Six years passed like water through cupped hands.
It felt like a blink, and suddenly I was twelve years old, standing in front of the mirror in my cramped bedroom, studying the face that stared back at me. The same dark eyes, the same unruly black hair with a wavy/curly feel to it, but sharper now—less like a lost child and more like someone who'd been forged in fire. My frame had filled out, lean muscles layered over a body that had been pushed to its limits every single morning for nearly a decade.
I flexed my arm, watching the corded muscle shift beneath my skin. I'd grown. Not just in height, but in strength. In control.
The Nika form, which had once lasted barely two minutes, could now hold steady for nearly forty-five minutes of active combat. When stationary, I could maintain it for over an hour. My stretches reached up to fifteen feet, and my punches—when I really put my back into it—could crack concrete.
But the cost was still there. The stamina drain, the exhaustion that crept in like a tide. I'd learned to manage it, to pace myself, but I knew I still had a long way to go.
Nika's power isn't a gift. It's a test. And I'm not done passing it yet.
I pulled on my uniform—the standard grey and white of Aldera Junior High—and headed downstairs.
---
The kitchen was already alive with the sounds of morning. Betta, my mother, was at the stove, humming a soft tune as she flipped pancakes. Her hair had more grey in it now, and the lines around her eyes had deepened, but her smile was as warm as ever.
"Morning, Mom," I said, sliding into my seat in the table.
She turned, her face lighting up. "Suon! You're up early. Sleep well?"
"Same as always," I said, reaching for the soy sauce. "Dreamed about myself training again."
She chuckled, placing a plate in front of me. "You and your father. You'd think he'd let up now that you're starting junior high."
Kenji's voice rumbled from the doorway. "Let up? He's barely scratched the surface." He walked in, his broad shoulders still carrying that same weight of unfulfilled ambition. But there was pride in his eyes now—pride he'd never quite learned to express without gruffness. "You've got the form down, but you're still burning through stamina too fast. We'll work on that this weekend."
I nodded, shoveling pancakes into my mouth. "Yes, Dad."
Betta shot Kenji a look. "He's starting a new school today. Can't you let him have one morning off?"
Kenji grunted, but a ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "Fine. But tomorrow, we're back at it."
I grinned. It was the closest we got to affection, and I'd learned to treasure it.
---
The years between had changed my family in ways both small and large.
Yuki, now twenty-three, had graduated from her dream college and was working as a junior researcher at a quirk development lab. She'd grown into a poised, confident woman who still wore those same glasses and still had that same protective streak. She visited on weekends, always bringing small gifts and asking about my training.
"You're going to give yourself a hernia one day," she'd say, watching me stretch after a session. "But I guess that's better than being weak."
I'd laugh and hug her. She'd stiffen for a moment, then relax into the embrace. Some things never changed with her.
Hana, now twenty-one, had taken a different path. After high school, she'd bounced between jobs—barista, retail clerk, personal trainer—never quite finding her footing. Her enhanced hearing, once a source of endless gossip, had started to become a burden. Too much noise, too many voices, too much of the world pressing in on her.
But she still found time to tease me. "Little bro's finally going to junior high," she'd said the night before, ruffling my hair. "Try not to beat up anyone on the first day. Save it for the second day, when someone tries to mess with you, just beat them like always."
I'd swatted her hand away, grinning. "I'll try."
And Emi. Sweet, wonderful Emi was now fourteen, a first-year in high school. She'd grown tall, her hair still cycling through colors like a living rainbow. She'd developed her quirk further—she could now change the color of her entire body, not just her hair, and she used it to express every emotion with theatrical flair.
She'd cried when I told her I'd be going to Aldera instead of her school. "You're leaving me!" she'd wailed, her hair turning a dramatic blue. "I'll have no one to walk with!"
"You'll survive," I'd said, hugging her and patting her hair, now being taller than her. "And I'll still come to your school events when I can. Promise."
She'd sniffled, her hair settling into a warm gold. "You better."
---
My training with Kenji had evolved over the years. It wasn't just running laps anymore. He'd built an obstacle course in that sad little park—ropes to climb, tires to flip, weighted vests to run in. He'd even convinced a retired hero friend to let us use a small gymnasium on weekends, where I could practice my stretches and punches without worrying about prying eyes.
"You're not just building muscle," Kenji would say, his voice a constant mantra. "You're building stamina. The Nika form is a furnace. The stronger your body, the longer you can keep it burning."
I'd nod, sweat dripping into my eyes, and push harder.
And slowly, painfully, I'd improved. By ten, I could hold the form while running a kilometer. By eleven, I could stretch and attack simultaneously. By twelve, I could fight for nearly fifteen minutes before collapsing.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was progress.
---
The morning of my first day at Aldera Junior High, I stood at the front gate, staring at the building that would house the next chapter of my life. It was a nondescript structure, all grey concrete and functional windows, but it loomed larger than it should have.
I'd heard rumors about Aldera. It wasn't a bad school, but it wasn't exceptional either. Most students were quirkless or had minor quirks that didn't qualify them for hero programs. It was a stepping stone, a place to bide time before entering the real world.
But I knew it was also the place where Bakugo Katsuki would begin his rise—and where Midoriya Izuku would start his fall.
And I'm going to be there for all of it.
I walked through the gates, my heart pounding with a familiar rhythm. Not the drumbeat—that was different, deeper. This was just anticipation.
---
The classroom was already half-full when I arrived. I scanned the room, my eyes landing on familiar faces. Bakugo sat near the back, his feet propped up on the desk, his scowl deeper than I remembered. He'd grown too, broader, meaner, with a coiled tension that radiated off him like heat.
And Midoriya sat in the corner, hunched over his notebook, looking smaller than ever. His eyes darted nervously around the room, and when they met Bakugo's, they quickly looked away.
So it's already starting. The rift. The cruelty.
I took a seat in the middle row, not too close to either of them. I didn't want to draw attention—not yet.
The teacher, a tired-looking man with a receding hairline, droned through introductions. I tuned out most of it, my mind wandering to tonight's training session. But then Bakugo stood up, his voice cutting through the monotony like a blade.
"I'm Katsuki Bakugo. My quirk is Explosion. I'm going to be the number one hero." He paused, his red eyes sweeping the room. "And anyone who gets in my way is going to regret it."
A few kids laughed nervously. Others looked uncomfortable. Midoriya shrank further into his seat.
I watched Bakugo sit down, his expression triumphant. He wasn't the same boy who'd nudged Midoriya's shoulder in first grade. Something had shifted in him—something sharp and ugly.
He's still a kid, I reminded myself. He's still growing. He's not the monster he'll become. Not yet.
But I couldn't shake the unease settling in my gut, the one from my past.
---
At lunch, I found a quiet spot on the rooftop, away from the noise and chaos of the cafeteria. I'd started eating alone years ago—not because I was lonely, but because I needed the peace to think.
I pulled out my bento box, the familiar weight of Betta's cooking grounding me. Rice balls, pickled vegetables, a small piece of grilled fish. Simple, but made with love.
I was halfway through my meal when the door creaked open.
I tensed, ready to transform, but it was just a skinny kid with wild green hair and a notebook clutched to his chest.
Midoriya.
"Oh!" He froze, his eyes wide. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't know anyone was up here. I can leave—"
"It's fine," I said, gesturing to the spot beside me. "I don't mind company."
He hesitated, then shuffled over, sitting a respectful distance away. He didn't open his bento, just clutched his notebook and stared at the sky.
We sat in silence for a few minutes before I spoke. "You're Midoriya, right? From my class."
He jumped, like he'd forgotten I was there. "Y-yes! Izuku Midoriya. You're… Suon, right? The one with the stretching quirk?"
"Yeah. That's me."
He brightened, his nervousness fading slightly. "I've been writing about your quirk! Well, I haven't seen much of it, but I've heard rumors, and I've seen you training sometimes—" He caught himself, his face reddening. "S-sorry, I know that sounds creepy. I just really like quirks. I research them in my free time."
I smiled. It was genuine, unforced. "It's not creepy. I'm kind of the same way."
He blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah. I think understanding quirks is the first step to mastering them and becoming a better hero. Your notebook—can I see it?"
He hesitated, then handed it over. I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning his neat handwriting. Detailed diagrams, observations, strategies. He'd been doing this for years, cataloging heroes and quirks like a scholar, it was incredibly detailed.
"You're good at this," I said, handing it back. "Really good. Have you ever thought about applying to UA?"
His face fell. "I… I don't have a quirk. They'd never accept me."
I wanted to tell him the truth—that he would have a quirk one day, that All Might would choose him, that he'd become the greatest hero of all. But I couldn't. The timeline was too fragile, and I didn't want to ruin whatever fate had in store.
"Quirks aren't everything," I said instead. "It's about heart. About never giving up." I paused, meeting his eyes. "If you want it badly enough, you'll find a way."
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes glistening. Then he nodded, a small, determined smile on his face. "Thanks, Suon."
We ate the rest of our lunch in comfortable silence. It wasn't a friendship—not yet. But it was a start.
---
The weeks passed. I fell into the rhythm of school, studying hard during class and training even harder outside it. Kenji pushed me relentlessly, and I responded by pushing back. By the time winter break arrived, I could hold the Nika form for nearly an hour, and my punches had enough force to crack cinderblocks.
But I also noticed the cracks forming around me.
Bakugo had become the undisputed king of Aldera. His explosive quirk intimidated everyone, and he wielded it like a weapon, lashing out at anyone who challenged him. His cronies followed him like sycophants, laughing at his jokes, fueling his ego.
And Midoriya had become his favorite target.
It started with mocking. "Deku," Bakugo called him—a name meant to demean, to belittle. Then it escalated to pushing, shoving, burning his notebook with small explosions. The other kids laughed. The teachers turned a blind eye.
I watched it all, my fists clenched, my blood boiling. I wanted to step in, to defend Midoriya, to teach Bakugo a lesson he wouldn't forget ever.
But I couldn't. Not yet. I wasn't ready enough to involve myself in something Izuku needed to grow. And if I intervened, I'd be painting a target on my own back.
Instead, I did what I could. I'd sit with Midoriya at lunch, offering quiet support. I'd help him pick up his scattered notebooks. I'd listen when he talked about heroes, nodding along, encouraging him.
"You're going to be a hero," I told him one afternoon, after Bakugo had knocked his lunch tray out of his hands. "I know it. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Midoriya looked up at me, his eyes red from crying. "How can you be so sure?"
I smiled—a smile that held the weight of two lifetimes. "Because I've seen the future. And in it, you're the best of us all."
He didn't understand. He couldn't. But he nodded, wiping his eyes, and for a moment, the world felt a little less dark.
---
The school year crept on. Bakugo grew more arrogant. Midoriya grew more withdrawn. And I grew stronger.
But the drumbeat in my chest never stopped—a constant reminder of the God who'd given me a second chance.
And a constant reminder of the freedom I was still fighting for.