Listen to: "For What It's Worth" - Buffalo Springfield
The air was still electric, the battle's aftershocks rippling through streets lined with fractured glass and twisted steel. My ears rang with phantom sounds — explosions, shouted commands, the dry pop of collapsing concrete. It had all gone quiet, but silence wasn't peace. It was the moment before the next storm.
My legs felt like rebar wrapped in human skin. Every muscle throbbed with the kind of ache you only earn from pushing past your limits, twice over. My Rulebreaker Drive's last ignition still lingered in my chest, like hot coals buried under the ashes of adrenaline.
I stood there, one hand still clutching the torn remains of my jacket, watching the enemy — no, the survivors — disappear into the night. Not as victors. Not as victims. Just as people who had outlived the moment.
"Kael."
Her voice cut through the fog. Hoshiko, limping over, hair matted, suit shredded, eyes defiant even in exhaustion. She didn't smile, but the lack of scolding counted for something.
"We lived," I croaked, the words like gravel in my throat.
"Barely," she answered, standing shoulder to shoulder with me, staring at the path the enemy had retreated down. "You burned the Drive, didn't you?"
I nodded, too tired to pretend otherwise. "Wasn't enough."
For the first time, the bitter weight of the night settled on me fully. We'd won the fight. But the war? That was a game we weren't even close to understanding.
The debrief was a haze. I sat in a folding chair at the agency's temporary field office, shirt slashed open at the seams, dried blood flaking from my jaw.
"Arashi Kael," the agent at the desk repeated. "Your testimony aligns with the incident logs, but we've flagged several anomalies involving your quirk's expansion state."
Translation: they saw me push past legal quirk regulation thresholds.
My stare was empty. "Necessary force."
The agent adjusted his collar, clearly uneasy with the simple, honest answer. Not much more to say when your opponent drops fully armed merc squads into residential zones.
I signed the statement and slid it back across the desk.
The conversation died there, but the implications didn't. Word would get around fast — I'd broken the ceiling on what was 'acceptable' for a pro, even in self-defense. The question wasn't if the Commission would respond. It was how.
I spent the walk home wondering if I'd ever put the hero life back on like an old glove, or if I'd leave it behind like a shed skin.
The city had a different shape now. After that night, everything looked sharper, less welcoming. Like it had peeled off the bright, hopeful mask society painted over it and showed me the bones underneath.
My phone buzzed once. A text.
FROM: Hoshiko
"You did everything you could. Don't let them take that from you."
I didn't reply. Not because I didn't believe her, but because the words didn't fit anymore. Heroes? Villains? The system we lived in had cracks wider than any battlefield scar I'd earned.
I stopped at the alley where it all started. Debris still littered the ground, burnt asphalt still blackened by my quirk's final clash against Leather Voice. His words stuck with me more than the wounds.
"You've outgrown this city."
Outgrown it... or become something it couldn't contain?
The weight of choice settled over me, heavy as the world itself.
I wasn't sure which scared me more: the idea of walking away, or the idea that I might not.
The days after felt like limbo. Paperwork, check-ups, more questions than answers. They wanted to know everything. Every rule I'd bent, every quirk interaction that had kept me alive. But what they couldn't ask — or wouldn't — was the only thing that mattered.
Why?
Why did I fight the way I did? Why did I break past the point of return? The truth was simple. Survival wasn't about fighting fair, or living by the handbook. It was about refusing to let someone else write your ending.
And my story wasn't over. Not yet.
I stood at my window, watching dawn break over the skyline. It looked peaceful from up here. Unreal, even. As if the battle had been someone else's nightmare.
But the cracks were still there. Beneath the surface, the city was still bleeding. So was I.
And the world wasn't done testing me.
When the Commission finally called, it wasn't a summons. It was a choice.
"You've exceeded the operational boundaries of your license," the message read, cold and clinical. "Your future assignment status is under review. You may choose to accept a reassignment or submit your resignation."
The words didn't sting. Not the way I thought they would.
Hoshiko's voice echoed in my head: You did everything you could.
And I had. But that wasn't enough anymore. Being a hero wasn't about the costume or the title. It was about the rules — and I'd learned how to break them.
So I stared at the message, fingers hovering over the screen, and I chose.
The system could keep its labels. I'd write my own ending.
For the first time, I felt light.
[Volume 1: Frictionless Rebellion — End.]