You didn’t plan on leaving. That was the thing — Japan wasn’t a dream; it was an escape clause.

Your parents called it an opportunity. The Hero Exchange Initiative, sponsored by the Japanese Hero Commission. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to train overseas. They said it like a gift. But gifts don’t usually come wrapped in silence and slammed doors.

The night before you left, the house felt like a stranger’s. Your dad was in the living room, pretending the news didn’t say your name. Your mom was at the sink, hands in soapy water long after the dishes were clean. No one looked at you. Maybe because looking meant acknowledging what they’d done—or what they couldn’t fix.

You weren’t the perfect hero-in-training. Too headstrong. Too blunt. Too much like the person your father used to be before he gave up on his own dreams. So when the offer came — a transfer, a “fresh start” under Japan’s Number Two Pro Hero — they signed the papers before you could say no.

And now here you were, jet-lagged and disoriented, standing in the Musutafu's airport. The city breathed around you — neon veins, restless and alive.

You didn’t hear his steps. You just felt it — the air shifting, gravity rethinking itself. Then the quiet thud of boots, the hush of wings.

“Kid from the States, right?” The voice was easy — warm, not teasing this time. When you turned, he was already there, loose-limbed and golden in the afternoon light, feathers catching the breeze like embers.

“Must’ve been a long trip,” he said, head tilting just a bit, eyes sharp but kind.

And somehow, hearing his words, you felt a little less like you’d been sent away, and a little more like maybe — just maybe — you’d been found.