Chapter one:

Life is short, and it comes with no visible expiration date. Humans are predictably unpredictable; there's no way to foresee if someone will overcome challenges, perhaps through a miracle or sheer willpower, driven by the innate need to survive shared by all creatures. Life is a precious gift, and who are we to determine when it should end?

While second chances may not be guaranteed, living a second life is a dream come true. You have the opportunity to right all your wrongs, and the sins that once burdened your mind with poison can be cured. And even if you falter, there's always a third, fourth, or fifth chance. But how many lives can one have before everything crumbles? Before your sanity wanes, and you become nothing but a husk of the lively child you once were?

He was born into a family of ice and fire, a family that values only the useful and discards the useless – or at least his father does. He is seen as one of the useless because what use is an ice ability when you already have a child with both ice and fire? His brother, half hot and half cold, was the 'masterpiece' his father sought, while he was simply another background character, observing as the protagonist grew and the tragic backstory unfolded.

Day by day, his eldest brother grew bitter, and he watched as his siblings learned to hate the same way they learned to walk. He watched and watched, being the youngest yet most aware, apathetic, intelligent one. His father doesn't care, and no one else does either. He's considered weird and abnormal, and despite his siblings' attempts to care, they can't understand him.

They can't comprehend the macabre scene of a once lovely hill covered in blood, seeping into the ground, ranging from bright red to brownish red, all looking hauntingly familiar. He doesn't like it; it terrifies him to the core.

He has white hair and despised his turquoise eyes because they resemble his father's. He wants to cover them up, but when he does, everything feels wrong. So, he keeps them visible for everyone to see ,his connection to his father. But, he can't even detest the man, despite his actions against his siblings. He doesn't understand why he feels this way.

He remains indifferent when he encounters dead bodies, comprehends his mother's situation, or witnesses his brother scream in pain from water-boiling skin. He doesn't flinch when he sees his mother trying to freeze the injuries with her quirk, nor does he try to warn her about the possibility of ice burns.

He practices in his room, making ice crawl up his arm, and when he catches a look at his eyes, he sees something different. They are glowing a bright cyan instead of the dark turquoise, and with a sudden realization, he finds that there is something unique about him, connected to the horrible dreams – no, nightmares that he has. He doesn't know whether to worry or grin in satisfaction. He doesn't think about it and instead just finds himself staring into his eyes, and the ice leaves his hands to wherever it goes when he dismisses it.

He doesn't understand his ability yet, but he's only four, so he doesn't have to. He has all the time in the world to worry about that, so he trains and tries to figure out his ability. Yet, despite everything he does, nothing seems to work. No matter how hard he pushes himself, nothing else but ice appears. He feels like he was punched in the gut because those glowing eyes might as well have been all of it. He didn't want to accept it, but in the end, he did. There was nothing more to do than accept it. So instead, he tries to keep his eyes from turning that bright cyan. He doesn't want his family to catch onto what he has, and he doubts his father would be happy about it. His father was never happy about anything.

No, he would be happy the day his 'Masterpiece' surpasses All Might. He snorts silently at the name All Might; it sounds like someone with too many muscles and not enough brains. Some part of his mind chastises him for saying such things about a highly respected figure, while another part of him snickers, as if whispering insults about the man that are no doubt inspired by his father's own insults. There were jabs at other heroes too, and before he knows it, a smile creeps on his face.

It's a bit disturbing to think that throwing out insults and imagining how to damage someone's reputation causes him to smile, to feel the fickle emotion that is happiness, joy, or glee. But he doesn't care because right now, right here, he's actually happy. He doesn't have to focus on anything other than that, no matter how disturbing the root of his happiness may be.

His mother – no, his mother had been sent to a mental institution, his elder – his oldest sister, then dropped something, and he tilted his head at the bright grin facing his way as hands grabbed onto his cheeks. He couldn't help but feel content. The hold was tight and uncomfortable for most, but the tightness, the lack of space, brought him comfort. He didn't like enclosed spaces, but he loved it when his siblings would squeeze him like this, until he choked. But they'd never go that far, no matter how much he encouraged them. They won't, and he won't force them to because they are important to him, and he is important to them. He feels too lucky to have them. Despite his true feelings, they're family. He'll protect them because if he doesn't, he doesn't have anything or anyone to care for. And if he doesn't have anything or anyone to care for, then what's the point of living?

"Make me your reason for living."

His odd dreams don't count, and the boy in his vision doesn't matter. They're irrelevant and have no say in the reason he chose to live for someone rather than drifting as he had before.

His brother rushed in upon hearing the crash, and they all looked down to see glass on the floor. His siblings hurried to grab a broom, while he stood there, knowing that stepping on glass wouldn't be enjoyable. Instead, he walked carefully around it, not caring to clean it up as he knew his siblings would insist.

"Yuki-chan," his brother approached, and he didn't dispute the nickname, despite his annoyance. But he wasn't annoyed because he was apathetic and didn't care about anyone or anything.

He didn't respond and instead gazed at the walls as intently as possible. His brother, Natsuo, was several years older than him. The plan hadn't involved having a child without the previous one's quirk manifesting, so there should have been a four to five-year age gap. Yet here he was with a two-year age gap with the 'Masterpiece' that their father had even sent their mother to a mental institution for.

He almost envied the boy if he hadn't seen the remnants of abuse. If he hadn't seen the boy clutching his stomach, beaten at the hands of their father.

The boy who was his brother meant nothing to him, and the lack of attention from his father didn't matter because, in the end, he knew that death would take them – yet why won't they take me? – into its cold embrace and make them equals. There is no status in death, that is something he knows for certain.

His brother looked almost expectant, and he opened his mouth, thinking over what he had to say. "Many people say that cold is connected to death," he started, and he didn't know where he was going, his mouth moving on its own. "There is a poem from a long, long time ago, in the pre-quirk era, by someone named Robert Frost called 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.' Do you know how it goes?" At his brother's hesitant head shake, he recited it. He didn't know when or where he memorized it, but he did.

"Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

His brother looked confused, as this was in English. He sighed quietly before carefully recounting it in Japanese, trying to convey its meaning as closely as possible.

"Okay?" His brother still seemed puzzled. "The poet was attracted to the idea of peace within death–" he cut himself off, wondering if this was because he was thinking about death only moments ago. "But he doesn't die. Do you know why?" He stared intently.

"Because... his quirk doesn't allow him to?" His brother attempted an answer, but, as it may, Natsuo didn't understand one thing, or he didn't remember it at least. "No, this is from the pre-quirk era. He does it because he has duties to fulfill, and he can't end it until they are fulfilled." He didn't quite know where he got this from or why he was saying this, but in the end, maybe he'd understand.

"Why do you live?" He asked in the end, and his brother didn't have an answer. He nodded, already knowing that someone so young wouldn't have answers to such a question. "I live for someone," a part of his mind whispered, and he couldn't help but agree.

Yukito is different, different from his siblings, but he doesn't want to be different. He wants to be something, someone normal, capable of feeling, showing emotions. Why couldn't he be normal?

He remained silent for weeks after that, choosing not to answer any questions or acknowledge the looks sent his way. He couldn't grasp their emotions, nor could he understand his own. How would he comprehend others, especially not children, whose emotions were always so fickle?

It was frustrating, and he knew it wasn't their fault, but he couldn't stand to be around other children for more than a few minutes. He needed sleep, so he dreamt and dreamt, and then the nightmares began.

He found himself standing in the middle of a snowstorm, the wind forcing him to close his eyes, and the snow pricking at his skin. He forced them open and tried to look around, only seeing splotches of red in the midst of the storm. Then, a burst of fire hit his side, causing him to stumble backward as it burned the ice and snow, intensifying his pain. He hoped and prayed for release because everything hurt, and he wondered why he wouldn't wake up. Was this not a dream? Why wouldn't he wake up? It hurt so much, and he needed help quickly. Please, help...

The storm died down, and what he saw terrified him. There were dead people—adults and children, men and women. Some were speared through, others frozen, and many others had succumbed to hypothermia.

The power he wielded so carelessly could be used to kill. It was a weapon in his hands, one that could be as uncontrollable as the wind and more dangerous than a bomb. He shook his head, ridding himself of the words. His power was a weapon that he was learning to control, even if only on his own.

"You do not understand the power you wield," a voice said. "Take my hand, and I shall show you." He instinctively turned and saw a giant throne made entirely of ice and snow, menacing and radiating the power of death.

He had heard of a song, something that, when heard, would make you aware that you were on the brink of death's embrace. You'd be in their warm and tender hands, but they were still debating whether to keep you or not. Regardless, you would hear it, and you'd know.

But there was no song; all there was, was an aura that could only be described as death. He didn't feel scared. No, it was ominous, but the unknown would always be ominous. So he took a step towards the looming figure before him, and only one thought crossed his mind: "We look alike."

He paused, took a deep breath, and wondered if he really wanted to know. He looked down to see trails in the snow, trails made of ice that made him wary of slipping. He followed the path, and something, something, told him this was familiar, achingly familiar. Something he should know, even in his sleep, but he didn't. He didn't understand the inscriptions on the walls or the peculiar circular objects hanging on pieces of paper. They looked odd, and he wanted to know why they felt so familiar, what they did. He didn't quite understand that last part of himself, but he wanted to know.

"We do not have much time," a voice said.

He stopped and stared back at the statue. It was evident now that it was a statue, so he took another step forward, then another, and another, until he stood right in front of it.

He hesitated, asking, "There is no going back, is there?"

"That would be correct," the voice answered. He wanted to continue his line of questioning, to understand what he would receive and why he felt so anxious about it.

"Come closer, just five more steps," the voice urged.

He took another step, then another. Three steps remained, and he was unsure, but he felt that if he didn't proceed, he would regret it.

"Tik Tok," the voice added, its impatience becoming more apparent, which was unusual for him, as he usually struggled to understand his own emotions, let alone others'.

He took another step forward and then abruptly stopped, suppressing his ability to think, and grabbed onto the outstretched hand. Instantly, pain exploded in his head, causing him to scream, thrash, and attempt to gouge his eyes out, but nothing worked. Why won't it work? Why does this hurt so much—Oh.