PROLOGUE PT. 2 - "MEET THE SAKURABAS"
(Warning, just in case: This chapter contains abuse, severe bullying, and other sensitive elements. Be advised)
Another day of this.
Inside the cold, clinical walls of the Hero Public Safety Commission headquarters, the air felt perpetually sterile, the kind of atmosphere that repelled warmth and life in favor of order and efficiency. Junnosuke Sakuraba sat at the long, gleaming obsidian table that stretched the length of the conference room, surrounded by similarly sharp-eyed men and women, each one wearing the same crisp suit, the same air of restrained power. The windowless room was dimly lit, giving the space a hushed, conspiratorial feel, as though the very walls themselves were privy to secrets too dangerous to be spoken aloud.
A low murmur of conversation hung in the air like smoke, the muted rustle of paperwork and the tapping of fingers on sleek digital tablets providing the only other sounds. At the head of the table, the Commission's director, a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and eyes that gleamed with a strange mixture of apathy and anticipation, cleared his throat softly. It was a signal, a subtle yet unmistakable sign for the conversation to begin in earnest.
Sakuraba Junnosuke, ever the master of measured silence, folded his hands before him, his long fingers laced together in a casual display of control. His expression remained impassive, his cold golden eyes sweeping over the other figures at the table. He had been in this room too many times to count, and yet it never ceased to amuse him how quickly these people devolved into predators the moment the meeting began. He could feel it—the tension, the underlying aggression, all masked by polite smiles and professional etiquette. These were people who dealt in shadows, in the dark corners of society where heroes operated with impunity, where they could commit acts unspeakable to the public's innocent ears, all in the name of the greater good.
The director tapped his fingers lightly on the table, drawing everyone's attention. His voice was slow and deliberate, like the clicking of gears in a well-oiled machine. "Status reports from our underground operatives. We'll start with Sector 9."
A man to Junnosuke's left, square-jawed and wearing a permanent scowl, straightened in his seat. "The clean-up after the Hiruma incident went smoother than expected. All witnesses have been… persuaded to forget. We used Echoecho's Quirk, like you suggested, and it worked well. No leaks."
Junnosuke's lips barely twitched, but there was something dark flickering behind his eyes. Echoecho's Quirk—an insidious ability that allowed its user to erase memories in a manner so thorough that even physical reminders would seem like distant, disjointed dreams—was becoming one of their most useful tools. There was always the question of ethical boundaries, of course, but such things hardly mattered here. Not when the stakes were so high.
The director gave a faint nod, looking pleased. "Good. We don't need any more slip-ups. Sector 12?"
A woman across the table, her face sharp as a knife's edge, leaned forward. "The underground heroes we dispatched have successfully neutralized the rogue group near Nagoya. They were... uncooperative at first. We had to use some of the less conventional methods." She let the words hang in the air for a moment, her mouth twisting into something that was not quite a smile. "They've been brought in for 're-education.' We're certain they'll fall in line after a few more sessions."
Junnosuke's gaze remained fixed on her, expressionless, though his mind whirred behind the icy façade. "Re-education" was such a sanitized term, masking the brutal process that turned rebellious Quirk-users into compliant tools for the Commission. He had seen it in action enough times—bodies broken, minds warped, the very essence of people torn apart and rebuilt to fit the Commission's ideals. It was efficient, certainly, but there was always a line—always a point where efficiency bled into something grotesque.
Not that it mattered. The machine had to keep moving.
"Any casualties?" Junnosuke's voice was a low murmur, calculated in its tone, like the strike of a surgeon's scalpel.
"Two," the woman responded, without missing a beat. "Both expected losses. The team handled it well."
Another faint nod from the director. The conversation moved on to another sector, another set of unspeakable actions cloaked in euphemisms and numbers. Junnosuke's mind began to drift, his thoughts cooling as he let the conversation wash over him. The details mattered, yes, but the broad strokes were always the same—containment, elimination, control. These meetings were routine now, each one bleeding into the next, each decision more morally ambiguous than the last, until even the most horrific choices felt like simple transactions.
When the topic finally shifted to Meiyo Academy, Junnosuke's attention sharpened. He straightened ever so slightly in his chair, his hands still resting in front of him like a predator biding its time. The woman who had been reporting on Sector 12 glanced at her tablet, then back at the director. "Meiyo Academy. Eight years since we let Wonder-Worlder take over."
There was a moment of silence, as though the very mention of the name carried a weight that no one dared to ignore. Wonder-Worlder was eccentric, that much was known, but he had also been effective—dangerously so. The man's Quirk allowed him to do dangerous things. It was a power unlike any other, one that allowed the Commission to hide things that should never see the light of day.
The director leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "And how has the Academy been performing under his leadership?"
The woman hesitated, glancing down at her notes. "Thus far, there have been no major incidents. The students are progressing, though there are… concerns about some of the ethical frameworks he's been instilling in them. Wonder-Worlder is—"
"Soft," Junnosuke interrupted, his voice cutting through the room like a shard of ice. All eyes turned to him, but he remained still, his gaze fixed on a distant point as though he were speaking to no one in particular. "He's soft. Too focused on ideals. The entire point of the Academy was to train operatives—heroes who could operate in the shadows, away from the scrutiny of the public eye. We didn't build Meiyo Academy to create paragons of virtue. That's what All Might is for. We built it because we needed tools—heroes who could do what others couldn't, without flinching."
A murmur rippled through the room, but no one challenged him. They knew better than to question Sakuraba Junnosuke when he spoke like this. His reputation was built on his ability to see things clearly, to strip away the layers of sentimentality and get to the heart of the matter.
The director tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You're saying Wonder-Worlder's approach is a liability."
"I'm saying," Junnosuke replied slowly, his voice cold and precise, "that it feels as though many of you have lost sight of the bigger picture. These students—these future underground heroes—are being taught to think too much. To question orders. That's not what we need. We need people who can execute, not debate."
Silence fell over the room, thick and heavy. Junnosuke's eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he leaned forward, just enough to punctuate his words. "And Wonder-Worlder, for all his power, is too concerned with playing the teacher. He forgets that we didn't put him in charge to raise heroes. We put him in charge to make weapons."
The director regarded Junnosuke carefully, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice measured. "It has been eight years. Perhaps we've allowed Wonder-Worlder too much autonomy. But the results have been… acceptable, thus far."
"Acceptable," Junnosuke repeated, his lips curling into something resembling a sneer. "Is that all we're aiming for now? Acceptable?"
Another ripple of discomfort passed through the room, but no one spoke. Junnosuke had made his point, and there was little anyone could say to counter it.
The director's gaze flickered to him, assessing. "You're worried the Academy is becoming something else."
"I'm worried," Junnosuke replied, his voice a cold, steady drip, "that we're letting sentimentality get in the way of what needs to be done. These students need to be shaped, forged into something harder. Right now, they're still too… human."
A brief pause. Then, as though to shift the conversation to less volatile ground, one of the men near the far end of the table spoke up, his tone light but probing. "And what about your daughter, Junnosuke? Sakuraba Hajime. How has she been faring? I heard there were some… incidents, recently."
Junnosuke's expression didn't change, though a flicker of something colder passed through his eyes. He clasped his hands together again, his fingers tapping against each other rhythmically. "Hajime is fine," he said, his voice smooth, devoid of any emotion. "She's been acting out a little, after the incident with that boy… Sajimi. But she'll be fine. I've told her what's expected of her. She knows the importance of moving forward."
"And what of the boy?" The question came from the same man, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Junnosuke's gaze turned to him, his voice dropping to a soft, almost casual tone. "Sajimi is in a coma. A minor inconvenience, but nothing we can't manage. Hajime knows better than to dwell on such things."
There was a pause, and then another voice—this time, from the woman who had been reporting on Sector 12—cut in. "Do you know she's been scouted?"
Junnosuke's lips twitched, but his smile held no warmth. "Of course I know. I know everything that happens with my daughter. But I can't react to it. Not yet."
The room fell silent again, the weight of unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air. Junnosuke's eyes gleamed with a cold, calculating light as he leaned back in his chair, his hands resting comfortably in his lap. The conversation was shifting again, moving away from his daughter and back toward more pressing matters. But the tension remained, thick and palpable, lingering like a shadow over the room.
As the meeting began to wind down, the director glanced at Junnosuke once more, his eyes sharp and searching. "You'll be attending the next Academy evaluation, I assume?"
Junnosuke's smile widened, but there was no mirth in it. "Oh, I'll be there," he said, his voice smooth as glass. "I have a few choice words for Wonder-Worlder when I get there."
And with that, the meeting came to a close, the participants rising from their seats and dispersing with the same cold efficiency that had marked the entire affair. But as Junnosuke walked toward the door, his thoughts lingered on the Academy—and on Wonder-Worlder. There were too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. And if anyone understood the importance of control, it was Junnosuke Sakuraba.
He would not let sentiment, ideals, or even his daughter stand in the way of what needed to be done.
Not now. Not ever.
"Did I hear my name?!"
Speak of the devil
Before he could dwell too long on the uncomfortable thought, the sterile quiet of the room was shattered by the distinct sound of a hum, low and light, like a whimsical melody escaping the lips of someone who had never felt the weight of gravity. It was out of place, utterly absurd within the confines of this frigid, dim-lit room, where the air was thick with formality and restrained violence.
Junnosuke's eyes flickered toward the source of the sound, and the rest of the Commission members turned almost in unison, a collective tightening of posture rippling through the room.
Junnosuke hated the way the air shifted when Wonder-Worlder entered a room. It was like the oxygen itself turned rancid, carrying the sickly sweet stench of rot that twisted his gut. The room, which moments ago had been a bastion of control and frigid authority, now felt tainted. Contaminated. There was something parasitic about the man—if you could call him that—who now floated into the Commission's inner sanctum, as if he weren't walking but rather gliding on some invisible current of smugness. He was infuriating, with his too-easy grin and his too-bright eyes, radiating an absurd, unearned confidence that gnawed at Junnosuke's nerves like acid eating through metal.
Wonder-Worlder's hum cut through the air like a blade, so out of place that it sent a ripple of unease through the room. A few of the Commission members shifted in their seats, uncomfortable but too disciplined to let it show fully on their faces. But Junnosuke? Junnosuke didn't even bother to hide his disgust. His lip curled slightly, betraying the disdain he felt crawling through his veins like a slow poison.
The doors creaked open with that torturous slowness, the sound an insult in itself, as if the hinges were in on the mockery. And then he appeared—Wonder-Worlder, with his stupid, ridiculous silver hair and that theatrical cloak, fluttering around him like he was some kind of goddamn monarch. Junnosuke could barely stand to look at him. Every piece of Wonder-Worlder's outfit, from the delicate gold stitching in his perfectly tailored suit to the absurdly elaborate brooch pinned to his chest, screamed of a man who cared too much about appearances. A man who reveled in showmanship rather than substance. A clown.
His cloak, dark as midnight, with gaudy, obnoxious patterns of butterflies stitched along the edges, was a garish mockery of the serious business they were conducting here. This wasn't a place for the whims of a madman. This was the Commission. This was power. Cold. Calculating. Unyielding. But this... this insufferable man-child strolled in like he owned the place, spinning his cane like he was some aspiring magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
Junnosuke's fingers twitched. The urge to rip that cane from Wonder-Worlder's hand and break it over his knee was nearly overwhelming. Just one clean snap, the sound of wood splintering, would've been so satisfying. But he held himself back, his fists clenching beneath the table, the only outward sign of the murderous thoughts seething in his head.
Besides, he, unfortunately, knew what this man was capable of.
"Why wait, Sakuraba-kun?" Wonder-Worlder's voice cut through Junnosuke's thoughts like nails on a chalkboard. It was light, airy—mocking. That infuriating purr that dripped with condescension. He dragged out Junnosuke's name like it was a joke only he understood. The casual intimacy of it, the "kun," felt like a slap in the face. As if Wonder-Worlder had any right to use such a familiar suffix. As if they were friends.
The way he moved, the way he spoke, like nothing—no one—was serious to him. Like he had the whole world in his hands and he could crush it whenever he felt like it, but he didn't. Not because he couldn't, but because it simply didn't amuse him enough to bother. That was what made Junnosuke's blood boil. Wonder-Worlder's detachment, his infuriating indifference to power, as though it were just another game for him to toy with.
Junnosuke's face, however, remained a mask of stone, betraying nothing. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to glance at the others, the unspoken question heavy in the air: Why is he here?
One of the higher-ups, an older man with graying hair and sunken eyes, merely shrugged, the hint of a dismissive smirk tugging at his thin lips. "The term for Haruboshi Academy is around the corner, Sakuraba-san," he said, almost lazily, waving a hand as if Wonder-Worlder's appearance were a trivial thing, an amusing diversion. "You should've expected this."
Junnosuke's eyes narrowed, the glint of cold fury behind his gaze barely contained. He exhaled through his nose, sharp, controlled. His attention shifted back to Wonder-Worlder, who was still standing there, rocking back and forth on his heels like an impatient child waiting for his turn at a game.
"Let's get to the point, Wonder-Worlder," Junnosuke said, his voice low and precise, the razor's edge of control barely noticeable unless you knew how to listen for it. "What exactly is your game? My daughter—Hajime. Why include her in your little scouting process?"
Wonder-Worlder's smile widened impossibly, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. He gave a dramatic shrug, his shoulders rising and falling as though the question amused him more than anything. "Well, Sakuraba-kun, it just wouldn't be fair to leave her out, now would it? She's already denied UA, denied every other prestigious school in the country. The least we could do is give her a little... pick-me-up, hmm?"
He leaned in slightly, his tone softening to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Besides, you of all people should know, Sakuraba-kun—we've been keeping just as close an eye on Hajime as you have. Maybe closer."
The words dripped like acid, subtle, yet unmistakable in their meaning. It was a jab—a reminder of Junnosuke's own failings, of how little time he had actually spent watching his daughter, truly watching her. The kind of watching that went beyond mere control and expectation. The kind of watching that Wonder-Worlder hinted at.
Junnosuke's jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck tensing ever so slightly as he felt the insult hit its mark. His hands, which had been resting calmly on the table, clenched into tight fists, the knuckles paling as they whitened. He stood, slow and deliberate, towering over the whimsical figure of Wonder-Worlder, his imposing frame casting a long, dark shadow across the room.
"You're playing with fire, Wonder-Worlder," Junnosuke hissed, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped forward, so close now that he could see the faint amusement still lingering in the other man's eyes. "And I'll warn you once—you're going to burn yourself if you push too far."
Wonder-Worlder didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. If anything, his grin grew wider, his eyes glinting with a spark of something far more dangerous than whimsy.
"Fire, fire, fire." He chuckled softly, a sound that sent a strange ripple through the room. His cane lifted from the floor again, twirling in his fingers, catching the light with every spin. "You've always had such a fondness for control, haven't you, Sakuraba-kun? Always so certain, so sure, that you can bend the world to your will. Bend your daughter to your will. But the thing about fire," his voice dropped lower now, a dark undercurrent threading through the lightness of his tone, "is that sometimes it doesn't burn where you think it will. Sometimes it burns inside."
Junnosuke's eyes flared, a deep, simmering rage burning beneath the icy mask of his face. "And what exactly are you implying?" His voice was a growl now, the control slipping for just a second. Just enough for Wonder-Worlder to see the cracks beneath the surface.
"Oh, nothing, nothing at all!" Wonder-Worlder stepped back, spinning on his heel, twirling his cane once more as he pranced across the room like a dancer on stage. "Only reminding you that your precious little Hajime-chan—oh, she made her decision the moment she solved that cute little puzzle we sent her, didn't she?"
The words struck like a physical blow, cutting through the thin veil of control he had been clinging to. Hajime did solve the puzzle, didn't she?
"She's already made her choice," Wonder-Worlder continued, his tone growing sharper now, the playful edge giving way to something harder, more dangerous. He stopped, turning back to face Junnosuke, his eyes no longer gleaming with amusement but with a cold, calculating clarity that mirrored Junnosuke's own. "And you, dear Sakuraba-kun, need to grow a pair and stop trying to control everything. Let your daughter have her second chance. She needs it. Hell, she deserves it."
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the tension thickened to the point of suffocation. Junnosuke's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, his fists still clenched tight at his sides. His voice, when it came, was dangerously calm.
"She doesn't need a second chance," he said, each word meticulously measured, cutting like shards of ice. "She is part of the Elite. Part of a hierarchy. And in that hierarchy, whatever mistakes she made, whatever missteps, they will stay buried. Buried like that pitiful boy, Sajimi."
The air seemed to freeze, the name hanging in the space between them like a corpse dangling from a noose.
Junnosuke's eyes gleamed with something cold and cruel as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them once more. "Maybe if Sajimi hadn't been so weak, so... pitiful, Hajime wouldn't have stepped on him."
The words fell from his mouth with a chilling finality, the kind of statement that lingered long after it was spoken, poisoning the very air around them. The tension in the room became almost unbearable, thick enough to choke on, as the Commission members shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some averting their gaze from the confrontation unfolding before them.
For a long, excruciating moment, Wonder-Worlder said nothing. He just stood there, watching Junnosuke with an eerie stillness that was as unnerving as it was unexpected. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, his lips curled into a smile—a smile that held no warmth, no mirth. Only cold, sharp edges.
"Hajime," Wonder-Worlder said, his voice quiet but lethal, "has something that she doesn't get from you, Junnosuke." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before he continued. "A heart."
Junnosuke's eyes flared with indignation, his fists trembling with barely-contained rage. But Wonder-Worlder didn't stop.
"It may not be obvious now," he went on, his gaze unwavering, "but it's there. Somewhere. Deep down. And if she's coming to Meiyo Academy, then that heart of hers is stirring. Sooner or later, she'll find it. And when she does..." He trailed off, his smile widening again, though there was a darkness behind it that hadn't been there before. "Well, let's just say she won't be the cold, heartless Sakuraba heir you so desperately want her to be."
Junnosuke's face remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with barely-suppressed fury. His voice, when he spoke, was cold as death.
"Careful, Wonder-Worlder," he said, his tone dripping with venom. "If you don't watch yourself, you won't have a school anymore."
Wonder-Worlder laughed, a soft, low chuckle that sent a ripple of unease through the room. "Oh, I'm not worried about that, Sakuraba-kun. Not one bit." He took a step back, his whimsical demeanor returning in full force as he twirled his cane once more. "In fact, I'm looking forward to the Haunting Gauntlet. You'll be there, won't you? Watching. Speculating."
Junnosuke's gaze hardened, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "You can count on it."
Wonder-Worlder's grin widened as he gave a mock bow, flourishing his cane like a magician performing his final trick. "I can't wait," he said with a wink, before brushing past Junnosuke and making his way toward the rest of the Commission, his humming picking up again as if the confrontation had never happened at all.
Prick.
"I am Sakuraba Hajime, and I am not a good person."
The words hang there, heavy and acidic. Her thoughts circle them like vultures, picking at the remnants of her decency. Hajime couldn't even recall the faces now—not most of them, at least. She could barely remember their names. Only Sajimi stood out, his name carved deep into her memory like a scar she could never erase.
"Did I even care back then?"
She wasn't sure. Maybe she did, for a fleeting second, maybe she didn't. Maybe none of it mattered, not anymore. Maybe it never had.
Tick…
The sound of her footsteps echoed down the hallway, sharp and deliberate. Each click of her heels against the polished marble floor carried a weight that made the air around her denser, suffocating. Every student within earshot seemed to shrink into themselves, retreating like rats at the scent of a predator. Eyes averted, whispers died before they could even be born. Hajime didn't need to see their faces to know what was written there—fear. Fear so thick it oozed into the very walls of Hoshitsuki Middle School, the hallowed fortress of privilege, where dreams were supposed to bloom and futures were forged.
But Hajime? She thrived in that fear.
She inhaled it, savoring it like smoke, letting it fill her lungs, a slow burn in her chest that fueled her. Her presence was a chokehold on this place. Her very existence—tall, cold, commanding—was enough to crush any spark of rebellion, any flash of courage. She was a goddamn hurricane dressed in designer uniforms, and everyone knew it. No one dared cross her path, not even to breathe too loudly.
"Did they hate me, or did they fear me?"
Did it matter? She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
Tick…
"Say it again, Sajimi."
His body slumped beneath her, a lifeless marionette, crumpled like wet paper on the grimy bathroom floor. His uniform clung to him, soaked, pathetic, as if it too had given up hope. The back of his head thudding against the wall as she yanked him forward by the collar, her grip tight enough to feel the fabric strain beneath her fingers. Hajime could see the fear in his eyes—no, worse than fear, resignation. The kind that made her stomach twist in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Why don't you just fight back, Sajimi? Why do you make this so easy for me?"
But he wouldn't. He couldn't. His lips trembled, soundless, tears clinging to the edges of his eyes. His body shook, not from the cold, but from the weight of it all. The helplessness, the endlessness of it.
Hajime let him go, watching as his frame slumped back against the wall, deflated. The sound of his breath coming in shallow gasps echoed in the empty space between them. Her eyes narrowed, lips pulling into a sneer, masking the confusion bubbling beneath the surface.
"Was it satisfaction? Was that what I was looking for?"
But all she felt was hollow.
"You can't even speak," she spat, disgust curling her tongue. "Useless. Absolutely fucking useless." Her words felt like shards of glass, cutting through the thick tension in the air. Sajimi's silence was suffocating, drowning her in a sea of nothingness. She leaned down, her breath hot and harsh against his ear, her voice dripping with poison.
"Maybe you should just head up top and keep walking until your feet don't touch solid ground."
Tick...
"I don't even remember the others."
How many had there been? A dozen? Fifty? She couldn't count anymore. Their faces blurred together into one mass of sobbing, broken bodies. They had names, but to her, they were nothing more than victims. Pawns. Unnamed casualties in her unspoken war.
"But Sajimi… you were different."
Not because he fought back, but because he didn't. Because he had the audacity to do nothing. To be nothing. And yet, Hajime couldn't erase him from her thoughts, no matter how hard she tried. His voice, that weak, trembling voice, echoed in her head, like a ghost haunting every empty hallway she walked through.
Tick…
The slap was loud, too loud. It echoed through the courtyard, followed by the laughter of her entourage. Girls who lived to please her. They weren't friends. They were shadows, clinging to her light, feeding off her cruelty. They acted as if they enjoyed it—no, they did enjoy it. They smiled, eyes gleaming with a twisted delight, the same way children smiled at fireworks. They laughed as the first-year girl trembled before her, cheeks red and swollen from the force of the blows.
The girl's name escaped Hajime, her existence fleeting, unimportant. Just another weak, insignificant nobody who'd gotten in her way.
"You deserved it." Hajime's voice was sickeningly sweet, her smile that of a serpent, coiling around its prey. She glanced sideways at her 'friends,' at their eager faces, so ready to hurt, so ready to watch someone suffer.
"Were they monsters, too?"
It didn't matter, though. They hit her again, without hesitation, following Hajime's every command like good little soldiers. They lived to serve her cruelty, thrived on it, basked in the suffering she dealt out.
"And I let them. Every single time."
Tick…
"The flattery from my friends always felt empty."
"Hajime, you're amazing! You really told her off!"
Amazing. That's what they called her. But she knew better. They feared her. They always had.
"Of course, I did," she replied coldly, flicking her silver hair back, her smirk automatic. "She deserved it." Did she believe that anymore? Hajime wasn't sure.
Kiyomi, though, pushed it too far.
"I bet we could kill her if we wanted to, yeah? Hajime's dad would get us off the hook, hehe~!"
The words sent a cold shock through Hajime's system. The horror clawed at her, suffocating. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Before she could think, her hand lashed out. Her palm cracked across Kiyomi's face with bone-breaking force. The sickening snap echoed in the stunned silence, followed by Kiyomi's gasping cry as her jaw hung limply, blood trickling from her mouth.
Hajime's voice was shaking, sharper than she intended. "I am NOBODY'S get-out-of-jail-free card. Let's get that straight. NOW."
Her insides churned with disgust. The weight of Kiyomi's words crushed her. How could she think that? Think of me like that?
Kiyomi whimpered, clutching her broken jaw, but Hajime couldn't look at her anymore. Couldn't stand to be in the same room.
The others scattered. None of them would ever challenge her again.
"I wasn't angry because she crossed a line. I was angry because I felt it—the horror of what she said. And what it meant. The truth behind it. The fact that I had company around me that, if a bigger fish than me, would have done worse."
Tick…
"Sajimi was different."
She didn't want to admit it, but it was true. He didn't fear her the way the others did. He didn't fight back, didn't run, didn't flinch. He just… existed. His quiet defiance, his refusal to give her what she wanted—that was what made her hate him. That was what made her hurt him more than anyone else.
She needed to break him. She needed to see him shatter.
"But you didn't break, did you, Sajimi?"
Tick…
"You think you're better than me, Sajimi?"
"You were better than me."
It was on the same day where she'd hurt Kiyomi. Her voice reverberated through the empty hallways, sharp, venomous. Sajimi stood in front of her, trembling but silent, as always. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, she hesitated. There was something there, something in the way he looked at her, that made her stomach churn.
She grabbed him by the throat, her fingers tightening, her breath coming in shallow, angry bursts.
"SAY something!"
But he didn't. He never did.
And then, in a voice so quiet she almost missed it, he whispered, "I forgive you."
Her grip faltered, her mind reeling. Forgive her? For what? The confusion tore at her, unraveling the threads of her carefully constructed facade. She let go, stepping back, heart hammering in her chest.
The bell rang, piercing the silence.
Tick…
Two days later, Sajimi was in a coma. Purgatory, essentially, between life and death. A tragic accident, they called it. A fall down the stairs. But she knew better.
She always knew.
And now, every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. She heard his voice, that whisper of forgiveness, echoing in her mind, ripping her apart from the inside out. She would never forget him. Not Sajimi. He would haunt her forever.
"Find yourself before it's too late."
"I am Sakuraba Hajime, and I am not a good person."
BZZT—BZZT.
Her smartwatch vibrated like a trapped animal, thrashing against her wrist, yanking her from the abyss she'd been tumbling into. Not again. She jerked upright, snapping back to the world with a force that nearly left her breathless. The cold, unforgiving park bench beneath her felt like a slab of concrete under her thighs, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you forget what warmth was supposed to feel like. The distant drone of Tokyo's nightlife reached her in a disorienting hum—cars, muffled conversations, neon lights flickering on the edges of her vision, casting everything in a harsh, alien glow. The streetlamps stretched their skeletal fingers across the empty park, throwing shadows that danced and twisted like some bad fever dream.
Her heart hammered, uneven and frantic, echoing in her chest like a warning siren that hadn't yet figured out what the emergency was. How long had she been gone this time?
She curled her fingers into fists. The pressure grounded her, a welcome pain in the swirling chaos of her mind. Another dissociation. They were happening more often, dragging her into that black pit with hands she couldn't see, with no warning and no mercy. She stared at her clenched fist, trying to keep her breath steady, but her mind was already replaying it. The memory she didn't want. The one she couldn't shake.
Sajimi. His neck beneath her grip. That moment, suspended in time like a snapshot she couldn't burn. She could still feel it. Cold. So cold. His skin like marble under her touch, and his eyes—God, his eyes. They'd locked on hers, pleading. Begging for something. Forgiveness? Mercy? Understanding? She didn't know. She hadn't known then, and she didn't know now. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"Shit," she whispered, the word barely slipping past her dry lips, more of a breath than a sound, as if saying it out loud might make it all the more real.
The sharp click of footsteps cut through the stagnant night air, pulling her back—again. Always being pulled back, never allowed to linger in the places her mind wanted to bury itself. She looked up sharply, eyes narrowing, ready to tear into whoever was stupid enough to approach her right now.
"Oi, kid!" The voice was rough, thick with irritation, practically drenched in a 'I hate my fucking life' tone. "You deaf or something? Park's closed. Curfew's in an hour. Get your ass moving."
Her eyes locked on the intruder. Park keeper. Typical. Big guy, probably pushing forty, looked like he'd been chewing on gravel for dinner. His uniform barely held together around his bulk, as if it might rip apart at any second, unleashing all his pent-up bitterness onto the world. His face was a roadmap of regret—grizzled, mean, like life had beaten the shit out of him, and now he was returning the favor to anyone in his way.
Hajime snorted, the corner of her lips curling into something that might've been a smile in another lifetime. "Do they pay you extra to bitch at people like this, or is it just your pathetic excuse for a hobby?" she shot back, voice smooth, sarcastic. She didn't even bother standing up. Why should she? This man, this tired, broken cog in the machine, wasn't worth her full attention.
He narrowed his eyes, but didn't take the bait. Maybe he was used to it. Or maybe he just didn't have the energy. He looked like a man who'd run out of care to give long before tonight. "Tough girl, huh?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain, like he had seen a thousand of her before and didn't care for any of them. "Trust fund brat, I bet. Mommy and Daddy pay for everything, right? And here you are, acting like the world owes you something. Why don't you take your entitled little ass home before I have to call it in, huh?"
Hajime's fists tightened in her lap, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned forward just slightly, her voice dropping into something more venomous. More lethal. "And broke bastards like you should stick to your lane. Go suck a rusted railroad spike and cry about your minimum wage somewhere else."
That hit. She saw it. The flash in his eyes, the brief tightening of his jaw. But then it was gone, replaced by the same tired apathy. He was too old, too beaten down to keep up with her. Not worth it. He spat on the ground near her feet, a gesture as crude as it was dismissive, and without another word, he turned on his heel and stomped off, his boots grinding the gravel beneath him as he muttered curses she didn't bother to hear.
She watched him go, her heart still racing in her chest, though she wasn't sure if it was from anger, or fear, or something darker. The brief flare of adrenaline faded fast, leaving that same, gnawing emptiness behind. That void that had been with her since... him. Since Sajimi.
It was always Sajimi.
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, trying to push the memory back down, trying to shove it somewhere dark and unreachable, but it slithered back into her consciousness like a serpent winding its way around her thoughts.
"I forgive you."
Those words... why had he said them? Of all the things he could've done, of all the things he should've said—why that? Why had he spared her the dagger she deserved? She had broken him, over and over, and he still had the audacity to let her walk away with his forgiveness. As if that would do anything but twist the knife deeper into her soul.
Her hands shook as she stood up, shoving them deep into her pockets as if that could somehow hide the tremor. She started walking, her boots crunching on the path as the cold night air bit at her face. The park was deserted, a ghostly reflection of the world around it. It stretched out in every direction, empty, lifeless. The trees swayed gently in the wind, their long branches like fingers beckoning her into the shadows. But even here, in this suffocating silence, she couldn't escape the weight in her chest.
Soon enough, she'd be at Meiyo Academy. Or, as the rest of the world knows it, Haruboshi Academy—the place where society sent its broken, screw-up messes to pretend like they were redeemable. She wasn't fooled. She had a pretty good guess as to what it was. A fucking facade. A place where people like her went to pretend they could fix themselves, to play at being heroes, to wear masks they didn't deserve. But how could she pretend to be something better when the only thing she could think of was him?
She scoffed to herself, the bitter sound lost in the wind. Could it even work? Could someone like her—who tore apart the only person who had ever given a shit—ever rebuild? The thought was laughable. She was a wreck, a walking disaster, and no amount of shiny Academy bullshit was going to change that.
She turned down one of the darker streets, the glow from the streetlamps fading into the distance, leaving only the oppressive weight of the city pressing in on her. Tokyo was supposed to be alive—pulsing with energy, lights, and sound. But tonight, it felt dead. Like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for something, anything, to happen. But nothing ever did.
Her breath came out in sharp, shallow bursts, her mind circling back to Sajimi again. Always Sajimi. She couldn't escape him. Couldn't shake the memory of his lifeless eyes, staring up at her as if even in death he was forgiving her for something she hadn't asked for. Something she didn't deserve.
How the hell am I supposed to change?
The question rang in her head, louder and louder, until it drowned out everything else. She had no answer. She never did. And it was eating her alive from the inside out. Every step she took, every breath she drew, was one more reminder of the monster she was. The person she couldn't escape.
She barely noticed the footsteps behind her at first. They were quiet, blending into the background noise of the city. But then they quickened, becoming more distinct. More deliberate. Her body tensed, muscles coiling, instincts flaring to life.
Her mind snapped back into focus, the fog lifting, and her breath slowed. Her heart stopped hammering for just a moment.
Someone was following her.
"What the hell—?"
Before she can react fully, a figure darts past her, swift and fluid, their fingers having expertly snatched her prized bracelet—one that cost enough to pay off most people's mortgage—clean off her arm. Her breath hitches, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Turning off of her heel with a snarl already forming on her lips, she catches a glimpse of the culprit—a girl, hair cascading in a striking gradient of rich reddish-purple at the roots, fading into silver at the tips, and eyes a peculiar hue of silvery lavender that seemed to glow with a mischievous light.
It only takes Hajime a split-second to recognize what's happened, but that's all she needs.
"Oh, you chose the wrong fucking girl to rob," she growls, her voice feral and venomous, promising the oncoming storm.
The bracelet had cost a lot of money. Of course, everything Hajime owned did—an unfortunate consequence of a life she hadn't necessarily chosen but had learned to use to her advantage. Still, the arrogance of someone even thinking they could take something from her... No. Hajime didn't suffer thieves lightly. She could feel her anger boiling in her veins, quick and burning like a fuse leading to something far more explosive.
The thief—a girl with hair that melted from a deep, rich reddish-purple into silver at the tips—was already sprinting away, almost blending into the night with how swift and silent she was. Her movements were fluid, practiced, the kind that spoke of someone used to running these streets. But it didn't matter. She could vanish into the darkness all she wanted.
Hajime's Quirk meant there was no escape.
Time stretched for Hajime, her perception shifting into that familiar hyper-awareness as her Quirk flared to life. Hummingbird kicked in, and everything around her became painfully sharp, crystalline with clarity. Her heart pounded once—hard—like a gunshot, and the world slowed as her body synced with the speed her mind processed.
One moment, the thief was darting away, already ten meters down the street.
The next, Hajime was in front of her, leg poised in midair before the girl's silvery-lavender eyes even had time to widen in surprise.
Hajime's boot connected brutally with the girl's mouth, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the empty street like the snapping of brittle wood. There was a flash of silver hair as the thief's head snapped back from the force, a spatter of blood marking the air before hitting the pavement. The impact sent a visceral shudder of satisfaction up Hajime's leg.
She growled low, her voice venomous. "Street trash."
The thief crumpled but only for a moment. Hajime had seen her kind before—the type that didn't stay down easily, the type that needed to be broken if they were going to stay down at all.
With a snarl, the girl swung back to her feet, blood smeared across her lips. Her eyes burned with something that might've been fury—no, defiance—as she spat a wad of blood to the ground, her fingers twitching. In the dim streetlight, Hajime saw the subtle flicker of flames sparking around her hands, ghostly and pale.
The thief moved quickly, but not faster than Hajime. Every step she took, every attempt to flee, Hajime was there, intercepting her with precision, landing blow after blow. There was no mercy in Hajime's attacks. A savage punch to the ribs, a sharp knee to the stomach—each strike was methodical, cold, as if she were dissecting her opponent rather than fighting her. The girl gasped, choking on the pain, her body crumpling under the onslaught, but Hajime wasn't finished.
The girl's Quirk was useless. The silvery flames were only for show, nothing more than a pathetic attempt at intimidation. Hajime's lip curled in disdain. If this thief thought she could rob her with a few sparks and run like a rat through the alleyways, she had another thing coming.
But then, something changed.
The thief's movements shifted, becoming more erratic, unpredictable. She stopped trying to run in a straight line, instead darting through narrow alleyways, slipping between cracks and corners that should have been impossible for anyone without an intimate knowledge of the area. And damn it, she did know the area—better than Hajime could have anticipated. The thief had clearly spent years navigating these streets, each turn more deliberate, more elusive. She disappeared and reappeared like a wisp of smoke, but each time, Hajime was right behind her, relentless, unyielding, her Quirk keeping her hot on the girl's heels.
But the fight wasn't over yet.
The thief was clever—far too clever. As Hajime lunged to grab her again, the girl twisted at the last moment, ducking low, and in one vicious move, she slammed her forehead into Hajime's nose. The pain was immediate and blinding. Hajime staggered back, clutching her face as blood poured from her nose, her vision swimming with red stars. She cursed under her breath, her hands shaking with fury.
And then, the flames.
Suddenly, the girl's entire body ignited, bathed in silvery white fire. The air around her shimmered with the heat, a mirage of flames that flickered and danced. She was standing still now, but her posture screamed readiness, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. The heat wasn't unbearable yet—Hajime could feel that much—but it was a warning.
"Stay back," the girl snarled, her voice rough and thick with pain. "You don't want to test me."
Hajime snarled right back, her blood boiling with fury. "You think your flames scare me?" Her voice was ice cold, cutting through the thick, heated air. "You're nothing but a rat playing with fire. I've faced worse than you."
For a moment, the two of them were locked in a silent standoff, the alley lit only by the eerie glow of the girl's flames and the ragged sound of their breathing. Hajime's muscles tensed, preparing to lunge again, her mind calculating every possible move she could make, every way she could take this girl down and get her damn bracelet back.
But the thief struck first.
With a flick of her wrist, she sent a small explosion of flames directly at Hajime. It wasn't powerful—more of a distraction than anything else—but it was enough. The sudden flash of light blinded Hajime, and before she could react, the girl had darted past her, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleyways.
Damn it.
Hajime's temper flared, hotter than the flames that had just been thrown at her. She didn't care about the flames. She didn't care about the pain. She only cared about one thing: winning.
Without thinking, she activated her Quirk again, her body moving faster than her mind could catch up. She tore after the girl, her heart pounding in her ears, her vision still hazy from the flames. But the streets were unfamiliar, and her anger was making her reckless. She turned a corner too fast, her foot slipping on the wet pavement.
And then—crack.
She slammed straight into the wall.
The impact knocked the wind out of her, sending her crashing to the ground in a heap. She gasped for air, her chest heaving as pain lanced through her body. For a moment, she was disoriented, her vision still blurred from the explosion of flames, her mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
And then—sirens.
Hajime cursed under her breath, her heart sinking as the flashing red and blue lights painted the alleyway. The cops had arrived, their radios crackling as they approached her. And all the while, the girl—the thief—was limping away, disappearing into the night with her stolen bracelet.
Hajime wanted to scream. She wanted to rip the world apart with her bare hands. Instead, she clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as the realization hit her.
She had failed.
That street trash got away.
She blinked against the pain, blood dripping down her face from her broken nose, and she could feel the hot sting of humiliation burning in her chest. The heavy slam of the car door echoed in the twilight as the police officer nudged Hajime forward, his grip firm but not aggressive. Her body throbbed, bruises layering over bruises, a symphony of dull aches rippling under her skin. Her silver hair, once pristine, hung in damp, matted strands across her face, streaked with dirt and blood. Hajime's lip was split, and the taste of copper lingered on her tongue. She barely winced; pain had long become a familiar companion. The flashing lights of the police cruiser dimmed behind her as she stepped onto the gravel path leading up to the Sakuraba estate's grand front doors.
The estate loomed like a fortress, its sprawling architecture draped in the kind of old money that exuded dominance. Stone pillars framed the entrance, casting long shadows beneath the amber lights that flickered from the front gate. The Sakuraba emblem, a phoenix rising from flames, gleamed under the glow, a cruel reminder of the family's power and their expectations.
Hajime barely had time to gather herself before the door opened, revealing Sakuraba Mari, her mother, her cold, regal posture radiating fury. The officers greeted her with a nod, explaining the situation quickly; an altercation downtown, a near-arrest, the suspect having fled. Mari's face remained unreadable, a mask of stoic calm, but Hajime could feel the tension beneath. Her mother was furious, and it wasn't just about the fight. It was the shame, the scandal, the broken rules—everything Mari loathed.
Hajime stood there, bloodied and battered, arms crossed over her chest as if to shield herself from the inevitable onslaught. She knew the lecture was coming—had been bracing for it the entire ride home—but the dread still gnawed at her stomach. Her muscles tensed, adrenaline still humming beneath the surface, her mind replaying the fight over and over again.
The police officers tipped their hats, their gazes shifting nervously between the intimidating figure of Mari and her injured daughter. "Thank you for your help," Mari said, her voice icy but polite. "I'll handle the rest from here."
With curt nods, they left, and the door shut with a resounding thud. Silence fell over the grand foyer, the air growing thick with Mari's simmering anger. Hajime's breath hitched for just a moment, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
"Hours, Hajime," Mari's voice cracked like a whip as she advanced toward her daughter, each step calculated, her expensive heels clacking against the marble floor. "Hours I've been calling you. Hours I've been waiting for you to come home. And what do I get in return?" Her hand came down suddenly, sharp and unrestrained, a slap that left Hajime's cheek burning red. Hajime didn't react, though her jaw clenched tightly. The sting didn't compare to the pain already coursing through her body, but it was enough to fuel the slow-burning fire of resentment in her chest.
Mari stood over her daughter, eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how reckless you are? How utterly stupid this was?"
Hajime wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, a flicker of defiance in her golden eyes. "I wasn't about to wait around for some worker to babysit me," she muttered, her voice low and tense. "I handled it."
"Handled it?" Mari's laugh was sharp and bitter, her hands clenching into fists. "This is what you call handling it?" She gestured to Hajime's torn clothes, to the blood trickling down her chin, to the mess of bruises that littered her body. "You look like a street rat, not like the daughter of the Sakuraba family! You've already brought shame to us by denying U.A., and now you do this?!"
"That girl stole from me," Hajime spat, her frustration boiling over. She felt her body tense again, ready to fight, though her limbs screamed for rest. "I wasn't going to let her get away with it. I'm not some weakling who needs to be guarded 24/7!"
But Mari wasn't listening. She never listened. She only saw the image, the facade they were meant to uphold. And Hajime had shattered it.
"You're not just anyone, Hajime!" Mari's voice rose, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer, towering over her daughter. "You are a Sakuraba. Do you have any idea what that means? You can't just walk through the streets like some low-life thug! You can't afford to—"
"I know what it means," Hajime interrupted, her voice steady, cold. "You've drilled it into my head every day since I could walk."
Mari's hand snapped up again, her fingers digging into Hajime's chin, forcing her daughter to meet her gaze. "Then start acting like it. You are not some rebellious child who can wander off on her own. You are not allowed to be reckless. You are not allowed to be weak. Do you understand that?"
Hajime's throat tightened, but she kept her face blank, refusing to let the words sink deeper than they already had. This was the game they always played. Mari demanded obedience, and Hajime gave her silence in return, knowing that anything she said would only fuel the fire. She'd learned a long time ago that there was no winning these battles, not with Mari. The only victory was in surviving them.
"I understand," Hajime muttered, her voice hollow, devoid of emotion. She felt her mother's grip tighten for just a second longer before Mari finally let go, stepping back with a disgusted sigh.
"Go to your room," Mari commanded, her tone sharp as a blade. "I don't want to see your face until you've learned how to behave like the daughter you're supposed to be."
Without another word, Hajime turned on her heel and ascended the grand staircase, her body moving on autopilot despite the exhaustion weighing her down. The climb felt endless, every step sending fresh jolts of pain through her bruised muscles. By the time she reached the top, her vision was blurred with the remnants of the fight, the adrenaline finally draining from her system.
She reached her room and pushed open the door, the familiar sight of her pristine, luxurious space offering little comfort. The silk sheets, the polished wood, the designer furniture — it was all a gilded cage, a monument to everything she was supposed to be but never wanted. Hajime let the door close behind her with a soft click, leaning back against it as she exhaled a shaky breath. Her hand instinctively went to her cheek, still stinging from her mother's slap.
In the privacy of her room, she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. Her fists unclenched, her shoulders sagged, and for a brief second, the walls she'd built around herself crumbled. But only for a second.
"Stupid," she muttered under her breath, wincing as she touched her split lip. "I should've been faster. Should've caught her." The fight replayed in her head, every mistake, every misstep gnawing at her pride. She'd been careless, and that girl—that nobody—had gotten away.
With a frustrated sigh, she crossed the room, pulling off her torn jacket and tossing it onto the floor. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The bruises, the blood, the exhaustion etched into her features all made her look away quickly, not wanting to confront the mess she'd become. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She wasn't supposed to lose. Not to her.
And then something hit her: wasn't she supposed to work on this? To learn to be better? To not rise to this sort of bullshit? The goal was to be a good person, for herself and Sajimi. She was leaving for Meiyo soon, and she was already off to a bad start. Goddamn it.
Hajime groaned and sat up, her body protesting with each movement. She reached over to her desk, where the acceptance letter from Meiyo Academy sat neatly folded, pristine and untouched since the day it arrived. With a reluctant sigh, she unfolded it again, her eyes scanning the words she had memorized by now. This was supposed to be her chance. Her way out. Her redemption.
But here she was, bruised and angry, falling into the same traps.
Hajime let the letter drop onto the bed beside her, rubbing a hand over her face as she leaned back against the headboard. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, her thoughts tangled in frustration and shame.
"Great start, Hajime," she muttered dryly, a bitter smirk tugging at her swollen lip. "Gonna be a real role model for your future classmates."
A MUCH bigger chapter! And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't super nervous about it, both in quality AND subject matter. I really hope this chapter turned out well! I'm feeling a little unsure since I've only had about two hours of sleep… ah, the joys of being a perfectionist with a mind that never quite rests. Schizophrenia tends to make me second-guess everything I write, so I'm never completely sure if it's good enough~ But, hopefully, it lands the way I intended! Especially with the middle section—it's meant to feel a bit chaotic, reflecting Hajime's messy, jumbled thoughts~
Anyways! Meet Hajime, your main protagonist! Yes, yes, I know—she's a bit of a piece of work, but I'm sure you've already picked up on that~ While I could've gone with a more gradual introduction, I felt that Hajime's journey will focus more on who she will become, rather than dwelling on who she was or where she's at now. Keep in mind, though, that not everything is as it seems~ There's much more to unravel as her story progresses!
Oh, and I wanted to let you know that I've made some important updates to the submission form~ Please take note of these changes! 1 - The "Cover Story" section has been removed! Haruboshi Academy already serves as the main cover, so that extra bit isn't needed anymore. (It was from my previous story—trust me, it hasn't aged well, haha~ Read it at your own risk.)
2 - The stats section has been reworked! I received some helpful feedback, and I agree that having eleven stats felt a bit excessive. A few were redundant, so I trimmed it down a little! Check out the updated form on my page to see the adjustments~ Nothing major, but definitely more streamlined!
And finally, I just want to say that I am so overwhelmed by all the love and support this story has gotten~! If I haven't answered any of your questions yet, don't worry! I'll get to them soon! There's just so much to respond to, but I'm doing my best to stay on top of everything~
Thank you all so much, and bye for now~!
