Disclaimer: I do not own My Hero Academia or its characters. My OC is inspired by an OC created by Konamino.
CHAPTER 1
They say there are people that are born lucky.
Fate has a funny way of playing out. There are ups and downs and sometimes lefts and rights, but things always play out in the end. People who are blessed in such a way never have to worry about frivolous things like tomorrow, because whether or not they're aware of it, life will always turn out, in the simplest of terms, okay.
Being born into a wealthy family is what most would describe as being lucky. If Yume had to describe her experience living in such a family, it wouldn't be anything close to being lucky. Constrained by gilded expectations and the weight of legacy, Yume often felt as if her life were nothing more than a meticulously arranged chessboard—a series of moves planned long before she could even grasp the rules. Every smile, every carefully measured gesture, and every whispered secret was molded by so called "traditions" that left little room for spontaneity or genuine choice.
In the grand halls of her family estate, where opulence masked the chains of expectation, the freedom that others might envy was replaced by a quiet suffocation. The brilliant sheen of wealth obscured the subtle prison built from duty and predetermined paths. Navigating this labyrinth of expectations and obligations felt like an unspoken test of survival. Yume had to master it early, reading the tilt of her mother's head and the timber of her father's voice like a secret language—each cue a warning, each gesture a reminder of all that was at stake. Any misstep could cost her the fragile semblance of peace she worked so hard to maintain.
She still remembered the day she learned the unspoken rule: her life was never truly her own. Yume couldn't have been more than five years old. She was dressed in a frilly lavender gown, carefully selected for a family gathering meant to showcase her as the "ideal daughter" to business associates. The event was meant to celebrate another prosperous quarter for Kenkō Pharmaceuticals, but it felt more like a performance to Yume. Each time she smiled or spoke, it was carefully choreographed by her mother's stern gaze. Her father, though less vocal, offered occasional nods of approval when Yume recited her lines perfectly—lines that she'd spent hours rehearsing under her mother's watchful eye.
After the party, the young Yume had dared to express her weariness. She'd quietly mentioned to her mother how tired she was from standing in place and trying to remember the proper way to greet each guest. Her mother's response was a cold, measured look that seemed to slice through the air. "A Kenkō doesn't show weakness," she'd whispered. "We have an image to uphold, and you will do as you're told."
That lesson never left her. It reverberated in every carefully chosen word, every forced smile. Over the years, each formal event and business dinner fell into a tedious cycle: Yume would don another pristine dress, practice graceful pleasantries, and watch her mother's critical eyes ensure that every move fit the family's perfect narrative.
Her siblings—both younger than her—faded into the background of these events. Kotarō, the middle child, was born when she was three years old. He was a quiet baby. Never needing much attention besides the occasional cry for food. He seemed to understand his position in the family early and slowly came to resent Yume for it. Once their younger sister was born another two years later, this was only solidified.
The birth of Ayame was a small affair. Once their mother was ready to leave the hospital, it seemed like the newborn child was already forgotten. If Yume had to guess, the only people Ayame got to see afterwards were the caretakers that were responsible for both her and her younger siblings. Ayame was the opposite of Kotarō. She was an excitable child, always trying to get her siblings to play with her. But even this outgoing soul was quickly wilting under the constant reminders that she was just a "spare". Where Yume was the carefully trained performer, her siblings were the overlooked onlookers, the ones who learned to tiptoe around the tension.
If their mother's attention ever strayed from Yume, it was usually because she needed a bargaining chip. The threats came quietly, but they sliced deeper than any loud tirade could. "Do you want your siblings to suffer?" she would whisper when Yume's resolve wavered. "Shall I see to it that Kotarō and Ayame never get to see you again?" The words always hung in the silence of Yume's bedroom, each threat echoing off walls adorned with gilded mirrors and carefully arranged artwork.
Their father, though not as calculating, was no less complicit. In the shadows of his wife's decisions, he allowed her every demand to become law. His rationale was simple: If it increased the company's stature, it had to be done. Yume's quirkless state could have been a blemish on the family name, but thanks to her refined upbringing and perfect public image, she was sculpted into the ideal heiress—an example to all that hard work and discipline (and a lot of money) could make up for any perceived shortcoming.
Yet beneath the surface, questions gnawed at Yume. Was this really her only path? Surrounded by siblings who slowly came to resent her—siblings her mother used as pawns—how long could she keep up this farce? She was quirkless, yes, but in a world teeming with heroes and powers, there had to be something more she could be, something that wasn't beholden to her family's pharmaceutical empire.
Standing at her window, Yume gazed out over the sprawling gardens. Dawn light scattered across trimmed hedges and vibrant flowerbeds. The world outside looked endless and full of possibilities, but just beyond the gates, society still viewed her quirklessness as a disadvantage. In her home, though, she was the central piece of a corporate puzzle—an image her mother was determined to perfect and exploit.
If there was any faint glimmer of hope, it lay in the fact that every cage has a key, no matter how hidden. And as Yume stared at the rising sun, she let herself believe—if only for a moment—that she might someday find hers.
Morning arrived with a gentle glow that crept through the estate's tall windows, illuminating the corridors in soft, golden light. At nine years old, Yume had learned to greet each day with a practiced serenity—smiling politely at the servants, bowing her head to her mother and father, and dutifully reporting to her tutor without complaint. But beneath this orchestrated routine, a knot of tension coiled in her stomach.
She knew it had everything to do with Kotarō's birthday. He had turned six just a few days before, and the occasion had slipped by as if it were any other day. There was no grand celebration, no humble gathering, not even a congratulatory pat on the head from their parents. In the Kenkō household, birthdays for anyone other than Yume often went unnoticed. Still, this time felt crueler than ever. Kotarō was old enough to feel the sting of neglect, and though Yume had tried to console him, her attempts had done little more than fan the flames of his hurt.
The tension finally erupted that morning over a quiet breakfast. Kotarō, usually solemn and withdrawn, glared at Yume with an intensity that she'd never seen in his dark eyes before. She could feel his resentment brewing, threatening to boil over.
"You could've reminded them," he said, voice trembling with fury. "They would've listened to you. Why didn't you do anything?"
Yume opened her mouth to respond, but words faltered on her tongue. She wanted to explain how she had tried—how she'd slipped a hopeful mention into a conversation with their mother, only to be met with a dismissive wave and a curt, "Focus on your own obligations." But any explanation now felt hollow, and she knew it wouldn't soothe the anger radiating from her brother.
"Look at you." His voice cracked. "Always perfectly dressed, always in the spotlight. And what about us? I'm nothing, Ayame's nothing… you never stand up for us."
A sharp pang of guilt twisted in Yume's chest. She knew he was right in some ways. Though she wanted to protect her siblings, her mother's threats hung over her like a guillotine. Her public persona as the heiress was a shield she clung to, but that shield also kept her from speaking out.
"I'm sorry," Yume murmured at last, meekly. It was all she could manage.
"Sorry isn't enough," Kotarō snapped. In one abrupt movement, he shoved away from the table, rattling plates and silverware. He stormed out of the dining room, leaving behind a suffocating silence. Across the table, Ayame—just four years old—looked on with watery eyes, torn between comfort and confusion. When she rose to follow Kotarō, Yume didn't stop her. She only lowered her gaze to her untouched plate, the familiar weight of helplessness settling in.
The day blurred by in a series of hushed lessons and superficial pleasantries. Tutors came and went, each of them teaching Yume the skills her mother deemed valuable: public speaking, etiquette, and—most of all—a quiet, unbreakable poise. But her thoughts remained tangled in the morning's argument. She couldn't shake the haunted look in Kotarō's eyes or the gnawing certainty that she was failing him.
By mid-afternoon, she was ushered into a sleek car bound for the latest "charity" event—yet another carefully staged affair meant to show the world just how "generous" the Kenkō family was. It was a routine Yume knew all too well. Greet the benefactors, smile for the cameras, deliver a short script about giving back to the community. Her mother would hover at her side, making sure not a single misstep marred their perfect image.
Yet no amount of preparation could erase the ache in Yume's chest. Her mind drifted back to Kotarō, and with every passing minute, she grew more agitated. By the time she stepped onto the small stage to recite her lines, her voice was edged with uncertainty. The words—normally memorized to mechanical perfection—slipped away for the briefest moment. She stumbled over a sentence, faltered just enough that a hush fell over the crowd.
The pause lasted no longer than a heartbeat, and Yume quickly caught herself. Anyone not paying close attention would barely notice. But her mother noticed. Even from across the stage, Yume could feel the chill of her disapproval. She finished the speech in a hurried monotone, ending with a polite bow that felt more like a desperate bid to escape.
They returned to the estate as evening shadows stretched across the grand foyer. The moment the front doors closed, her mother grabbed Yume's wrist in a vise-like grip and dragged her into a secluded hallway. The air felt stifling, the atmosphere electric with anger.
"That was unacceptable," her mother hissed. Each word dripped with venom. "Do you have any idea how you've tarnished our reputation with that little slip? A Kenkō never falters. Ever."
Yume tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but all she managed was a choked whisper. "I—"
Her mother's icy glare silenced her. "You think you can fail without consequence? Then perhaps I should teach you the cost. Next time, it won't just be you who suffers. Maybe your brother needs a lesson in obedience… or your sister. We can't have them tainting our perfect image, can we?"
A spark of anger ignited in Yume's chest. "They have nothing to do with this," she protested, the desperation in her voice betraying her calm façade. "Please—"
Before she could finish, the sharp crack of a slap tore through the air. Pain flared across Yume's cheek, hot tears of shock blurring her vision. She staggered back, one hand instinctively flying to her stinging skin.
"Don't you dare talk back," her mother seethed. "Do not forget your place. This company—this family—everything is at stake when you fail. If I see a single mistake again, I promise you, the rest of this household will bear the punishment."
Yume's heart pounded against her ribs as she stared at the woman whose fury seemed capable of devouring them all. A swirl of emotions surged within her—fear, shame, guilt—but something else simmered beneath the surface. A slow, deliberate anger, the seeds of vengeance carefully planting themselves in the cracks of her wounded spirit.
When her mother finally released her, Yume bolted, tears burning in her eyes as she fled to her room. She locked the door behind her and slumped against it, the echo of the slap reverberating in her ears. For a long moment, she pressed her forehead to her knees, shoulders trembling in silent sobs.
But as the minutes passed, the tears gave way to a fragile, determined calm. She stared at the faint reflection of herself in the glossy hardwood floor—no Quirk, no remarkable power, just the caged daughter of an unforgiving dynasty. Still, even in a gilded prison, there had to be a key. If she could endure, maybe she could protect Kotarō and Ayame from the worst of their mother's wrath.
At nine years old, Yume understood that she was alone on this battlefield. But she also knew that her resolve, small as it might be, would be her greatest weapon. The promise she made to herself then was as clear as the sting on her cheek: she would not let her siblings suffer for her shortcomings. She would endure. She would smile when told to smile. She would be perfect when demanded to be perfect. And when the time came, she would break free and shield them from this twisted legacy once and for all.
The anger lingered like a dark cloud, always present in the back of Yume's mind. She learned to keep her composure in public—her mother's vicious threats had only intensified since the slip at the charity event—but beneath the rehearsed smiles and hushed greetings, an ember of resentment continued to smolder. She knew she couldn't confront her mother openly without risking more harm to Kotarō and Ayame, yet each day the pressure grew, pressing down on her like an unrelenting weight.
In the days that followed, she tried to make it up to her siblings in small ways. Every spare moment, she sought them out, apologizing to Kotarō with shy, uncertain words about his missed birthday. Ayame was easier to approach; she'd give Yume a brave smile and run to hug her, as if clinging to the one fragment of warmth in their cold household. But Kotarō, still stung by the neglect, refused to budge.
"I'll speak to Mother," Yume promised him one afternoon, voice quiet yet resolute. "We can still do something for your birthday…even if it's late."
Kotarō folded his arms, turning away. "She won't listen," he muttered bitterly. "And even if she does, it'll just be for show. It won't be because she actually cares." He glanced back at her, resentment flickering in his eyes. "You're wasting your breath."
Yume wanted to argue—wanted to assure him that her words weren't empty—but he brushed past her before she could speak. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, carrying his frustration and leaving her alone in the silence.
That evening, dinner was its usual ritual of orchestrated politeness. Servants laid out lavish dishes none of them genuinely enjoyed, and her mother maintained an icy composure at the head of the table. Their father was absent—off in another part of the estate or possibly on a business trip; Yume neither knew nor cared at that moment. All that mattered was that she muster the courage to broach the forbidden topic of Kotarō's birthday.
She waited until the main course was almost finished. Carefully, she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, as she had been taught, then spoke in a measured tone. "Mother," she said, voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts, "I've been thinking…it might be good for appearances if we honor Kotarō's birthday—"
Her mother's fork clattered onto her plate. For a fleeting moment, her dark eyes flashed with annoyance. "What a trivial matter to bring up at dinner," she said curtly. "We have more important things to concern ourselves with—like ensuring you don't embarrass this family again."
Yume stiffened. "It wouldn't take much effort. Just a small celebration—nothing grand," she pressed, praying that her mother wouldn't lash out here, with the servants nearby.
A cold laugh escaped her mother's lips. "And why should I waste time on that? If you truly want your siblings to stay…healthy," she paused, savoring the word, "you'd do well to remember where your focus should lie. On yourself. Your training. Your image. One more mishap, and you know what happens."
Yume felt her stomach twist. The memory of her mother's threats—of the slap that had stung her cheek not long ago—rose unbidden, and anger churned in her chest.
"I'm tired," she said at last, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm tired of playing your perfect little doll, tired of a role I never asked for—tired of you." Her voice quivered with something between rage and despair. "All you do is torment me, threaten me, threaten Kotarō and Ayame. You don't care about us, not as people."
A dangerous hush fell over the dining room. One of the servants who had been clearing plates froze, her gaze darting nervously between Yume and her mother. Yume's mother, for her part, set down her napkin with excruciating slowness, fury simmering behind her carefully measured expression.
"You dare speak to me like that?" she whispered, each syllable laced with venom. Her voice rose, a shrill crescendo of outrage. "After everything I've done to secure your future? You ungrateful child."
Yume pushed back her chair, heart hammering. "All you've done is trap us. You manipulate me for your vanity. You threaten my brother and sister. You're cruel, and—and I'm done pretending you're not."
Her mother stood up so abruptly that the chair legs screeched against the marble floor. "You insolent—"
Just then, the door swung open, and Ayame appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She must have heard the shouting. Clinging to the doorknob, she looked small and frightened, yet she stepped forward anyway, her voice trembling. "Don't—don't shout at Yume!" she cried, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "I see her every day. She's always tired and sad. Please stop, Mother."
Yume's chest constricted at the sight of her little sister, who was only trying to help. But the rage in her mother's eyes flared into something far more dangerous—like a shadow twisting into a monster. In a swift, terrible motion, her mother reached for the knife that lay on the table, brandishing it with a fury Yume had never seen before.
"You dare speak out of turn, you ungrateful brat?" her mother snarled. "Do you want to see just how serious I can be?"
In an instant, she lunged at Ayame, the blade flashing under the chandelier's light. Horror seized Yume's entire being. She scrambled forward, heart in her throat, but she was too slow. A shriek rang through the room as Ayame tried to dodge, only to feel the cold steel graze her arm. A thin line of blood appeared on her pale skin.
"Mother, stop!" Yume's own scream tore from her throat, echoing across the grand dining hall. She grabbed for her mother's wrist, her eyes burning with equal parts terror and fury. "Leave her alone!"
Ayame stumbled back, tears flowing freely now, cradling her wounded arm.
Yume's mother stood, chest heaving, the knife still clutched in her hand. Her face was contorted with a mix of rage and an almost manic desperation. "You see what you've done?" she spat at Yume, voice trembling. "I warned you—this is your fault."
The horror of the moment felt surreal, like a nightmare she couldn't wake from. In the corner of her eye, she could see Ayame trembling, her eyes darting around the room, searching for safety. Blood seeped through her small fingers where she pressed them against the cut. Something snapped within Yume—a fierce protectiveness that overshadowed her fear. She clenched her jaw, tears blurring her vision, and tightened her grip on her mother's wrist.
"You—can't—do this," she rasped, desperation fueling every word. If there was any doubt left in her mind about escaping this prison of a life, it vanished in that moment. No matter how impossible it seemed, she would find a way to protect her brother and sister from a mother who had truly become monstrous.
A raw desperation clung to Yume, thick as the metallic tang of blood in the air. She couldn't look away from Ayame's tear-streaked face, from the thin rivulet of crimson trickling down her little sister's arm. Every nerve in Yume's body screamed at her to stand between them—to protect Ayame at any cost. And in that desperate surge of protectiveness, something began to stir deep within her, a force she had never felt before.
Her mother snarled, the knife glinting under the chandelier's cold light. The blade moved with lethal purpose, aimed again at Ayame. Yume's heart pounded so loudly it seemed to echo off the marble walls. She threw her arm out in a frantic attempt to intercept the blow, some nameless instinct screaming in her mind to do more—be more.
A split second later, the air around her arm seemed to shimmer. A sea-green chain—glowing faintly like phosphorescent coral—manifested around her right arm and snaked forward with lightning speed. It coiled around her mother's knife-wielding arm, halting her attack mid-strike.
Time seemed to slow as both mother and daughter stared in disbelief. Until this very second, Yume had lived her life quirkless, dismissed by doctors and specialists alike. But here it was—a tangible, undeniable Quirk, materializing at the height of her desperation.
A flash of horror and astonishment sparked in her mother's eyes. But the woman's rage eclipsed all else. She yanked her arm back, struggling against the glowing chain. Yume grit her teeth, determined to keep the blade away from Ayame. In one fluid motion—driven more by raw instinct than any skill—she tugged her mother sideways, pulling her off-balance.
With a guttural growl, her mother twisted free just enough to whirl around. Before Yume could dodge, the knife slammed into her shoulder. Pain exploded across her body, and she staggered back, the sea-green chain slackening. Warm blood seeped through her dress.
"Yume!" Ayame's voice came out in a broken sob from somewhere behind her.
Yume could barely breathe, shock and agony colliding in a dizzying haze. But her mother didn't stop. She lunged again, and the blade found its mark a second time, slicing into Yume's side. Black spots danced at the edges of Yume's vision. Her legs threatened to buckle.
Through sheer will, Yume forced herself to stand, grappling with the white-hot pain. A surge of adrenaline drove her to throw her left arm forward. Another chain—this one slightly thinner but no less solid—burst into existence. It whipped around her mother's lower arm with a force that finally forced the knife from her grasp.
Metal clattered against polished marble. A savage snarl twisted her mother's features. "You…dare…" she hissed, her voice choked with fury.
Yume panted, each breath a struggle as blood trickled down her clothes. The new chains that bound her mother trembled—she could feel every pulse of her mother's thrashing through them, like living extensions of her own will. Fear, anger, and a fierce protectiveness battled within her. Ayame. Kotarō. She had to keep them safe.
But then something in her mother's eyes changed—an unholy glint that made Yume's skin crawl. With both hands locked in Yume's chains, the woman let out a ragged breath, raw fury condensing around her like a physical aura. From her palms, a dark shape began to take form, twisting and warping as though made of the same ethereal substance as Yume's chains, but in a sickly yellow hue. The astral spike, barbed and pulsing, jutted out from each palm. She jerked her arms, testing the chains' limits, and managed to angle one of the spikes toward Yume's abdomen.
It sliced through the air in a vicious arc. Yume flinched backward on instinct, a spike of panic overriding her pain for one crucial second. The blade missed by a hair, cutting only through empty space—but the next attack would undoubtedly come just as fast. She had no time to think—only to react.
Yume released her grip on one chain, diving sideways. Pain lanced up her shoulder, nearly paralyzing her, but she forced herself to roll, gasping as she tried to keep pressure on her wounds. Her mother's eyes burned with a vengeful hatred, the astral spikes looking more ominous by the second.
For a moment, everything froze: Yume, panting on the marble floor, fresh blood staining her once-immaculate dress; Ayame, clutching her wounded arm, tears spilling as she looked on in terror; and their mother, bathed in the flickering chandelier light, yellow spikes protruding menacingly from her palms.
Yume's heart clenched. This wasn't just a moment of disagreement or punishment gone too far—this was carnage, the house turned into a battlefield, her family unraveling under the weight of a twisted legacy. And the chains that wound around Yume's arms, still glowing with that serene sea-green radiance, were all she had to stand between her mother and her siblings' lives.
She dragged herself upright despite the throbbing pain, readying for the next onslaught. As fear and adrenaline surged through her veins, only one thought remained in the haze: No matter what, she would protect them.
A tremor ran down Yume's arm as she forced another chain to materialize—this time, she didn't hesitate before swinging it toward her mother. The sea-green links caught the light in a brilliant arc, hissing through the air as they wrapped around her mother's bicep. Yume yanked with all her strength, determined to keep her deranged opponent away from Ayame.
But her mother, fueled by rage and far stronger than Yume's child frame, merely used the chain as a tether. With a savage growl, she pulled hard, dragging Yume forward. Yume's feet scrambled against the slick marble, failing to find purchase. As she flew toward her mother, she twisted her body, desperately attempting a roll to avoid the spikes. Pain tore through her leg when the tip of one jagged spike grazed her calf.
Stars danced in her vision as she hit the ground, breath rattling in her chest. Her mother's yells were a chaotic roar in her ears; vicious words about ungrateful children, about worthless brats who needed to be taught a final lesson. Yume blinked away the tears that blurred her sight—her mother's figure towered over her, blond hair wild and eyes glinting with murderous fury.
Suddenly, her mother's attention shifted. She stopped mid-swing, her gaze drifting to Ayame, who stood a few meters away, whimpering and clutching her bleeding arm. A dangerous smirk curled her mother's lips. "You're still here, you pathetic little thing," she spat, striding forward, spike raised. Yume's heart lurched as she fought to haul herself upright.
Time slowed. Her mother loomed over Ayame—so small, so frightened—and drew back an arm to strike. Every ounce of survival instinct in Yume's body propelled her forward. She staggered, ignoring the pain that flared in her shoulder and side. The knife her mother had first used lay discarded on the floor, glinting with cruel invitation. Without thinking, Yume dove for it, wrapping trembling fingers around the hilt.
Ayame's tearful gaze flicked toward Yume, and in that split second, Yume's body moved on pure, desperate will. She bolted across the room, each step a battle against searing pain. Her mother's arm was already starting its deadly arc toward Ayame's chest. Yume let out a choked cry and slammed the blade forward, burying it between her mother's shoulder blades.
She felt it sink in—farther than she'd intended, or maybe exactly as deep as necessary. A sickening jolt traveled up her arm. Her mother's body went rigid, the momentum of her attack halted in an instant. For a long, terrible heartbeat, everything was silent—Yume could hear nothing but the hammering of her own pulse in her ears.
Then her mother's hands fell limp, the astral spikes vanishing in a flicker of sickly light. The twisted snarl on her face faded into something almost blank. Staggering once, she turned her head slightly as though trying to see who had done this, but all she managed was a single, ragged breath. In the next moment, she collapsed, the blade still embedded in her back.
Ayame let out a trembling sob, stumbling away from the fallen figure. Yume stood there, blood from her wounds mingling with the spatters on the floor. She couldn't tear her gaze away from her mother's lifeless form, a harsh gasp escaping her lips as the full weight of what she'd done sank in. But one glance at Ayame's tear-streaked face—still alive, still breathing—hardened her resolve. With shaking hands, Yume crumpled to her knees, pulling Ayame close and shielding her from the sight of their mother's body.
She couldn't form coherent words yet. All she knew was that Ayame was safe, for now. No matter the cost or the consequence, she had protected her sister. And as she held Ayame against her, the sea-green chains still lingering on her arms slowly dissolved, leaving only the echo of their glow in the tears sliding down her cheeks.
Shadows stretched across the walls of the grand foyer as Yume carried a barely conscious Ayame through the corridors, their footsteps echoing like ghosts in the wake of the chaos. Warm blood from Yume's wounds dripped onto the polished floor, mingling with the dried spatters that already stained her tattered dress. Yet her face held no flicker of emotion—no remorse, no panic. All that remained was an unsettling calm, her mind focused solely on what needed to be done next.
At the sight of Yume stumbling toward them with Ayame in her arms, a cluster of terrified servants rushed forward, uncertain whether to flee or offer assistance. Their eyes darted toward the dining hall, where the lifeless form of Yume's mother still lay. But Yume said nothing about that. Instead, she laid Ayame gently on a sofa and turned to them with a startling monotone in her voice.
"Bandage her wounds," she ordered, brushing off any stammered questions. "Now."
They scrambled to obey, one servant fetching a clean cloth while another brought gauze and disinfectant. Yume stood by, watching with a hollow stare as Ayame's arm was carefully wrapped. One of the bolder servants tried to check Yume's own injuries, but she waved them away. Her movements were stiff, each breath razor-sharp in her lungs.
"I'll do it," she said, and took the gauze from trembling hands.
Pressing the bandages to her shoulder and side, she forced herself to work methodically, ignoring the searing pain that made her vision swim. Sticky warmth coated her fingers, but she tightened the makeshift bindings without so much as a wince. Slowly, a profound realization settled in: she had killed her mother and she felt no remorse. Only a numb certainty that she couldn't stay here a moment longer.
Her father—wherever he was—would return, and his fury would be inevitable. Even if she tried to explain the truth, she knew exactly how he would respond. She had to leave. Now.
Heart pounding, Yume beckoned one of the remaining servants closer. "Your off-work clothes," she murmured. "I need them." He stared at her, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. When he didn't move, she repeated herself, quieter but more forcefully. "Clothes. Please."
At last, he fled and returned with an old hoodie and cargo shorts. Yume accepted them in silence. Her limbs felt like lead as she slipped out of her bloodstained finery. Every shift of her body sent agony coursing through her wounds, but she pushed through, forcing the oversized hoodie over her head. The sleeves draped well past her fingertips, and the shorts bunched awkwardly around her waist, but she cinched them in place with a rope belt a servant offered.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror—a ghostly child, her skin ashen, her once-elegant blonde hair sticky with drying blood and sweat. She found a pair of scissors on a side table and, without hesitation, hacked off the tangled strands just above the shoulders. Each metallic snip felt like severing another tie to this life. When she was done, her hair hung in a ragged, uneven bob, framing eyes that now burned with hollow determination.
"Good," she breathed, almost to herself, tossing the scissors aside.
Grabbing a small canvas backpack from one of the hall closets, she stuffed it with rolls of gauze, a few vials of disinfectant, and whatever small medical supplies she could find in the moment. Her gaze strayed to a set of ornate decorations along the hallway—porcelain figures, a gilded picture frame, a small jade statuette. She snatched them, shoving them into the bag for barter in the uncertain days ahead. The servants watched in stunned silence, perhaps too frightened or too loyal to question her.
On her way out, she paused by the sofa where Ayame lay, now breathing softly under fresh bandages. One of the servants hovered nearby, dabbing at Ayame's forehead with a cool cloth. Yume pressed her lips together, then turned and headed toward the front entrance.
Just before reaching the mansion's grand doors, she nearly collided with Kotarō in the corridor. He froze, eyes wide, taking in her wounded, disheveled state and the short, choppy hair that made her look like a stranger. His gaze flickered with confusion, shock, and fear.
"Yume…what—what happened?" he demanded, voice quivering. "Where's—Mother—and why do you look like—"
She didn't let him finish. Dropping to one knee, Yume gripped Kotarō by the shoulders, meeting his frantic eyes with a gaze that bore a harsh finality. "Take care of Ayame," she said, her tone as unyielding as steel.
"But—"
Without another word, Yume released him and pushed herself back to her feet, ignoring the pain that seared up her side. Kotarō called her name again, voice trembling with desperation, but she forced herself to keep moving. No second thoughts. She reached the heavy double doors at the entrance of the estate and shoved them open with a grunt. They gave way, revealing the night air, cool and biting against her feverish skin.
She didn't look back—not at Kotarō, not at the servants, not at the lavish halls that had been her cage. As the doors crashed shut behind her, Yume took a single shaky breath. The path ahead was dark and dangerous, but it was hers to walk, free from the twisted rule of a mother she had come to fear and despise. Her father's wrath might hunt her, but she would deal with that when the time came.
With the hood drawn low over her wounded face, Yume Kenkō set off into the silent night.