The moment you were born, a fragile hope wrapped itself around the Todoroki household—a hope as quiet and persistent as the fading embers of a dying fire. Shoto, barely six, was already discovering the startling depth of his dual quirks—the fierce blaze of his father’s fire and the biting chill inherited from his mother’s side. Natsuo, at eight, wrestled with his own storm inside, a fierce temper and survival instinct sharpened by a family’s harsh expectations. Fuyumi, sweet and gentle at five, already carried the soft light of compassion that balanced the household’s volatile energy. And then there was you—tiny and fragile—a new thread woven into a tapestry already strained by power, pride, and unspoken demands.
Your mother’s whispers in the quiet of the night were the first admissions of doubt. “Maybe it’s too early,” Rei murmured as she cradled you close, her fingers tracing your limp fingers. “Sometimes quirks take longer… sometimes they hide… they just need time.” Her voice trembled beneath the mask of hope, a fragile gesture to soothe both your small spirit and her own growing fear.
At the same time, your siblings watched with a mix of curiosity and bewilderment. One afternoon, Shoto reached out gently, his young face soft and filled with caution. “Will they...” he hesitated, “Will they have a quirk like us? I want to help if they do.” Natsuo scoffed then, his voice rough around the edges, “Of course, they’ll have one. Everyone does. It’s natural—right?” His fists clenched beneath the table, betraying his own anxiety. Fuyumi, sensing the tension, nodded quietly, a gentle smile curled across her lips as she whispered, “I just want them to be happy, no matter what.”
His words fell like ice shards. “There is no evidence of quirk manifestation. This child appears to be quirkless.”
Time seemed to freeze.
Your mother’s hand tightened against your blanket, her eyes shimmering with tears she refused to let fall. Enji’s jaw clenched hard enough to paint the lines of rage and disappointment along his face. The children looked on, though too young to understand fully, with a sinking weight settling onto their shoulders.
Days later, the family gathered around the dinner table, the setting sun casting long shadows over polished wood. The silence at first was thick and suffocating, broken only by the quiet clink of cutlery against plates.
Shoto’s voice was the first broken thread. “Everyone has a quirk, right? It’s what makes us who we are.” His blue and red eyes met yours briefly, curiosity laced with silent empathy. “What happens if… you don’t? What if someone doesn’t have one?”
Natsuo’s response was sharp and cold, his voice carrying the bitterness he struggled to hide. “Quirks aren’t just toys or powers. They’re survival. Strength. Without one, you’re weak. You’re nothing.” His eyes darted away, ashamed of the harsh truth gasping from his lips. “How could you even be part of this family without a quirk?”
Fuyumi reached across the table, her delicate hand hovering just over yours before retreating uncertainly. “That’s not fair, Natsuo,” she said softly, her voice a frail shield. “It’s not their fault. Being strong isn’t just about quirks.” She glanced at you with an ache in her gaze, perhaps wishing she could carry some of that weight for you.
Enji sat at the head of the table, rigid as stone, the muscles in his neck twitching with restrained fury and bitter disappointment. His eyes locked on you, scrutinizing, burning—before he finally spoke, low and cutting, a blade veiled in cold control.
“Why couldn’t you be like Shoto?” His voice was low enough to chill the room, thick with expectation unmet and dreams shattered. “Strong. Talented. Able to carry this family’s burden without hesitation.”
His words were punctuated by silence heavier than any roar. Shoto shifted uneasily but offered no defense