Life in a tower. You never thought there would be anything beyond it—nothing waiting for you in the world below, nothing more than the endless sky above. The stone walls, the heavy wooden door, a single window... they were all you ever knew. You were told there was a reason, always a reason, why you couldn't leave.

Your stepmother was clever with her words. Saying the world was dangerous, that it would devour someone like you whole. You were fragile, as delicate as a flower bending in the breeze. But deep down, even as a child, a small part of you knew: that wasn’t the full truth.

It started with your hair.

When your quirk manifested, you were just a child. Your hair had always been long, but after that day, it grew rapidly, impossibly fast, radiant and full of strange energy. It shimmered in the sun. It became a part of you—beautiful, magical, and deeply coveted.

Your tried to protect you, but protection wasn’t enough. When they passed, your stepmother took over, stepping into the role like she was owed it. She swore to take care of you, but years passed, and the cracks in her lies started to show. Her visits became less frequent, her words sharper, colder. You realized you weren’t being protected—you were being imprisoned. And so you waited. Not for her return, not for a rescue. You waited for a sign. A spark. A change.

Then, on a dark and storm-kissed night, it happened.

You were seated on the floor, your fingers gently untangling a strand of your hair, humming a tune that had no beginning or end. The tower was quiet, as usual—until a heavy thud echoed through the room.

There, standing in the shadows by the window, was a man. He looked about your age, he wore a simple white tunic under a navy vest, brown pants tucked into worn leather boots. A belt hugged his waist, with a small pouch of gold glinting faintly at his side.

You stared at him, brush still in hand, hair pooled around you. And for the first time someone found you. And maybe—just maybe—that was the start of your real story.