PROLOGUE PT. 3 (FINALE) - "THE OL' SAYING THAT INVOLVES SKELETONS"
TOP SECRET
Public Hero Safety Commission
Case File: FORSAKEN
Classification Level: Omega
OVERVIEW
The FORSAKEN is an organized group of former students and faculty members associated with Meiyo Academy, believed to have been subject to severe psychological and physical trauma during their time at the institution. This group has shown an escalating pattern of violent behavior aimed at undermining the current hero system and its governing bodies, particularly the Hero Public Safety Commission.
CURRENT STATUS
Recent intelligence indicates that the FORSAKEN is actively planning targeted attacks against key Commission members. The group is armed with extensive knowledge of underground hero operations and tactics, which they intend to utilize against us.
Reports confirm that several Commission agents have been discovered brutally mutilated in their residences and on patrols. These attacks are not random but appear to be calculated messages meant to instill fear and convey a warning to the HPSC. The horrific nature of these incidents has raised alarm within the agency, with multiple officials calling for increased protective measures.
INCIDENT REPORTS
Incident #001: Agent Takeda
Location: Hosu City
Description: Agent Takeda was found in his home, dismembered. Key body parts were arranged in a symbolic manner, indicating a ritualistic undertone. An eyewitness reported seeing a shadowy figure fleeing the scene.
Incident #002: Officer Mizuno
Location: Shinjuku District
Description: Officer Mizuno's remains were discovered in a back alley, missing the head and limbs. Puncture wounds resembling those from a serrated weapon were evident. A note was found nearby, taunting the Commission's inability to protect its own.
Incident #003: Special Investigator Hiroshi
Location: Urban Sector 7
Description: Investigator Hiroshi was ambushed during a routine surveillance. His body was found suspended from a lamppost, grotesquely displayed to the public. All major organs had been removed. The area surrounding his body bore the insignia of the FORSAKEN, painted in blood.
FORECAST
Given the escalating brutality and the calculated nature of these attacks, it is imperative that all Commission members exercise heightened vigilance. Reports suggest the FORSAKEN operates with a blend of guerrilla tactics and psychological warfare, intending to dismantle public trust in the Commission and hero society as a whole.
RECOMMENDATIONS
- Increased Surveillance: Deploy undercover units to monitor known FORSAKEN locations and suspected sympathizers within the hero community.
- Psychological Profiles: Create comprehensive profiles on identified members of the FORSAKEN to anticipate and counter their strategies.
- Emergency Protocols: Establish a rapid response team ready to engage with potential threats, ensuring that agents are equipped with advanced protection and communication devices.
CONCLUSION
As we confront the emergence of this hostile faction, the potential for further atrocities looms over our operations. The chilling messages accompanying the brutalized remains of our fellow agents indicate that the FORSAKEN will not stop until their objectives are met. We must remain vigilant; we cannot afford to underestimate the depth of their resolve.
FINAL WARNING
A message recently intercepted from the FORSAKEN reads as follows:
"WE WILL NOT LET IGNORANCE BE THEIR BLISS."
END OF REPORT
DESTROY AFTER READING
Home. What a laughable concept.
Kobayashi Junpei stepped out of the yawning maw that was the Public Hero Safety Commission headquarters, the walls of the building standing tall behind him, oppressive and sterile like the shadow it cast over his life. He dragged in a breath, trying to expel the bitter taste that clung to the back of his throat after another day of playing god in a world that forgot gods could bleed. His position as senior director came with a gilded noose—day after day, he tightened it a little more around his own neck, only to loosen it just enough to survive the next.
Today was no different. Lives had been exchanged on the altar of "justice." Heroes, once symbols of hope, were reduced to assets, their fates scribbled in blood on crisp, white pages. Some names he didn't even remember. They all blurred together after a while—their deaths, their sacrifices. Just numbers, figures on a balance sheet for a system that didn't give a damn about them. And why should it? It wasn't as though they were people. They were cogs. Expendable.
A twisted part of him wished he could forget the faces of the ones who came before him, who'd performed the same grisly calculus he did now. He could still see them in his mind, their eyes hollowed out with years of decisions that tore families apart. They had all fallen. Succumbed to the weight of it, one by one.
Yet here he was, still breathing. If you could call it that.
The city buzzed quietly around him, a steady hum of life that ignored the atrocities buried just beneath its surface. Like maggots wriggling beneath a corpse's flesh, the rot beneath the surface was masked by a veneer of normalcy. It disgusted him, how blind they all were. But maybe that was what they needed to survive. Ignorance was bliss, after all.
As he pulled his keys from his pocket, the small jingle felt obscene in his hand. He didn't deserve the quiet drive home or the bland comfort of a bed shared with a wife he hadn't loved in years. That house, the four walls that caged him every night, it was no home. It was a tomb. A monument to the slow erosion of everything he'd once cared about. His children, distant and cold, didn't even know the man he'd become. His wife only exchanged words with him in the form of tired sighs and half-empty glares.
Still, there was a strange solace in the monotony of it all, in knowing that at the end of each day, he'd sit behind the same steering wheel, drive down the same congested streets, and sink into the same indifferent sheets. At least there was no need to pretend. Not anymore.
Maybe tonight, he thought, he could stop by the boutique on the way. His daughter, the one thing left that had any real meaning to him, had her birthday coming up. Another year older. Another year she might understand, just a little bit more, why her father had become the cold specter that loomed over her life. The guilt gnawed at him like a persistent rodent, burrowing its way into his bones. No amount of gifts could exorcize it, but it was something.
Something to make him feel human again.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he thought about it. Human? He'd stopped being human the moment he inked his name on that first contract with the Commission. A contract written in blood and signed with lies. He hadn't realized it then. How could he? He was young, naive, full of ideals and dreams. Dreams he thought he could uphold. But the first casualty of this life had been those ideals. They had died slow, painful deaths, their last breaths exhaled under the weight of his decisions.
Now, there was nothing left. Just him, a hollowed-out shell of a man clinging to the illusion that he could still make a difference. That some part of him was still good. But he knew better. Deep down, he knew that the only difference he made was in how efficiently he could extinguish the lives that crossed his path.
As he stared down at his phone, his daughter's smiling face framed in her kendo uniform, he felt the weight of it all settle in his chest. The cold air prickled his skin, bringing with it the scent of gasoline and damp concrete. It was an odd comfort, the way the city's filth wrapped around him like an old, familiar coat. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the distant traffic lull him into a state of numbness. He almost didn't want to leave, didn't want to return to that hollow existence waiting for him. Here, in the quiet of the city night, he could almost imagine an end to it all. A clean, quiet end.
But that was the kind of mercy a man like him didn't deserve.
With a heavy sigh, Junpei made his way toward his car, parked in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. His feet dragged beneath him, the exhaustion pulling at every muscle in his body. The quiet felt too thick, the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His fingers tightened around his key fob as the air around him seemed to shift. It was subtle at first—a prickle of unease, a whisper in the back of his mind that told him something was wrong.
The streetlights above flickered, the hum of electricity cutting in and out like a sputtering heartbeat. He froze, the sharp tang of metal and ozone stinging his nose. Something was behind him. He could feel it.
Snap.
A sudden, sharp crack echoed through the air, and before he could even turn, something cold and unyielding coiled around his throat. It was like being hit by a freight train—his body was yanked backward with brutal, merciless force, and the world tilted as the ground rushed up to meet him. His skull hit the pavement with a sickening thud, the impact rattling his teeth, sending a searing bolt of pain up his spine. The breath was knocked out of him in an instant, leaving him gasping like a fish out of water.
His vision exploded in a haze of stars, dark spots dancing at the edge of his sight as his body struggled to make sense of what was happening. The cold metal around his throat bit into his skin, tighter and tighter with every passing second. It was like a vice, crushing the air from his lungs, crushing the life from his body. His fingers clawed at the ground, searching for something—anything—that could anchor him, but there was nothing. Just the cold, unforgiving asphalt beneath him.
Before he could even try to scream, a boot slammed down onto his chest, pinning him to the ground like an insect beneath a magnifying glass. The weight of it was unbearable, a crushing pressure that made his ribs creak and groan under the strain. Panic surged through him like wildfire, his heart hammering in his chest as his brain screamed at him to fight, to move, to survive. But his body wouldn't listen. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, heavy and useless beneath the weight of whatever was holding him down.
His eyes darted frantically, searching for any sign of his attacker. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one more painful than the last. The darkness pressed in around him, suffocating, thick, and oppressive. And then he saw it—a glint of steel in the moonlight, sharp and deadly, like a predator's fangs. Thin threads of metal, slicing through the air with a lethal grace, wrapped around him, binding him in place. They shimmered in the dim light, cutting through the night like silent serpents.
He tried to struggle, tried to scream, but the metal threads only tightened their grip, digging into his flesh. Blood oozed from the cuts they left behind, warm and slick against his skin. The pain was sharp, white-hot, but it was nothing compared to the terror that gripped him. He was trapped, helpless, at the mercy of something—or someone—far beyond his comprehension.
As the world around him began to fade into a dark, suffocating void, his last conscious thought was a simple one: this is it. This is where it ends.
The cold, wet asphalt beneath him felt like a grave. Suddenly, it didn't seem as appealing as before.
Junpei's consciousness dragged him up from a deep, suffocating darkness, his body feeling like it had been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Rot. Foul, decaying stench that filled his lungs and clawed at his insides. The rancid tang of old blood mixed with the sour bite of mildew clung to the damp, heavy air, wrapping around his throat like a noose. He gagged, bile rising in the back of his throat, but even that small act sent pain shooting through his skull, a migraine pounding behind his eyes like someone was hammering nails into his brain.
His body felt like it was on fire, every muscle tense, screaming from the strain of being held too long in one position. Something wet and sticky covered the back of his head—blood, maybe. His own blood. He tried to move, but a sharp, metallic bite dug into his wrists. Handcuffs. Thick, rusted metal clamped tight around his flesh, cutting into his skin every time he so much as twitched.
Panic flooded his chest, cold and paralyzing, as reality began to crash down on him like a tidal wave. This wasn't some nightmare he could wake up from. This was real. Too real. His breath hitched, coming out in ragged, shallow gasps. His heart pounded in his chest, each thud sending another pulse of pain through his battered body.
He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the murky, flickering light around him. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly on a frayed wire, casting jittery shades of black that danced across the walls. It sputtered weakly, throwing a sickly, yellow glow that barely pierced the thick darkness suffocating the room. Stone walls, slick with moisture, loomed around him, the cold seeping into his bones. It was the kind of place that whispered death, where the screams of the forgotten echoed off the walls, unheard by the world above.
He coughed, the sound dry, broken, echoing back to him like some sick mockery. His throat was raw, like someone had shoved sandpaper down it and scraped away everything that made him human. Junpei strained against the cuffs, his arms burning from the effort, but it was useless. The metal dug deeper into his skin, slicing through flesh and muscle until the warm trickle of blood slid down his wrists.
And then he heard it.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, their rhythm as steady as a drumbeat. Each step sent a jolt of terror shooting up his spine. He tried to listen, tried to focus on where they were coming from, but the sound seemed to be everywhere. From the walls, the floor, the very air he was struggling to breathe. His heart raced, and the room spun, nausea twisting his insides into knots.
His head lolled to the side, eyes scanning the shadows, searching, pleading for a way out. But there was no escape. The walls seemed to press in closer with each passing second, suffocating him with their sheer weight. And then, from the darkness, they came.
Ghosts. Living, breathing ghosts.
Figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding him in a loose semicircle. Their shapes were vague at first, almost like phantoms, but as they stepped closer, their forms solidified, faces half-lit in the sputtering light. Faces he knew. Faces he'd never forget. They weren't human anymore, not in the way he remembered. They were hollow shells of what they had once been—twisted, broken remnants of lives he had destroyed.
His stomach churned violently as recognition slammed into him like a freight train. FORSAKEN. He had seen their faces before, back when they were still whole. Back when they had names, identities, hope. Now, they were nothing more than shattered dreams, discarded by the system he had sworn to uphold. Junpei's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as he remembered the reports, the files stamped with words like "terminated," "irretrievable," "failed." These were the rejects, the ones he had condemned to this fate with nothing more than a flick of his pen. The ones deemed too broken for redemption.
But now they were here. And they wanted him.
One of them moved forward, and the dimness parted to reveal her.
ROGUE #623 - Sakurazawa Tsubasa.
Even after all these years, her presence hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. There was no mistaking her. Her eyes, black and hollow, locked onto his with a cold, unyielding intensity that froze the blood in his veins. Her long, tangled hair hung in uneven waves down her back, framing a face that might've once been beautiful, but now radiated only fury and hatred. The kind of hatred that consumed, leaving nothing behind but a burning desire for vengeance.
Junpei's pulse quickened, the taste of fear thick on his tongue. He strained against the cuffs, muscles quivering, but it was no use. He was trapped, a lamb waiting for the slaughter.
She didn't speak, not at first. She didn't have to. Her silence was louder than any scream, more deafening than any plea for mercy. Her eyes, dark and unfeeling, bored into him, stripping him bare, peeling away the layers of his defenses until he was nothing more than a trembling heap of flesh and bones, exposed for her to destroy.
And destroy she would.
Tsubasa took a step forward, her movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. Her lips curved into a smile, but it was cold, cruel, the kind of smile that sent shivers down your spine and made your skin crawl. She crouched down in front of him, her face inches from his. He could smell the sweat on her skin, the blood on her breath. Her eyes flickered with something dark, something twisted, something that told him this wasn't going to end quickly.
"Meiyo Academy," she finally whispered, her voice low, dripping with venom. "Tell me where it is."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His mind scrambled, trying to form a coherent thought, but all he could think of was the cold, unyielding pressure building in his chest. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. Meiyo Academy. Of course, this was about the academy. That cursed place. The one secret he had been trained to protect with his life.
He swallowed hard, the taste of bile burning the back of his throat. "It… it doesn't exist anymore," he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "It's gone. Shut down. I don't know—"
He didn't see her move. One second she was crouching in front of him, the next her hand was around his throat, squeezing with a vice-like grip that sent stars exploding behind his eyes. He choked, his breath caught in his throat, his lungs burning as he gasped for air. Her nails dug into his flesh, sharp and unrelenting, cutting deep into the tender skin of his neck.
"You're lying," she hissed, her voice so low it barely registered above the pounding in his ears.
The pressure on his throat increased, crushing his windpipe, and for a moment, he thought his head might explode. Pain shot through his body, hot and blinding, as every muscle tensed, his back arching against the cold stone floor. His vision swam, black spots dancing in the corners of his eyes as his mind struggled to keep up with the agony ripping through him.
And then it happened.
Pain. Blistering, searing pain tore through him like a lightning bolt, shooting from his neck down to his toes, setting every nerve on fire. His body spasmed violently, his muscles locking up, twitching uncontrollably as a scream ripped from his throat, raw and guttural. It echoed off the walls, bouncing back at him, twisting into something unrecognizable, something animalistic.
His body was no longer his own. It was nothing more than a vessel for the pain, a hollow shell being ripped apart from the inside out. His skin felt like it was being peeled away in layers, leaving raw, exposed flesh beneath, every nerve ending screaming in protest. The pain spread, crawling up his spine, burrowing into his brain, until it was all he knew, all he could feel.
His mind was slipping. Falling into the darkness.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Tsubasa released him, and he collapsed to the floor, his body trembling, twitching uncontrollably. His chest heaved as he gulped down air, each breath burning like fire in his lungs. His throat was raw, every inhale a jagged knife slicing through his insides. He could feel the warm trickle of blood running down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
But he was still alive. Barely.
"P-please…" he whispered, his voice broken, pathetic. "Please… I'm sorry… I'm so fucking sorry…"
Tsubasa crouched down again, her expression unreadable. Her eyes bored into his, cold, unfeeling, as though she was deciding whether he was worth the effort to kill. For a long, agonizing moment, she said nothing, just stared at him, her gaze cold and calculating.
"I didn't ask for an apology," she said finally, her voice icy. "I asked for answers."
His chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, the pressure squeezing his lungs tighter with every passing second. The words clawed at the back of his throat, begging to escape, to offer her whatever she wanted just to make the pain stop. But they stayed lodged there, stuck like thorns. He couldn't tell her. He wouldn't.
The Commission had drilled it into him—day after day, year after agonizing year. Meiyo Academy was more than a secret; it was a shadow fortress buried so deep beneath the earth that even the most skilled underground heroes couldn't sniff it out. It was untouchable, unreachable. And he knew, with every ounce of the pitiful strength he had left, that no matter what Tsubasa had planned for him next, it would be nothing compared to what the Commission would do to him if he broke.
The silence that followed her last question was suffocating, wrapping around him like a wet blanket, heavy and stifling. He could hear nothing but the labored wheezing of his own breath, the sticky, wet sound of blood dripping from his face to the stone floor beneath him.
"It's gone…" Junpei said again.
Tsubasa watched him, her eyes narrowing slightly, calculating. Her gaze pierced through him like needles, cold, detached, as though she were merely evaluating the efficiency of the torture, not indulging in it. And then, without a word, she stepped back. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each step measured and quiet against the damp, grimy concrete.
Junpei's heart stuttered, racing wildly in his chest. The slight reprieve—if it could be called that—only made the impending doom worse. He knew what was coming. His stomach churned, a cold pit of dread twisting deep within. And then he saw the next one step forward, her shadow falling over him.
ROGUE #445 - Mockingbird. That's what they called her.
She moved with a disturbing grace, a childish lightness that made her silent approach all the more unnerving. Her bare feet glided across the floor, making no sound, and her oversized eyes gleamed in the dim light, wide and unblinking, like the vacant gaze of a doll. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of her lips—twisted, wrong—but it wasn't the expression itself that terrified Junpei. It was the glint of blood still dripping from the steel-threaded gloves that adorned her hands. His blood.
Mockingbird knelt down beside him, her head tilting to the side in a grotesque imitation of curiosity, like she was a child studying some fascinating, broken toy. Her wide, unblinking eyes bore into him, and behind that eerie gaze, he saw it—the madness. It lurked just beneath the surface, an uncontrollable violence that flickered in the dark depths of her expression. She leaned in close, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his ear. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost sing-song, laced with a cruel sweetness.
"Liar, liar," she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. "You remember us, don't you, Kobayashi-san? You sent us away. You thought we were broken. You thought we were trash."
A high-pitched giggle followed, light and lilting like a child's laughter in a twisted game of hide-and-seek. But the sound cut through Junpei like a blade, sending icy tendrils of dread spiraling down his spine. His body jerked involuntarily, but he barely had the strength to move, let alone resist. His voice—weak, barely a rasp—escaped him.
"Please..." he croaked, but even as the word slipped out, he knew it was pointless. There was no mercy here, no salvation waiting for him. He was lost. The fear was consuming him, dragging him under, the agony crashing over him like waves in a storm. His head lolled forward, and he struggled to lift it again, his vision swimming, fading. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on. Every breath was a battle, each one shallower than the last. He was drowning in the suffocating darkness of his own mind, and there was no surface in sight.
Tsubasa moved again, her presence looming above him like a shadow that swallowed everything whole. Her expression remained cold, blank—emotionless. She didn't revel in his suffering. No, this wasn't personal for her. This was just business, a job that had to be done. And that was what terrified him most. The calm, detached cruelty in her eyes as she spoke was worse than any sadistic pleasure could ever be.
"You're familiar with pain, aren't you, Junpei?" Her voice was a low murmur, quiet, almost intimate. "The Commission taught us well, after all. How to endure it. How to inflict it."
She stepped closer, her shoes scraping lightly against the floor, a quiet sound that somehow echoed in the hollow space of his mind. Junpei's heart thundered in his chest, panic clawing at him with every beat. Tsubasa's words wrapped around him like chains, tightening, pulling him deeper into the abyss.
"Do you know how long a person can survive after having their limbs severed?" she asked, her voice almost conversational, as if she were discussing the weather. "After their nerves are torn apart? Their organs removed, piece by piece?"
Her words hung in the air, thick with malice, and Junpei's heart skipped a beat, terror sinking into his bones. His blood turned to ice, the cold seeping into every corner of his body. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. His mind was a swirling mess of panic and dread, the unbearable horror of what was coming next choking him. He wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but his throat was too tight, the words stuck like jagged shards of glass lodged deep in his chest.
Tsubasa's lips curled into the faintest of smiles—thin, cruel, and utterly devoid of warmth. Her eyes gleamed with a dark, twisted light, and as she crouched down in front of him again, her face inches from his, Junpei recoiled. Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing against his skin, and the touch burned. It seared into him, an agonizing heat that blistered his flesh. He flinched, his body convulsing with the pain, but he was too weak to pull away.
"I can keep you alive for days," she whispered, her voice soft and deadly. "Maybe even weeks, if I'm careful. Long enough for you to tell me what I want to know."
Her fingers tightened around his jaw, forcing his head up, making him look into her eyes—those dead, hollow eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring as tears spilled from his eyes, mixing with the blood that dripped from his battered face. He couldn't take this. He couldn't survive this. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to tell her, to give her whatever she wanted, but he couldn't. He wouldn't.
Meiyo Academy wasn't just a school—it was a secret buried so deep that it could never see the light of day. If he told them…if he gave them the information they wanted, the Commission would find him. And what they would do to him would make this torture look like child's play.
"I—I'm sorry," he whimpered, his voice barely audible, broken by the sobs that wracked his chest. His eyes squeezed shut, and the tears flowed freely now, streaking down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry."
Tsubasa's smile faded. Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing as she stood up, her gaze flickering to the side. She looked to someone else, someone unseen by Junpei. But he knew. He knew they were there. Watching. Waiting.
"Do we even have time to keep him alive?" Tsubasa asked, her voice flat, emotionless, as if discussing an inconvenience rather than a life.
A gruff voice responded from elsewhere, deep and guttural. Junpei couldn't place it—couldn't match it to a face. But he knew them. He knew who they all were.
"We've been at this long enough. These rats are stubborn. They've got no sense of self-preservation. They're not afraid of death."
Tsubasa sighed, her lips pressing into a thin line of frustration. Her gaze fell back on Junpei, and for a moment, he thought he saw something in her eyes—disgust, perhaps. Or maybe it was just annoyance.
"Then this," she said, her voice soft but final, "will be your last apology."
She raised her hand, fingers crackling with energy, and Junpei knew—this was the end.
And to think—he needed to take his daughter to kendo practice not even a day after. What bad timing. What a horrible father.
Junpei didn't feel the pain at first—at least, not in the way he expected. It wasn't like a knife or a gunshot, something sharp and clean. No, Tsubasa's Quirk was far more insidious than that. It began beneath the surface, deep within his cells. The first sensation was a tightness, like his body was suddenly too small, too cramped for his bones and muscles to contain. His skin stretched, pulled taut across his frame, the feeling of something writhing beneath the surface, like thousands of tiny insects burrowing their way up from his flesh.
Then came the heat—scalding, unbearable heat—as though his very blood was boiling in his veins. The sensation was slow, methodical, creeping through his limbs like molten metal. His muscles twitched and convulsed, spasming uncontrollably as if his body were trying to tear itself apart from the inside. His nerves lit up with searing, white-hot pain that radiated outward in ripples, growing more intense with each passing second.
His screams echoed off the walls, desperate, animalistic, as his body jerked and writhed against the restraints. He could feel his skin splitting, his flesh tearing, as Tsubasa's Quirk tore into him, unraveling him molecule by molecule. His body was no longer his own; it was a thing of agony, every nerve ending flaring in explosive bursts of torment. His bones cracked under the pressure, his muscles shredded as the very fabric of his being was ripped apart in ways that defied all comprehension.
He begged then, finally finding his voice. Not with words—there were no words for this kind of suffering. His throat tore with the force of his cries, a guttural, primal wail that echoed through the chamber like a man on the edge of death. He could feel his body betraying him in real-time, organs shutting down, his heartbeat slowing to an erratic thud, each pulse another knife slicing through him.
And still, Tsubasa watched, unmoving, unblinking. She hadn't flinched, hadn't recoiled at the spectacle she was creating. Her hand hovered above him, fingers slightly splayed, controlling every moment of the destruction with the delicate precision of a master surgeon. Her Quirk hummed louder now, vibrating through the very air, reverberating in his skull, his bones, the marrow itself.
"Do you feel it?" Her voice was so soft it almost didn't register, but it sliced through the din of his agony with terrifying clarity. "This is what they taught us, Junpei. To survive. To endure."
Junpei's vision blurred again, this time from tears, his eyes watering uncontrollably. The room around him became a hazy, distorted blur, the edges of his perception closing in. But there was no release, no unconsciousness to deliver him from the agony. His body was still intact enough to feel every second of his torment. His nerves screamed for reprieve, his mind teetering on the edge of madness.
The heat intensified again, spreading like wildfire. His flesh peeled away, blistering and bubbling in grotesque waves as Tsubasa manipulated his very biology. Muscles split from the bone, sinews snapped, tendons shredded like frayed rope. He felt it all—every excruciating second, every fiber of his being tearing itself apart at her whim. His intestines twisted inside of him, his stomach acid burning as it seeped through ruptured tissue. His ribs cracked and splintered under the pressure, jagged shards piercing through the skin in gory bursts of crimson.
His body was breaking down faster now, disintegrating in slow, horrifying degrees. It was as if Tsubasa was unraveling him piece by piece, drawing out the process, savoring the destruction she was inflicting. His heart fluttered weakly, the arrhythmic beats barely sustaining him, and yet he remained conscious—aware of every moment, every sensation, every breath that rattled in his chest like broken glass.
There was nothing left to say. There was no mercy to beg for, no forgiveness to plead. His life was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he knew, with horrifying clarity, that this was how he would die. Alone, broken, and forgotten, his body a mangled ruin beneath the hands of the FORSAKEN.
Tsubasa's expression didn't change. She barely blinked as his body convulsed one final time, the last shuddering gasp escaping his lips. His eyes rolled back into his head, blood streaming from his nose and mouth in thick, viscous rivers. His muscles went limp, his head lolling to the side as his life finally ebbed away, his heart stuttering to a final, pitiful stop.
For a moment, the room was eerily silent, the only sound the soft drip of blood pooling beneath his body, mingling with the filth on the floor. Tsubasa stood up slowly, brushing off her hands as though she had simply finished a routine task.
Mockingbird's high-pitched giggle broke the silence, a sound so out of place it sent a shiver down the spine of even the other FORSAKEN members standing in the depths. She pouted, her lips forming an exaggerated frown as she glanced down at Junpei's corpse, now little more than a heap of shredded meat and bone.
"That was a waste," she whined, kicking at the lifeless body with her barefoot. The wet squelch it made sent another fit of giggles through her, though they lacked the gleeful malice they usually carried. "He didn't even tell us anything fun!"
Tsubasa didn't react, her eyes still fixed on the bloody remains in front of her. There was no satisfaction in her expression, no sense of victory. She had done what needed to be done. Nothing more.
"We've been getting nowhere," she muttered, her voice low but sharp, cutting through Mockingbird's laughter. She turned to face the rest of the FORSAKEN, her gaze sweeping over them with the same precision she used on Junpei moments before. Her eyes landed on the one standing furthest back, the one who had remained silent throughout the entire ordeal.
The girl—"Spotty-Chan"—shifted nervously under Tsubasa's gaze. They manifested in the form of a shadowy figure that cloaked over the host underneath, making a twisted, erratic version of herself that whispered constantly in her ear. Another extension that shared the same body. The thing was a living nightmare, a dark doppelgänger that flickered and shifted in and out of reality, a manifestation of every anxious, fearful thought that plagued their mind.
Tsubasa's patience was thinning. "Have any of you heard anything from anyone about Meiyo Academy's existence?" she asked, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade.
Spotty-Chan's voice was barely a whisper, their words trembling as it growled out brokenly. "All... all Spotty heard… is that it have been... r-re-reformed. Different now, they say. Better. But... Spotty not know where it is. Nobody say anything."
"Fuck," Tsubasa muttered, more to herself than anyone in the room. She tapped her fingers against her chin, the slight movement sending waves of unease through the rest of the FORSAKEN. Her tone, measured and soft, was always a precursor to something terrible. She had an air of inevitability about her, like gravity pulling everything in its orbit down, down into oblivion.
"The Commission is covering their tracks. But..." She let her words hang, her cold eyes lighting up with a faint spark. The pieces of her plan were beginning to fall into place.
"But what?" Mockingbird asked, suddenly interested, her earlier pouting forgotten. She leaned in, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Despite her erratic demeanor, she knew when Tsubasa was on to something.
"But there are always cracks. There are always leaks," Tsubasa said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flickered to the rest of the FORSAKEN, then to the darkened obscurity clinging to the corners of the room. "No system is perfect. Even the Commission can't control everything."
She paused, her expression hardening, and then, in one swift motion, she raised her hand. The remnants of Junpei's blood-soaked body jerked violently, his bones snapping as though they were being crushed beneath an invisible weight. The body, already mutilated beyond recognition, collapsed in on itself, folding unnaturally until it was nothing more than a fleshy, pulpy heap. His skull caved in, blood and brain matter seeping out onto the cold stone floor.
"People like him," Tsubasa said, her voice low, "are everywhere. All we need to do is find the right ones. Break them. Make them talk."
There was a pause, the tension in the room palpable as everyone processed her words. Tsubasa's cruelty wasn't born of sadism; it was born of necessity, a brutal means to an end. Every death, every torture was a tool, a step closer to tearing down the academy that had betrayed them.
Mockingbird's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Ooooh, more toys to play with! I like it."
Tsubasa ignored her, already thinking several steps ahead. "We'll continue to focus on the Commission's outliers. The ones they think are beneath notice. The ones that slip through the cracks of their system."
She looked over her shoulder at Spotty-chan, who was still muttering and growling manically. They were trembling, their gaze glued to the remains of Junpei on the floor. Tsubasa approached her slowly, her boots echoing against the stone floor, her presence suffocating. Spotty's breath hitched as Tsubasa stopped in front of her.
"You're useful," Tsubasa said harshly, though her tone carried a hint of warmth, much more than before. Her hand reached out, brushing a lock of Spotty's hair behind her ear with a gentleness that made them purr. "Don't forget that. I'm sorry for scaring you."
Spotty-Chan nodded once. Tsubasa's hand lingered for a moment longer before she turned away.
FORSAKEN stood in silence, waiting for her next command.
"Find me another one. Someone connected," Tsubasa ordered, her voice calm, detached. "We'll break them like we broke him." Her eyes flicked to the crimson-stained floor where Junpei's body had been. "Only this time, we won't stop until we have what we need."
Another member chimed in, this one having a softer voice. "And what if we find a student, both enrolled or a soon-to-be student? I bet they'd be a bit more willing to talk."
Tsubasa was quiet for a while, pursing her lips as her cold, dead eyes finally gleamed with a shred of humanity. "Bring them here, but don't hurt them. I don't want to hurt any of the students. Remember, we decided that on day one. They're innocent. The moment we hurt one of them is the moment we become no better than… well, you know. Keep an eye out, though."
Mockingbird clapped her hands together, giddy with excitement. "Oh, this is going to be fun!" she chirped, bouncing on her heels. "I've got just the place in mind. Some people I've been... keeping tabs on. And there's… also something I've been wanting to try out. It's a long shot, but it might get us some answers?"
The moonlight barely filtered through the narrow windows of Wonder-Worlder's home, casting long, jagged silhouettes across the walls. His house, tucked away in the depths of an old, forgotten forest, felt colder than usual tonight. The air was thick, suffocating almost, as if it knew something dark had crept in—something that didn't belong.
Sitting at his worn wooden table, he stared at the letter that had been slipped beneath his door. The envelope was crinkled and slightly damp, the edges stained with dirt. His fingers trembled as he slid it open, dread gnawing at his gut like a rabid dog. He already knew who it was from.
FORSAKEN.
His heart sank the moment he saw the familiar, spidery handwriting. He didn't need to read the words to understand the weight of them; the paper itself felt like a dead thing, heavy in his hands, an omen of what was to come.
But still, he read.
"Where was our new beginnings? Have you told the kids of the New Regime about us?"
His breath hitched in his throat, and for a moment, his vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, willing the tears back, forcing himself to stay composed. But the words cut deeper than he had anticipated, each one laced with the venom of a forgotten past, with the bitterness of lives ruined, of promises broken. His chest tightened with guilt, with a sorrow that had long since settled into his bones.
The children at Meiyo Academy, his students—he tried to always be transparent, with every child that came into the school on their first day. They had no idea of what had come before, of what FORSAKEN had once been. Most would have kept it from them. Buried it. Because they didn't need to know that their future had been built on the shattered remnants of something far darker, that's what some said. Wonder-Worlder disagreed. They had to know, needed to know.
He clenched the letter in his fist, his knuckles white with strain, the paper crumpling under the force of his grip. Why now? he thought. Why now, after all these years?
A faint, pained sigh escaped his lips as he slumped back in his chair. His mind raced, images of his students flashing before his eyes. They trusted him—every single one of them. He had hoped, foolishly, that he had more time.
But FORSAKEN had found him.
The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows growing longer, deeper, almost suffocating in their intensity. The old, familiar dread he hadn't felt in years began to creep back into his veins, crawling under his skin like some long-forgotten plague.
They didn't know about Meiyo Academy, not yet. But they had found him. They knew where he lived, knew that he had done the reform—had taken what they had left behind and turned it into something else. Something better. Or at least, that's what he tried to tell himself on sleepless nights.
Wonder-Worlder's eyes flickered to the mantle on the far wall, where a single, framed photograph stood. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, he stood and walked over to it, the letter still clutched in his hand.
It was a picture of them—his family. His husband, his daughter. Both gone now. Taken from him in ways that still haunted his every breath. His hand hovered over the frame, his fingers brushing lightly against the glass, as if he were afraid to disturb the memory, as if touching it would shatter the delicate illusion that they were still here with him, watching over him.
"I promised you…" his voice cracked, barely above a whisper, as his eyes lingered on the face of his daughter. Her smile. That radiant, innocent smile that had once been the light of his world. The same smile he had sworn to protect.
He swallowed hard, a lump of grief lodged in his throat, bitter and unrelenting. The weight of it threatened to crush him, but he couldn't let it. Not now. Not with this threat looming over him, over his students.
The letter crinkled in his hand again as his grip tightened, his gaze falling back on the words scrawled across the page. "Where was our new beginnings? Have you told the kids of the New Regime about us?"
He closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. They want answers. They want retribution.
But what they didn't understand—what they couldn't possibly comprehend—was that he had tried to give them something new. He had tried to create a place where the broken, the lost, could find hope again. A place where they didn't have to be defined by the horrors of their past.
But FORSAKEN… they had been left behind. Some were flat-out taken. And now, they were back. Hungry. Desperate.
Wonder-Worlder opened his eyes, his gaze hardening as it returned to the photograph. His daughter's face seemed to stare back at him, her eyes wide with the same innocence she had always carried, an innocence that had been stolen from her too soon.
"I know," he whispered softly, almost to himself. "I know why you all are angry. I know why you're hurting. Please come, though. I want to teach you all how to smile again."
He let the letter fall from his hand, the crumpled paper landing with a soft thud on the floor. His heart ached, his chest heavy with the weight of a thousand regrets. He had failed them once. He had failed so many, in so many different ways.
But he wouldn't fail his students. Not this time.
He lifted the photograph from the mantle, his eyes tracing the contours of his daughter's face. The smile that never faded, even after all this time.
"Because a smile is worth a thousand words."
His voice was barely audible, his breath shaky as he spoke. But the resolve in his heart, buried deep beneath the layers of sorrow and regret, had begun to solidify. He would protect them. He had to. For his students. For his family.
He would face FORSAKEN, no matter the cost.
And he would make sure they learned to smile again.
Even if it killed him.
For now? He had a school to run.
And with that, we've officially wrapped up the prologue! You've just had your first taste of one side of our antagonists for this story. What's that? You're asking if I said one side? Oh yes, you heard me right! There's so much more brewing behind the scenes, and trust me, you all have no idea what's coming your way! Get ready, because things are about to heat up, and I can't wait for you to experience it!
I've been absolutely loving every suggestion and idea you've been throwing my way for both characters and plot twists. Seriously, you guys have been incredible, and your creativity has been inspiring! It makes me so excited to interact with such a passionate and talented community—thank you all for that!
Now, as much as I'd love to stay and chat, it's time for me to dive back headfirst into working on Inflorescence! After that, I'm gonna take a moment to recharge to refrain from burning myself out! I'll catch up with you all once the deadline hits, but until then, keep the ideas flowing, and stay hyped!
Byeeeee~!