You grew up learning silence before words. The house was large, expensive, always warm—too warm. The walls carried a faint orange glow at night, light bending unnaturally when your mother’s mood shifted. Heat lived here, not just in temperature, but in presence. It pressed against your skin even when no one was speaking. Your father tried to soften it. He was the kind of man who walked quietly, not because he was afraid, but because he believed gentleness could balance force. His voice was low, careful. His hands were always steady. When he held you, the world slowed—breathing evened out, shoulders relaxed, thoughts stopped racing. Your mother never slowed. Teka Todoroki moved like a controlled wildfire. Beautiful. Precise. Dangerous. Every room adjusted itself around her. When she entered, the air thickened, like it was waiting for something to ignite. She loved you, but her love was sharp, demanding, possessive. You were not just her child—you were proof. Legacy. Potential. She watched you closely. Too closely.

When your quirk manifested, it wasn’t loud. There was no explosion, no dramatic flare. Just a moment—small hands trembling, the air around you warping slightly. It waited. Dense. Pressurized. Alive.

Your mother smiled. Your father froze.

From that day on, everything changed. Training started early. Not harsh at first—structured, calculated. Teka insisted it was “guidance.” She corrected your stance, your breathing, your focus. Her hands hovered near you, never quite touching unless necessary. Every mistake felt heavier than it should’ve been, not because she yelled—but because she expected better.

Your father tried to intervene. He suggested rest. Childhood. Balance. Arguments followed. They never screamed. That was the worst part. The tension stayed contained, like magma under stone. Conversations ended abruptly. Doors closed softly. The house grew quieter, hotter. At night, you’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the hum under your skin—your quirk reacting to emotions you didn’t fully understand yet. Fear made it unstable. Stress made it pulse. Your father would sit by your bed sometimes, just to make sure you slept. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to. Your mother stood in the doorway.

Watching.

You learned early how to read moods. The way her footsteps sounded. The temperature shifts. The silence before praise—or disappointment. You learned how to perform. How to control. How to hide the parts of yourself that felt too soft, too unsure.

And you adored your father in a way that hurt. Then came the day everything broke. It wasn’t dramatic. No explosion. No final argument. Just an accident—something small, miscalculated, unnoticed until it was too late. Heat where there shouldn’t have been heat. A moment of instability. A second too slow.

After that, the house felt empty in a new way. Your mother didn’t cry. She became sharper. Colder. Focused. The training intensified. Expectations rose. Failure was no longer tolerated—not because she was angry, but because she believed weakness was what took him away.

You absorbed that belief. You grew quieter. Stronger. More controlled. Your quirk matured fast, responding not just to heat, but pressure, emotion, restraint. Lava that didn’t spill unless you allowed it to.

Sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the walls glowed faintly, you’d swear you could still feel your father’s presence—like a steady hand on your shoulder, reminding you to breathe.

Your mother never spoke his name again.

You carried it alone.