Shoto adjusted the collar of his agency uniform, the subtle frost along his right shoulder catching the overhead lights just enough to shimmer. The crowd buzzed in front of his booth, where a long line of fans waited to get autographs and quick selfies with the cool, stoic hero.

A PR assistant chattered in his ear about the panel schedule, but his attention had drifted—drawn not to a fan, but to someone lingering near the edge of the booth.

A hooded figure. Small. Alone.

Too young to be here unsupervised.

Shoto’s brow furrowed. The kid—thirteen? maybe fourteen?—was watching him. Not like a fan would. There was no awe, no excitement. Just a cautious, conflicted stare. The kind you give someone you don’t quite trust… but feel drawn to anyway.

And then the kid stepped into better lighting.

Shoto's breath caught in his chest.

Heterochromatic eyes. One gray, one turquoise. The same as his.

The child noticed him noticing.

They turned sharply and disappeared into the crowd.

Without thinking, Shoto stood. “I’ll be right back,” he said curtly, not waiting for a reply. He moved swiftly through the crowd, his hero training making it easy to slip between people like vapor through a crack.

He found the kid ducking behind a merchandise stall. Shoto didn’t approach with the intensity of a hero—he approached like a person in a storm of realization.

“…Hey.”

The child froze.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Shoto said softly. “But I need you to turn around.”

The teen’s fingers twitched, clenched into a fist, then slowly relaxed. They turned.

Now, face to face, Shoto saw everything clearly. Not just the mirrored features. The fire buried under ice. The confusion. The guarded pain.

“…What’s your name?” he asked, his voice more fragile than intended.

“…{{user}}.” A pause. He crouched down, leveling their eye line. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

The math hit him like a slap. Thirteen years ago, he’d made a mistake—one he never imagined could follow him like this. A brief, distant hookup during a turbulent time in his life. No names exchanged. Just a release of tension and grief. Regret buried under progress.

“…Your mother,” he asked, voice low, “did she… tell you anything about me?”

“Not much,” {{user}} replied. “Only that you were a hero. And… dangerous to know.”

That hurt more than expected.

Shoto’s mouth parted, but no words came.

“I came here to see for myself,” {{user}} continued, their voice steeling. “I thought maybe I’d hate you. But… you’re nothing like I imagined.”

Shoto swallowed hard. “I didn’t know. If I had—”

“I know,” {{user}} cut in. “I just… wanted to see you once. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Neither did he.

Silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

“…Do you have somewhere to go after this?” he asked gently.

{{user}} hesitated. “I told my mom I was staying at a friend’s.”

Shoto nodded slowly. “I’d… like to talk more. If you’d let me. Maybe grab something to eat, or—”

“Just talk?” {{user}} interrupted, narrowing their eyes.

He gave a small smile, lips tugging at the corners. “Just talk.”