine. The seats are plush leather, the interior lavish and equipped with a drink bar and a sound system. The inside is perfectly cooled, protecting me and my parents from the sweltering summer of Japan.
Wait.
My parents?
My head snaps to two people sitting across from me in the limousine. A man and a woman. My parents. Infamous illegal support item manufacturers.
Memories flood back. I remember my name. It seems this isn't a full reincarnation, or maybe it is. After all, my body is seven years old right now, but I have its memories. I know who I am, who these people in front of me are. I've been living as a child until now, only having awaked the memories from my past life.
The shift is nauseating, but not painful. It takes me a moment to adjust.
"Reze," my father, Yuri, calls out. "What did I say about spacing out? You're already seven, boys your age shouldn't be daydreaming."
Yuri Lisov is not a kind father, evidently. He's a cold man with cold green eyes, eyes that have never looked at me with anything more than disappointment and contempt. I was born without a quirk, and when my fourth birthday passed, it was settled. Reze Lisov does not have a quirk.
Until now.
For my father, for a man of his stature, a notorious Russian born weapons manufacturer with ambitions far beyond his station, his son being quirkless is a great disappointment. He had ambitions for me. He wanted me to become the face of this family and lend it the legitimacy it needs.
But I was useless.
"And how should a seven year old act?" I ask with far more snark than I wanted to let out. I want to push his buttons, not anger him. He's scary when he's angry. Well, he was. That was before I regained my memories.
He scowls. "I believe I misheard. Did you perhaps talk back to your father, Reze?"
My mother, Naoko, a Japanese woman of small stature tries to placate him, but it's only a performative act. She couldn't care less about me, she wouldn't look my way even if I sprouted a second head. She wants to feel like a good mother, but she's distant and cold.
"And if I did? What then? Cut my allowance?"
His scowl deepens, brows knit together. Losing my allowance would actually be disastrous. They might be horrible parents, but at least they're rich. By extension, I'm rich. I'm free from the curse. I'll never be broke again!
I can't help but smile, an act that enrages my father. He wants to shut me up, I can see it in the way his jaw clenches. He's never been a stranger to abuse. And yet he doesn't. He only steels himself and takes a deep breath.
"This can wait until after the conference," he says, turning his attention back to his data pad.
Of course, beating up your kid before an event where it's important you be seen as a trustworthy family man isn't exactly ideal. Too bad. I'd love to test my new powers.
Sceneries of thick mountain forests race past my window as the car ascends up a steep slope. Wherever this conference is, it's clearly not meant to be open to the public, nestled between the mountains of Japan.
I look out the window, lost in thought. I need to keep my head down for now, wait until I'm old enough to claim independence. I'll walk away from this family with as much cash as I possibly can and retire somewhere far away from Japan. That's probably for the best, I shouldn't interact with any of the original cast. God knows that crazy woman would strike me down.
I fidget with the bomb pin attached to my neck absentmindedly. It's a new addition, hidden away by my shirt collar. My index hooks down and under, curling around the pin. I could pull it right now. What would happen if I did? I'd probably blow up, right?
I give my parents a passing glance. They're not even looking at me. A part of me wants to shrivel up until there is nothing left, to hide from their cruel gazes, the other part, the part that's not a child yearning for their approval, wants nothing more than to blow them up to smithereens. Ultimately, neither side wins, and I do nothing.
I'm angry on my own behalf. How funny is that? My old self is angry on behalf of my new self. It's a strange feeling. I sit with that for a while. There's nothing else to do besides internalize anyway.
In my past life, everything I did was always at full throttle. If I took my foot off the pedal for even a second, I'd drown and die. It's strange having all this time again, time to reflect and do nothing, without worry.
As I'm watching the mountains pass by, while I'm not paying attention, I feel something. It's a physical sensation. I feel it before I understand it. It's an electric jolt running down my spine, starting from my neck and surging down to my tailbone. It's the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, as if a low current is running through me.
I don't understand it. It's only a sensation, but memories, no, visions form at the corners of my eyes. Beaten winding roads leading up a mountain path. There's forests, trees everywhere. Deeper. To the north. There is something there, something terrible. It is death. Waiting. Moving.
The limo rattles as it hits something small on the road, only just a rock, but it's enough to break me out of the haze.
I look around. Nothing has changed, there is nothing wrong. Everything is in order and as it should be. The car is silent save for the soft hum of the engine, my parents mute as they stare into their data pads.
I'm panting, my heartbeat drumming against my chest. What the hell happened? Was I hallucinating? Am I schizophrenic? It felt so real… It was so real. It's as if I saw something, as if someone was trying to show me something.
It was a shiver.
Ah.
It wasn't a hallucination or a delusion, at least I don't think it was. It is the world connected to me, warning me. Death is coming, real and incarnate.
The car stops and my heart lurches. My father turns around to speak to his driver beyond the privacy screen. Whatever he sees beyond the screen, beyond the windshield, it makes him freeze.
"Run her over," he says to his driver, his voice low. "She's obviously deranged. We'll deal with the consequences later. We cannot afford delay."
Run her over?
I roll down my window and jut my head out of the car, searching for whatever the roadblock is. I see her immediately. She's impossible to miss.
A tall, white haired woman stands in front of our car, a horrid smirk on her face. She's young, barely over twenty five, her perfectly blue eyes boring holes through the limousine's windshield, as though she can see through the tinted glass.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end again, and I know it is her. She's dangerous.
"We should turn around," I say, my throat feeling dry all of a sudden.
"Shut up." Father doesn't even turn around to acknowledge me. "Tell her to move."
The woman doesn't listen, her simple white shirt fluttering in the wind. She stands there, watching.
"Get out." Her voice pierces my ears. "Mr. Lisov. You probably understand what is about to happen."
She raises her hands. The limo driver steps out. I watch it all go down from the backseat, half my body hanging out the window just so I can get a view. The driver is a man with a strong quirk, strong enough to protect our family.
Not strong enough.
My mother says nothing, apathetic even now. I don't know if it's confidence or cowardice but I know we will all die if I do nothing. But what can I do?
The driver steps in front of the car, facing the woman. Blades jut out of his forearms like mantis blades, deadly and sharp. He's trained too. Former soldier. Retired hero. Perhaps he could've lived if he didn't choose this path in life.
Perhaps if this man chose to become a teacher at a hero school instead of being the personal body guard to a criminal family, he could've lived. But he chose this. Probably had to. It paid better. I can't blame him, but I won't pity him.
He strikes first, slashing with his blades. He goes from retired hero turned criminal bodyguard to headless corpse in less time than it takes for me to blink. I don't even catch what happened. He just dies, his head rolling on the ground, down the sloped road. Down, down past me. Lifeless eyes and all.
I make eye contact with the woman. Her eyes are like little pools of clear skies. Captivating, in a word. Striking in another.
My father pales. "An assassin. So it's finally come to this."
"Yes!" She raises her hands and places them behind her head, frighteningly carefree.
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. I freeze, unable to stick my head back in the car.
"And I'm here to kill you…" she smiles, and my heart sinks into the depths. This is it. This is death. "And your entire family."