The next day, I went to work feeling a bit on edge. I hadn't slept, my mind keeping me awake, constantly replaying the events of the previous day. I felt anxious, a looming cloud following me wherever I dared to go, crushing my lungs painfully, fear and worry raining down on me. No matter what I tried, I just couldn't shake this terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen.
I went on with the day, dazed and disorganized, making countless small mistakes. It caught the attention of my boss, who appeared rather worried. He didn't say anything, but I noticed him looking my way multiple times, wearing a watchful expression, as though he was observing me.
Amidst the casual chatter over lunch, my colleagues and I delved into our favorite off-work activities, painting a vibrant picture of our shared interests. Yet, in an unexpected twist, the conversation veered abruptly, as if swerving off a winding road, plunging us into an unforeseen topic. The air shifted, the mood transforming in an instant, casting an unforeseen shadow over our previously light-hearted banter.
"Did any of you hear what happened? Yesterday, a hero was attacked once more, this time just a few blocks away from here," colleague one began, others listening intently, their curiosity now sparked. "The crazy thing is that he came out completely unharmed despite receiving fatal injuries... or so he says."
The mood felt staggering, this piece of information catching those listening off guard. The silence that followed, lasting mere seconds, felt interminable. I knew the incident would eventually be reported, yet the words spoken sent shivers of fear down my spine.
"Did he manage to get to the hospital in time?" colleague two asked intrigued expecting colleague one to continue.
"That's the thing! When he went to the hospital they couldn't find any signs of previous injuries. Apparently he claims that as he was about to die another person appeared out of nowhere and healed him leaving just as suddenly as they came."
"So is he lying?" colleague three joined in.
Colleague one paused for a while, pondering the question before speaking once more. "It's hard to say because his hero uniform showed clear signs of physical damage and had large blood stains covering huge portions of it. These stains were tested and proven to be his blood. And yet, his body didn't appear to have been injured in any way. Strange, isn't it?"
"Is that even possible? I mean, there aren't many people with healing quirks, and besides, don't their treatments often leave scars anyway?" Colleague two asked, seemingly puzzled.
This conversation had become increasingly unsettling, urging me to depart, yet I hesitated, wary of being perceived as rude or suspicious. I lingered silently, eavesdropping on their discussion about the incident, my fingers idly twisting a lock of my hair. Just as the discomfort peaked, a deep voice pierced the air from behind us, jolting me from the tense atmosphere.
"It is possible, though most believe it to be a myth," our boss commented as he walked past our table, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, having overheard our discussion.
It was clear that his comment only heightened my colleagues' curiosity. They beamed with interest, their eyes pleading for more information, prompting Sir Nighteye to continue.
"It is believed that there exists a quirk where a person's blood possesses incredible healing abilities, capable of erasing any injury without a trace. However, I cannot confirm its authenticity, as there are few documented cases of such quirks ever existing," he explained, leaning against the sturdy countertop, his expression held still like it normally was.
"Isn't that incredible!? If hospitals could acquire such blood, they could save so many more people!" Colleague three exclaimed enthusiastically, others nodding their heads in agreement.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the room, the passionate discussion dissipating into silence as every gaze locked onto me. My panicked expression seemed to command their attention, freezing the conversation mid-flow. The weight of their collective stares bore down on me, an unexpected spotlight in the midst of our discussion.
I felt frozen in place upon hearing my quirk being mentioned directly, a million thoughts racing through my head. I wondered if people knew about it and whether they would attempt to track me down. Had the injured hero recognized me? Were there any witnesses to what had happened? Had I made a mistake, and if so, what was I meant to do? With each question, each word, each letter, my anxiety escalated, until a deep, comforting voice pulled me out from this bottomless spiral.
"Y/N, are you alright? You seem distressed." Sir Nighteye's voice spoke softly, his expression concerned yet stern.
"Y-Yeah, I'm alright... I just remembered I had a very important phone call I had to make, so if you'll excuse me," I blurted out, now snapped back into reality. I gave a quick apologetic bow before heading out of the break room, leaving my untouched lunch behind. All eyes followed me all the way to the door and beyond.
I rushed over to one of the bathrooms on our floor, clutching my head, my emotions getting the best of me. I couldn't believe that I had broken my perfect facade of twenty years, revealing such obvious and suspicious emotions in front of those who weren't family.
I splashed my face with cold water, going through the steps to calm myself down. I tried to counter my negative thoughts, reassuring myself that everything was going to be okay. I reminded myself that I had been careful and that there was no reason for anyone to suspect me or my quirk.
After taking a moment to collect myself, I emerged from the bathroom, a renewed sense of composure guiding my steps back to the office. With a newfound determination, I reentered the workspace, ready to tackle the pending tasks and restore the order of my day.
Thankfully, the rest of the workday went on without any troubling incidents. I kept myself busy, focusing on the towering paperwork I had to complete, and by the time evening came, I had already forgotten the little slip-up I had during lunch.
As I strolled home, the city seemed to exhale, releasing the tension held under the earlier clouds. The buildings framed a breathtaking canvas as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the streets. The golden hues danced on the pavement, creating a warm, serene atmosphere. A gentle breeze carried whispers of the day's end, adding a soothing soundtrack to the picturesque scene. It was a moment of quiet beauty, a brief respite from the bustling urban rhythm.
As I continued my journey, the weight of yesterday's burdens gradually lifted, dissipating into the fading sunlight. The city, now wrapped in the soft hues of the evening, seemed to offer a momentary reprieve. However, as I approached the familiar lonely alleyways, a subtle tension returned. The comforting sense of peace waned with each step, replaced by a growing unease. Shadows deepened, and the air held a quiet anticipation, whispering secrets known only to the narrow passages. It was a bittersweet transition, a dance between fleeting serenity and the looming apprehension of the last, dreaded alleyway.
As I walked past, I glanced over at the now empty lane, breathing a sigh of relief. The scene had been taped off and cleaned, with only a single rain puddle remaining near its entrance.
I shook my head, not letting my thoughts wander, and resumed my peaceful walk home.
As I rounded the corner and leisurely made my way down the familiar street, my mind drifted to the comforting thoughts of a satisfying dinner and the embrace of my cozy bed awaiting me at home. Abruptly, a jolt of surprise coursed through me as unseen hands seized me from behind, muffling any outcry with a sudden cloth pressed firmly against my mouth.
On instinct, I drew upon the self-defense skills I had learned as a teen and managed to break free, delivering a striking blow to the attacker's gut. However, a sense of panic began to build in my chest as the stark reality of the situation started to settle in.
After breaking free, I whirled around to confront my assailant, only to find myself facing not one, but a cluster of shadowy figures. They encircled me - a trio of foreboding individuals cloaked in eerie beak-shaped masks. Their penetrating stares bore into me, intensifying the ominous air that surrounded us.
I had no clue who these men were or what intentions they carried. The sole certainty I held was the urgent need to escape - no other options were viable.
My quirk wasn't of the fighting type. As a teenager, my mom enrolled me in a self-defense program designed for quirkless individuals. The program taught various techniques to defend against people with different kinds of quirks, providing coaching in martial arts styles and weaponry of choice. Although my mom wasn't thrilled about me delving into such activities, she recognized it was for my own good. She knew that one day, these skills might be my only way out of danger - danger just like the situation I now faced.
"That hurt, you little shit!" the man I had elbowed spoke, now approaching in a more aggressive manner.
I braced myself, prepared to stand my ground for as long as necessary, no matter what was about to come my way.
In a whirlwind of chaos, the assault endured for what felt like an eternity - perhaps a mere five minutes in reality - until a rush of unexpected resolve surged within me. With striking accuracy, I managed to incapacitate these enigmatic assailants, striking their pressure points with calculated precision. It appeared they had underestimated me, assuming my vulnerability and choosing not to deploy their quirks. Regardless of their intentions, I harbored no desire to linger and uncover their motives, swiftly choosing to vanish from the scene.
Reeling from the unsettling encounter, I hastened my pace homeward, every nerve on edge. My senses heightened, I scanned my surroundings, hyper-aware and vigilant, ensuring no lingering threat trailed behind. Each step carried a weight of unease, the shadows playing tricks on my wary mind as I navigated the streets, every turn fraught with an underlying tension.
After arriving home, I hurriedly secured every possible opening, the suppressed anxiety finally catching up to me. Collapsing onto the floor, I breathed heavily, attempting to piece together everything that had just happened.
I was confused and borderline terrified, my mind working overtime, dissecting every little detail, leaving me with far more questions than answers. Who were those men? What did they want from me? Was it a targeted attack, or merely a wrong-place-wrong-time situation?
I contemplated whether to report or mention the incident at work, my head spinning with thoughts. Exhausted from the day's tumultuous events, I eventually succumbed to sleep, passing out where I sat. I spent the night on the floor, right beside my bed, blissfully unaware of the grave dangers I had unknowingly become entangled in.