Chapter 1: THE BLANK CANVAS OF A BROKEN HEART
"People don't look at heroes to see if they win. They look at us to see if it's still possible to try. We aren't here to solve the world's problems, honey; we're here to prove that the world is worth fighting for."
Worth fighting for.
Those were the last words of Miyuri Sheets, the woman the world worshipped as the Pro Hero: Pulp Queen.
To the public, she was a titan. A woman who could turn a handful of sawdust into a fortress. To Sherlock, she was simply "Mom"—the person he loved the most in this world.
There was a time when the Sheets household smelled of cedar and resonated with laughter. Sherlock remembered his father, Arthur Sheets, using his Molecular Glaze quirk to create shimmering, unbreakable bubbles for him to chase.
They were a family of light.
But when the skyscraper collapsed and Miyuri gave her life to hold the foundation to protect other people from dying, that light was snuffed out. Arthur buried himself in his multi-billion-yen corporation, and Sherlock retreated into a shell of apathy. He became a loner—a boy who could learn anything, but felt nothing.
In the sterile silence of the Sheets Industries lab, Sherlock practiced with a lethargy that masked his lethality. He flicked his wrist, and a deck of cards—each weighted with high-density fibers—fanned out in a perfect, rotating circle.
[QUIRK: PAPER MANIPULATION]
The Core: A sophisticated mutation. Sherlock manifests, shapes, and commands paper at will.
The Source: He can secrete a fibrous pulp through his sweat that hardens into thin sheets (Limit: 5–10 sheets).
The Buff: By applying a "Glaze," his paper becomes immune to water and as hard as tempered steel.
The Cost: Highly vulnerable to fire, electricity, and oil. Overuse causes extreme physical exhaustion.
He wasn't a genius—he just saw the patterns others missed. He was a Jack of all trades. He had mastered the cello, five languages, and advanced calculus simply because he could. But he lacked the passion to call any of it his own.
He was powerful, yes. But he was fundamentally lazy.
His only constant was the leather holster on his hip. It held his deck. Without them, he felt a raw, gnawing anxiety—a sensation of being utterly naked. In a world of fire and chaos, those fifty-two slips of glazed paper were the only things that made him feel "clothed."
The black sedan glided through Musutafu. Beside him, Arthur Sheets stared at a holographic tablet.
"The Yaoyorozu Corporation and Sheets Industries are more than partners, Sherlock," Arthur said, his voice cold. "Mr. Yaoyorozu and I built this world together. Be respectful. They know what we've lost."
Sherlock didn't answer.
He just tapped his card deck. He was only here because of pressure. He was only taking the UA exam because of a promise. To him, it was just another chore.
The Yaoyorozu Estate: A Fortress of Gold and Tradition
The black sedan slowed as it approached the massive iron gates of the Yaoyorozu estate. For Sherlock, the transition was jarring; he was moving from the sterile, chrome-and-glass world of Sheets Industries into a realm that smelled of ancient cedar, damp earth, and blooming jasmine. The estate wasn't just a home; it was a physical manifestation of a "fortress of gold and tradition".
As they stepped out of the car, the crunch of white gravel under Sherlock's expensive loafers felt like an intrusion on the silence. He looked up at the sprawling architecture—a seamless blend of traditional Japanese Edo-period aesthetics and cutting-edge modern fortification. The high walls weren't just for privacy; they were reinforced with the same industrial-grade materials his father's corporation produced.
Inside, the atmosphere changed again. The "sterile silence" of the Sheets' home was replaced by the low, melodic hum of a traditional water feature—a shishi-odoshi—clacking rhythmically in a distant courtyard. Sherlock walked past a long gallery of portraits, each one depicting a member of the Yaoyorozu lineage. They all shared the same look: eyes filled with "fierce, burning determination".
The dining hall was an exercise in overwhelming elegance. The table was a single slab of dark mahogany, polished so highly it reflected the flickering candlelight like a black mirror. As the meal began, the "contrast between the two heirs became a chasm". While Mr. Yaoyorozu beamed with a warmth that felt almost aggressive to Sherlock, the boy remained "plain," his energy flat, his presence a "masterpiece painted in shades of gray". To him, every gold-rimmed plate and perfectly placed piece of sashimi was just another layer of a "chore" he was forced to endure
The Yaoyorozu estate was a fortress of gold and tradition. As the meal began, the contrast between the two heirs became a chasm.
"So, Sherlock," Mr. Yaoyorozu beamed. "The UA Recommendation Exam is only days away. You must be vibrating with excitement."
"I'm not," Sherlock said plainly. "I'm prepared. Excitement requires energy I'd rather not spend."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "He's been training, of course."
Sherlock looked across the table at Momo Yaoyorozu. Her eyes were wide, glowing with a fierce, burning determination.
She's so... bright, Sherlock thought. She has that fire. She actually wants this. On the other hand, there was him. No ambition. No "Why."
"You don't seem to care at all, Sherlock," Momo whispered. "This is UA. Why are you acting like it's a doctor's appointment?"
"Because to me, it is," Sherlock replied. "I'm just a guy who's good at folding paper."
The Business of Potential
In the study, the adults spoke in hushed, heavy tones.
"He has Miyuri's potential," Mrs. Yaoyorozu whispered to Arthur. "If Sherlock became serious... he could be a force of nature. He could surpass his mother within a year."
Arthur took a slow sip of his drink. "I hope so," he said, his voice rasping with exhaustion. "But right now, he is a masterpiece painted in shades of gray. He has the engine, but I cannot give him the heart."
The Garden: A Dialogue of 52 Layers
The tension of the dinner eventually spilled over into the relative quiet of the living room, where Sherlock "slumped onto the velvet couch". The fabric was soft, expensive, and felt entirely too welcoming for a boy who felt "utterly naked" without the weight of his cards on his hip.
Momo sat near him, her gaze "soft" yet piercing. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was heavy with the "truth he wasn't ready to face". She didn't see the "loner" or the "boy who could learn anything but felt nothing". She saw the ghost of the child she used to play with.
"I'm lazy, Momo," he muttered, staring at his own hands as if they didn't belong to him. "I don't care about the legacy. I just want to be left alone".
Momo's "small, knowing smile" was her only response at first. She leaned back, her eyes distant as she recounted a memory from before the skyscraper fell. She spoke of the boy who would spend entire afternoons "folding paper roses just to see his mother smile". She reminded him that his mastery wasn't a burden he had picked up out of boredom, but a gift he had once used to bridge the gap between his heart and the world.
"You haven't 'changed' into someone who doesn't care, Sherlock," she whispered, her voice cutting through his apathy. "You've just hidden the part of you that does under fifty-two layers of glazed paper".
When Sherlock's "grip on his deck tightened," it wasn't just a reflex; it was a defensive move. He was a "master of hiding," and Momo had just pulled back the first layer. The world was about to "ask more of him than he was willing to give," and for the first time since the "light was snuffed out," Sherlock felt a flicker of something that wasn't apathy. Later, Sherlock slumped onto the velvet couch in the living room.
Sherlock closed his eyes. The silence was heavy with a truth he wasn't ready to face.
"Whatever you say, Momo. Just don't expect me to be your rival. I'm just there to punch a clock."
"We'll see," Momo replied. "I think the world is going to ask more of you than you're willing to give."