The thing about having the mind of a teenager trapped in a toddler's body is that you notice things that other kids completely miss.
Like how Izuku's mother always packed an extra juice box in his bag, just in case he made a friend who forgot theirs. Or how Bakugo's explosions got bigger when other kids were watching, like he was performing rather than just playing. Or how the heroes on TV smiled differently when the cameras were on versus when they thought no one was looking.
I noticed everything.
It had been two weeks since that first meeting at the park, and my mother had started taking me there every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. She said it was good for me to socialize with kids my own age. I didn't tell her that most kids my age bored me to tears with their simple games and limited vocabulary.
Izuku was different, though.
"Kori! Kori, look!" He came running up to me, clutching a notebook to his chest. His eyes were bright with excitement. "I started writing down hero facts! Like you said I should!"
I'd said that? I tried to remember. Oh, right. Last week, when he'd been rambling about some hero's fighting style, I'd mentioned that writing things down helped you remember them better. Apparently, he'd taken that to heart.
"That's cool," I said, genuinely meaning it. "What kind of facts?"
He opened the notebook, and I had to suppress a laugh. The handwriting was atrocious, barely legible, and the drawings were stick figures at best. But the enthusiasm behind it was so pure it made something in my chest ache.
"See, this is All Might's smile percentage in different fights," Izuku explained, pointing at a wobbly chart. "And this is Endeavor's estimated temperature output based on his flame color. And this is..."
I listened, half-amused and half-impressed. The kid was three years old and already thinking analytically about hero work. Sure, his conclusions were sometimes wildly off base, but the foundation was there. That curious, hungry mind that wanted to understand everything.
He reminds me of me, I thought. Before I got too cool for school and started caring more about skating and parties than actually learning.
"That's really smart, Izuku," I said when he finally paused for breath. "You're going to be a great hero."
His face went red. "You really think so?"
"Yeah, you notice things, that's an important skill for a hero."
But then a shadow fell over us. I looked up to find Bakugo standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, expression somewhere between curious and annoyed.
"What're you nerds doing?" he asked.
"Izuku's showing me his hero notebook," I said evenly.
Bakugo snorted. "Hero notebook? You can't even write properly, Deku."
"I'm practicing!" Izuku protested, but his voice was small and uncertain.
"It's better than what most kids our age can do," I pointed out. "Can you write?"
Bakugo's eyes narrowed. "I can write my name."
"So can Izuku, plus a bunch of other stuff, which is pretty impressive for a three-year-old."
Bakugo looked like he wanted to argue, but couldn't find a good angle. Finally, he just grunted and plopped down next to us.
"Whatever. What're you writing about?"
And just like that, we were all looking at the notebook together. Bakugo made fun of Izuku's drawings and pointed out several errors, but he was Interested, even if he'd never admit it.
This became our routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays at the park, the three of us in our weird little triangle. Izuku, eager and analytical. Bakugo, competitive and brash. And me, watching them both with the detached curiosity of someone who'd already lived through middle school drama and teenage social hierarchies.
Except I wasn't as detached as I thought.
One month in, and I started actually looking forward to park days.
Izuku had a way of making everything interesting. He'd point out cloud formations and weave elaborate stories about sky heroes who lived up there. He'd find interesting rocks and theorize about what kind of quirks could create them. His imagination was boundless, and it was contagious.
Bakugo was harder to read. Some days he was almost friendly, showing off his explosions and letting us ask questions about how they worked. Other days, he was prickly and mean, calling Izuku "Deku" with extra venom and telling us both we'd never be real heroes.
I learned to navigate his moods. When he was showing off, I'd give him genuine compliments mixed with observations that made him think. When he was being a jerk, I'd either ignore him or redirect with a question that appealed to his ego.
"Hey Bakugo, how do you make your explosions bigger?" I asked one day when he was being particularly aggressive toward Izuku.
He paused mid-insult, turning to me. "What?"
"Your explosions. Sometimes they're huge, sometimes they're smaller. Is it just sweat production, or can you control it?"
His expression shifted from annoyed to thoughtful. "I... I think it's both? Like, if I sweat more, I get bigger booms. But I can also hold back if I want."
"That's pretty advanced control for someone who just got their quirk," I said. "Most kids can barely manage basic activation at first."
Bakugo puffed up a little. "Yeah, well, I'm not most kids."
Crisis averted. Izuku shot me a grateful look.
The thing was, I wasn't just being manipulative. I really was curious about quirks, about how they worked. Every kid who showed up at the park with a new power was a case study. I'd watch them, ask questions, take mental notes.
The girl who could make her hair float. The boy who could stick his hands to any surface. The kid who could make small objects warm to the touch.
All of it fascinated me.
But more than that, I was starting to genuinely care about these two idiots and starting to see them as real friends."
But that also scared me a little, because caring about people meant they could hurt you, disappoint you, and leave you.
Stop overthinking, I told myself. Just enjoy this.
Three months in, and my parents started noticing the changes in me.
"You seem happier," my mother said one evening while helping me into pajamas. "I'm glad you found friends."
"They're okay," I said, trying for nonchalant.
She smiled that knowing mother smile. "Just okay? You talk about them constantly. Izuku this, Bakugo that."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. Yesterday you spent ten minutes explaining Bakugo's quirk mechanics to your father."
Okay, she had me there.
"They're interesting," I admitted. "Different from other kids."
"Different how?"
I thought about it. "Izuku asks good questions, thinks about things and Bakugo... he's really determined. Even when he's being annoying, you can tell he cares a lot about getting stronger."
My mother kissed my forehead. "You're a good friend, Kori. I can tell you see the best in people."
Not always, I thought. Sometimes I see exactly what they are and just choose to stick around anyway.
At home, I'd started drawing more. My sketchbook was filling up with rough attempts at hero costumes and character designs. My fine motor control was still toddler-level terrible, but I was improving. Muscle memory from my previous life helped, even if my current hands couldn't quite execute what my brain remembered.
My father noticed the drawings one night.
"These are quite good," he said, adjusting his glasses as he flipped through the pages. "You have a real eye for design."
"Thanks, Papa."
"This one here," he pointed at a rough sketch I'd done of Izuku in a hero costume, "the support equipment is actually feasible. These compressed air shoes for mobility, the reinforced gloves. Did you come up with this yourself?"
"Kind of. I just thought about what would help someone who doesn't have a combat quirk."
He looked at me strangely. "You're three years old."
"Almost four."
"Still. Most kids your age draw stick figures. You're thinking about practical applications of support gear." He paused. "You really want to be a hero, don't you?"
"Yeah," I said. And I meant it. Not just because it was expected in this world, or because it seemed cool. But because I genuinely wanted to understand quirks, wanted to push myself, and help people. "I want to be the best hero I can be."
My father smiled. "Then we'll support you, quirk or no quirk. You know that, right?"
"I know."
But inside, I was thinking about my hair, my eyes, my pale skin. All signs of a quirk waiting to manifest. It had to be ice-related. Had to be. The universe wouldn't be cruel enough to give me this appearance and then make me quirkless.
Would it?
Five months in, and the dynamic between the three of us had solidified into something stable.
Izuku was the heart. He'd greet us both with excitement, share his snacks without being asked, and mediate when Bakugo and I got into our weird philosophical arguments about hero rankings.
Bakugo was the drive. He pushed us to be better, even if his methods were aggressive. He'd challenge us to races, to tests of courage, to competitions that had no real stakes but felt important anyway.
And I was... the observer? The voice of reason? I wasn't entirely sure what role I played, but it seemed to work.
We complemented each other in strange ways.
"I'm gonna be the number one hero," Bakugo announced one day, standing on top of the jungle gym like it was a podium. "Better than All Might, even."
"That's a big goal," I said.
"So? I've got the best quirk. I'm the strongest. It's obvious."
Izuku looked down at his hands. He still didn't have a quirk, and I could see it eating at him. The doubt creeping in with each passing month.
"Strength isn't just about quirks," I said carefully. "All Might is strong because he's smart about how he uses his power. Because he never gives up. Because he makes people feel safe just by existing."
"I can do all that," Bakugo shot back.
"Maybe. But you have to want to. Being number one just to be number one is empty. You need a reason and a purpose."
He scowled at me. "What's your reason, then? Why do you want to be a hero?"
Good question. I'd been asking myself the same thing for months.
"I want to understand everything, like how people work and how the world fits together," I said slowly, working it out as I spoke. And I want to use that understanding to help people. To make things better. That's what heroes do, right? They see problems and fix them."
Izuku was staring at me with wide eyes. "That's... that's really cool, Kori."
Bakugo just snorted, but he looked thoughtful. "Nerds. You're both total nerds."
"Says the kid who spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining the chemical composition of his sweat, which you got from a YouTube video," I shot back.
"That was for science!"
"Exactly. Nerd."
We dissolved into argument-play-fighting, and everything felt normal. Good, even.
But I was starting to notice something else. Something in myself that I couldn't quite name.
I felt... cold sometimes. Not temperature-wise but emotionally. Like part of me was watching from a distance, observing instead of feeling. It would come in flashes, usually when I was overthinking something or trying to solve a problem.
Is this a quirk thing? I wondered. Or just me being weird?
I didn't know just yet.
Seven months in, and Bakugo's attitude started shifting.
He was still competitive, still loud, and still determined to prove he was the best. But there was an edge to it now. A desperation that hadn't been there before.
It took me a while to figure out why, but it was because Izuku still didn't have a quirk.
Most kids manifest their quirk by four years old. Izuku had just turned four last month, and nothing. No signs, no indicators.
And Bakugo was starting to realize that his childhood friend might actually be quirkless.
The dynamic was shifting. Where before Bakugo had been casually mean, now he was specifically targeting Izuku's lack of quirk. Calling him useless. Telling him to give up. Pushing him away with words that cut deeper than any playground insult should.
It bothered me more than I expected.
"Why are you being such a jerk?" I asked Bakugo one day when Izuku had run off to the bathroom, clearly fighting tears.
"I'm not being a jerk. I'm being honest."
"No, you're being cruel."
His red eyes flashed. "He needs to face reality. You can't be a hero without a quirk. It's impossible."
"Says who?"
"Says everyone! Says logic! You need power to fight villains, and Deku doesn't have any!"
"He's smart. He's determined. He cares about people. That's power too."
"That's stupid," Bakugo spat. "You're just being nice because you feel sorry for him."
"I'm being his friend because he's worth being friends with," I said. "Maybe you should try it sometime instead of whatever this is."
Bakugo looked like he wanted to hit me. Or maybe cry. His emotions were all twisted up, visible in the tension of his small shoulders and the set of his jaw.
"You don't get it," he said finally. "Deku's gonna get himself killed chasing a dream that'll never happen. I'm trying to save him."
"By crushing him?"
"By making him strong enough to handle the truth!"
We stared at each other, two kids trying to process concepts way too heavy for playground discussion.
"He's stronger than you think," I said quietly. "And meaner than you're being right now won't prepare him for anything. It'll just hurt him."
Bakugo turned away. "Whatever. You'll see. When you get your quirk and I'm already way ahead, you'll understand."
He stomped off, leaving small scorch marks in the dirt.
I sat there, thinking about what he'd said. The assumption that I'd get a quirk. Everyone seemed to assume that, based on my appearance. Even my parents, who tried to be supportive of all outcomes, had a hopeful tone when they talked about my future hero training.
What if I didn't manifest? What if this weird coloring was just genetic, some recessive trait that meant nothing?
I'd still want to be a hero, I realized. Still want to help people, still want to understand this world. Maybe it'd be harder without a quirk, but I'd find a way.
The thought settled something in my chest. Made the future seem less scary.
When Izuku came back from the bathroom, eyes red but determined, I bumped his shoulder with mine.
"Want to work on your notebook?" I asked.
His face brightened. "Yeah! I saw this hero on TV yesterday who could make barriers, and I had some ideas about how the quirk might work..."
We spent the rest of the afternoon theorizing and drawing. Bakugo eventually joined us again, though he stayed pointedly silent on the quirk debate.
The tension was still there. But so was the friendship.
For now, that was enough.
Nine months in, and I started noticing the cold.
It started small. Holding ice cream and not feeling the chill. Taking a bath and preferring the water cooler to what my mother set it to. Wanting to sleep without blankets even though it was late autumn and the temperature was dropping.
"Kori, you'll catch a cold," my mother fussed, trying to tuck the blanket around me.
"I'm not cold, Mama. Actually, I'm too hot with the blanket."
She felt my forehead. "You don't have a fever..."
"I just run cold, I guess."
My parents exchanged one of their meaningful looks.
"It might be starting," my father said quietly.
My heart jumped. "My quirk?"
"Maybe. Quirks sometimes manifest gradually, especially ones that affect body temperature regulation. We should keep an eye on it."
I tried not to get too excited.
But inside, I was buzzing.
It's finally fucking happening.
The changes were subtle at first. I noticed I could see my breath on cold mornings when other kids couldn't. My hands were always cool to the touch. I stopped feeling cold entirely, even when the weather turned properly chilly.
And then, about two weeks later, something else started.
I was at the park with Izuku, waiting for Bakugo to show up. We were building a castle in the sandbox, and I reached for the bucket of water we'd been using to make the sand stick together.
The water was frozen solid.
"Whoa," Izuku breathed. "Kori, did you do that?"
I stared at the ice. The bucket had been full of liquid water five minutes ago. I'd set it down in the shade, but it wasn't cold enough to freeze that fast naturally.
"I... I don't know."
But deep down I knew.
I reached out and touched the ice, and it felt right. Like touching something that belonged to me almost recognition.
"Try to melt it!" Izuku said excitedly. "Or make more! Can you make more?"
I focused on the ice, trying to will it to do something. Melt, grow, change. Anything.
Nothing happened.
"It's probably too early," I said, hiding my disappointment. "Quirks don't fully work right away."
"But you froze the water! That's so cool! Literally!" Izuku was bouncing with excitement. "You're going to have an ice quirk! With your hair and eyes, it makes perfect sense! Oh man, think of all the things you could do! You could make ice weapons, or freeze villains, or create barriers, or..."
He kept rambling, but I was only half-listening. I was too busy staring at the frozen water, feeling something shift inside me.
This was real. I was going to have powers.
The question was: how strong would they be?
Eleven months in, and the quirk development was impossible to ignore.
I could freeze small amounts of water consistently now. Puddles, drinks, the condensation on windows. It wasn't much, but it was progress. Each time felt easier, more natural.
My parents took me to a quirk specialist, a doctor who examined me thoroughly and ran a bunch of tests.
"Cryokinesis," she announced, reading off her tablet. "Ice generation and manipulation. Fairly common quirk type, though the strength varies. We won't know his full potential for years, but the basic framework is there."
"Is it safe?" my mother asked, worrying her hands. "Will it hurt him?"
"All quirks require proper training and management," the doctor said. "But ice quirks are generally low-risk for the user. The main thing is teaching him control so he doesn't accidentally freeze something important."
She turned to me. "Kori, your quirk will grow stronger as you do. Think of it like a muscle. The more you use it properly, the stronger it gets. But you can't force it beyond your limits, or you might hurt yourself. Understand?"
I nodded. "Like training."
"Exactly like training. Start small. Practice control before you worry about power."
My father was beaming. My mother looked relieved. And I felt...
Excited. Terrified. Determined.
All of it at once.
When I told Izuku and Bakugo at the park the next day, their reactions were predictably different.
Izuku was thrilled. "Ice quirk! I knew it! Oh man, we have to figure out the best ways to use it! Can you make shapes yet? What's your temperature limit? How much can you freeze at once?"
Bakugo crossed his arms. "Took you long enough. I've had my quirk for months."
"You're also older than me," I pointed out.
"By one year. That's nothing."
"It's twenty-five percent of our lives."
He scowled. "Whatever. Let's see it then. Show us what you can do."
I looked around the park. There was a water fountain nearby, still running despite the cold weather. I walked over to it, placed my hand near the stream, and concentrated.
The water froze mid-flow, creating a crystalline arc that caught the sunlight.
"Whoa," Izuku whispered.
Bakugo's eyes widened. "That's... actually pretty cool."
Coming from him, that was high praise.
I held the freeze for a few seconds, then let go. The ice shattered, falling as snow-like fragments.
"It's not much yet," I said. "I can't freeze anything big, and I can't control it once it's frozen."
"But you will," Izuku said confidently. "You'll train and get stronger, and eventually you'll be able to freeze anything!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Deku," Bakugo said, but he was looking at me with something like respect. "He's still way behind me."
"For now," I said, matching his competitive grin. "Give me a few months."
"Bring it on, Ice Boy."
We spent the rest of the afternoon testing my quirk. I froze puddles, frost patterns on metal slides, even managed to create a thin layer of ice over a basketball. It was exhausting, and by the end I had a splitting headache, but it was also exhilarating.
This was real. I had a quirk. I could train it, strengthen it, use it to become a hero.
Everything I'd been planning for was finally starting to come together.
One year in, and everything changed.
Not with me but with Izuku.
I saw it in his eyes during our park meetups. The growing fear, the desperate hope turning to bitter resignation. He was past four now, almost four and a half, and still no sign of a quirk."
"I'm going to the doctor next week," he told me one afternoon, voice small. "For the quirk assessment."
I knew what that meant. The doctor would look at his X-rays, at his toe joints, and deliver the verdict, Quirkless.
"Whatever happens," I said carefully, "you're still you. Still smart, still determined. Still going to be a hero if that's what you want."
"How?" The word came out broken. "How can I be a hero without a quirk?"
I wanted to tell him about support gear, about intelligence and strategy, about all the ways someone could make a difference without superhuman abilities. But he wasn't ready to hear it. Right now, he was just a four-year-old kid watching his dream slip away.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know you'll find a way. You're too stubborn not to."
He tried to smile. Failed.
Bakugo was getting worse too. The meaner Izuku's situation looked, the more aggressive Bakugo became. Like he was trying to push Izuku away before the inevitable happened. Before their friendship became a liability, something people would mock Bakugo for maintaining.
It made me angry in a way I couldn't fully articulate. This world that judged people by their quirks, that crushed kids like Izuku before they even had a chance to try.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
My own training was progressing steadily. I could freeze water consistently, create small ice constructs like crude knives and shields, and even coat my hands in ice for a few seconds before getting a headache. My parents enrolled me in gymnastics to help with coordination, and I threw myself into it with the focus of someone who knew exactly how important physical conditioning would be.
Every night, I'd practice in the bathroom. Freeze the water in the sink, melt it, freeze it again. Build control, build endurance, push my limits incrementally.
I was getting stronger.
But watching Izuku struggle made all my progress feel hollow.
The day before Izuku's doctor appointment, the three of us met at the park one last time.
The atmosphere was heavy. We all knew what was coming, even if no one said it out loud.
Bakugo was aggressively silent, setting off small explosions in his palms and refusing to look at Izuku. Izuku was trying too hard to be cheerful, his smile brittle and fake. And I was watching them both, feeling that cold part of my brain categorizing their behaviors while the emotional part just hurt for them.
"Want to practice quirks?" I offered, trying to ease the tension.
Izuku flinched. "I... I should probably go home. Help my mom with dinner."
"Deku..."
"It's fine!" His voice cracked. "I'll see you guys later, okay?"
He ran off before either of us could stop him.
Bakugo and I sat in silence for a long moment.
"This sucks," I said finally.
"Yeah."
"You could be nicer to him."
"What's the point?" Bakugo's hands clenched into fists. "He's gonna give up anyway. Once it's official. Once everyone knows he's quirkless."
"Maybe. Or maybe he'll surprise you."
"There's no surprising anyone without a quirk. That's reality."
I looked at him, past the aggression and the pride, and saw the fear underneath. Fear of being left behind, fear of his friend getting hurt, fear of admitting that someone he cared about might actually be broken in a way Bakugo couldn't fix.
"Reality can change," I said quietly. "People can surprise you. Even quirkless people."
He didn't answer. Just set off another explosion and stared at the smoke.
I went home that night feeling unsettled and Restless. Like something was building inside me, pressure that needed release.
My parents were in the living room watching Hero News. Another villain attack, another hero victory. The same cycle, over and over.
"Kori?" My mother noticed me standing in the doorway. "Everything alright?"
"Can I practice my quirk in the backyard?"
My father muted the TV. "It's late. And cold."
"I don't feel the cold anymore. Please? I need to... I need to move."
They exchanged a look, then my father nodded. "Thirty minutes. Then bed."
I went to the small backyard, barefoot in the grass, and let myself feel everything I'd been holding in.
The frustration. The anger at this world's unfairness. The sadness for Izuku. The confusion about my own place in all of this.
I reached out with my quirk, and for the first time, I didn't carefully control it.
I just let go.
Ice exploded from my hands, coating the grass in a thick layer of frost. It spread in a circle around me, crystalline and sharp and beautiful. I made shapes without thinking, spires and walls, and sculptures of frozen water pulled from the air itself.
It was messy and uncontrolled, but at the same time beautiful. Some of it was jagged and some smooth, some tall and some squat. But it was mine. Pure expression of what I was feeling, translated into ice.
When I finally stopped, breathing hard and head pounding, I'd created a small frozen garden. Glittering in the light from the house.
My father was standing at the back door, eyes wide behind his glasses.
"Kori," he said slowly. "That was..."
"I know. Too much. Sorry."
"No. That was incredible." He came closer, examining the ice structures. "Your control is still rough, but the raw power... you're much stronger than we thought. Much stronger than the doctor projected."
I looked at what I'd created. At the physical manifestation of my feelings, frozen and preserved in crystalline form.
"It felt good," I admitted. "Letting it out like that."
"Emotions and quirks are connected, from what I've heard," my father said. "Especially at the beginning. You'll learn to separate them as you train, to use your quirk regardless of how you feel. But for now... this is normal. This is part of growing."
He put a hand on my shoulder. "You're going to be incredibly powerful someday, Kori. But power without control is dangerous. Promise me you'll train carefully. That you'll learn to master this before you try to use it in the field."
"I promise, Papa."