The error was in the definition.
In the beginning, Kaito Arisaka believed his Quirk was "Reality Editing."
He believed the ability to turn 2D concepts into 3D objects—the Snap—was the core of his existence.
He was wrong.
It started small.
For instance. He woke up knowing how to strip and reassemble a Glock 19 blindfolded. He had never held a gun in his life.
Why? Because a thread on a fan forum went viral debating Hero X's marksmanship.
Another. The languages. He found himself ordering coffee in fluent Greek or he cursed at a stubbed toe in Russian.
Why? Because the international fans believed Hero X was a polyglot. They believed he belonged to everyone.
Another instance. Rocket Engineering. He looked at a broken toaster and didn't see coils.
He saw the schematics for a V2 rocket engine.
Kaito just knew things and mastered them.
From different fields of study to practical applications in real life.
It wasn't biology. It wasn't genetics. It was a feedback loop.
In this world, Quirks are muscles. They break. They tear. They grow.
But Kaito didn't have a muscle. He had an antenna.
His power wasn't "Reality Manipulation." That was just a side benefit.
His true Quirk was Public Belief and Trust. The "Hero X" entity wasn't just a costume; it was a container.
Whatever the world believed Hero X could do, Kaito could do.
If the public believed Hero X was invincible, Kaito's skin became steel. If they believed he was faster than light, Kaito broke physics.
The 2D-3D manipulation was simply manifested from the self-belief Kaito had when the Musutafu/Ashita fire distaster happened. Fueled by the people he saved back then, the Snap, manifested.
Kaito wasn't a god. He was a mirror. He reflected their desperation back at them.
And right now?
--------
Location: Unit 203 – 12:20 AM
CLANG.
The heavy steel deadbolts slammed home.
The sound severed the world in two.
Outside, the hallway was a screaming echo chamber of panic, sewage, and the distant, wet thud of riot police boots.
Inside, the air was dead silent. It was pressurized.
It smelled of cold lemon and the faint, stinging scent of the high-end ionic air purifier.
Kaito Arisaka stood with his back to the door.
He didn't move. He stared at the white polymer flooring.
Mud. Black, oily street sludge.
It trailed from the threshold, smeared by three pairs of boots.
Kaito adjusted his cuffs.
He didn't close his eyes.
He didn't meditate. He simply shifted his weight to the left.
One second, he was a landlord annoyed by a disturbance.
The next, he was the sum total of human medical knowledge. It didn't feel like an intrusion. It felt like remembering a language he had spoken since birth.
The anatomy of the human chest cavity wasn't data.
It was a map.
He knew the terrain. He knew the shortcuts. He knew where the mines were buried.
He turned around.
Koichi Haimawari was on his knees. He was vibrating.
A wet, shuddering against the floorboards. He was staring at Knuckleduster's gray, waxy face.
Pop Step—Kazuho Haneyama—was huddled against the doorframe. She was hugging her knees.
Her pink idol costume was torn at the shoulder. Her face was streaked with soot and mascara.
She wasn't crying. She was hyperventilating. Short, jagged gasps that sounded like a dying engine.
"He... he stopped making the noise," Koichi choked out. "Master... why isn't he making the noise?"
"Because his lung collapsed," Kaito said.
His voice was calm.
He walked past them. He untied the belt of his silk robe. He let it drop into a puddle of muddy water Koichi had dragged in.
Underneath, he wore a white undershirt and charcoal trousers. He rolled up his sleeves.
One fold. Two folds. Precise.
"Table," Kaito said.
He pointed to the center of the room. The brushed-steel kitchen island.
"Put him on it."
"It's... it's a kitchen counter," Makoto stammered. She was clutching her phone like a shield. Her knuckles were white.
"It is a flat, non-porous stainless steel surface," Kaito corrected. He walked to the wall cabinet.
"Lift him. Unless you want him dead in three minutes."
Koichi scrambled up. His wet shoes squeaked.
SQUEAK.
He grabbed Knuckleduster under the arms. The old man was dead weight. A sack of wet cement.
"Pop," Koichi gasped. "Help me."
Pop Step froze. She stared at the blood soaking through the trench coat.
"Move," Kaito commanded her.
Pop flinched. The command bypassed her panic. She scrambled forward, grabbing Knuckleduster's heavy leather boots.
"One, Two, Three!"
They lifted him.
THUD.
They slammed the dying vigilante onto the steel. Blood immediately began to pool, running into the small drainage grooves meant for vegetable juice. It dripped off the edge.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Kaito didn't blink. He opened the "Aegis" cabinet.
He grabbed the sealed trauma kit. He tore the heavy plastic with his teeth.
RRRIP.
He dumped the contents onto a side tray.
Scalpels. Clamps. A manual suction bulb. A packet of synthetic sutures.
He picked up the scalpel. It was a disposable #10 blade. Cheap plastic handle. Orange safety cap.
'Unbalanced. Blade edge is serrated at the microscopic level. Cheap manufacturing. No weight in the grip.'
Kaito spun it in his fingers.
He adjusted his hold, choking up on the plastic to compensate for the poor weight distribution.
It would do. It had to do.
Kaito grabbed a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He poured it over his hands.
The smell hit the room. Sharp. Chemical. It cut through the smell of copper and wet wool.
He rubbed his hands together, the friction generating heat. He didn't dry them. The alcohol evaporated in seconds.
Kaito turned to the table.
Knuckleduster was blue. His chest was still. The veins in his neck were distended, bulging like ropes against the gray skin.
"Koichi. Hold his left arm. Do not let him twitch."
Koichi nodded, tears streaming down his face. He grabbed the thick, scarred arm with both hands.
"Pop Step," Kaito said.
She jumped. She was shaking.
"Grab the ankles. Pin them to the table. If he kicks, I slice the aorta."
Pop nodded frantically. She grabbed the heavy boots. She leaned her entire weight onto his legs.
"Makoto. Light."
Kaito pointed to the LED work lamp clamped to the shelf.
"Me?" She whispered.
"Aim the light," Kaito said. He didn't look at her. He tested the edge of the scalpel against his thumb nail. "Or leave. And explain to the police why you let him die."
She bit her lip. Blood welled up. She grabbed the lamp arm. She aimed the beam.
The white light hit the chest. It was blinding. It highlighted every tear in the coat, every speck of grime on the skin.
Kaito grabbed the trauma shears.
SNIP. SNIP. RRRRIP.
He cut the trench coat. The thick Kevlar weave resisted for a second, then gave way with a tearing sound. He cut the shirt. He stripped the old man to the waist.
The wound was ugly.
A bubbling hole under the left collarbone. It wasn't bleeding out; it was bubbling. Dark, frothy blood hissed out with every tiny spasm of the chest muscles.
'Tension Pneumothorax. Mediastinal shift. The air is trapped in the pleural space. It's pushing the heart to the right. It's crushing the vena cava.'
Kaito moved.
He didn't hesitate. He grabbed a 14-gauge decompression needle. It was long. Thick.
He didn't measure. He didn't feel for the rib.
Kaito saw the second intercostal space. He saw the gap between the bones.
He stabbed.
THUNK.
Straight through the muscle. Straight through the pleura.
HIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
The sound was violent. Like a semi-truck brake line snapping. A jet of trapped air shot out of the catheter, spraying a fine red mist onto Kaito's white shirt.
Kaito didn't blink. He watched the chest.
The pressure released. The heart, freed from the vice, gave a violent, shuddering thump.
B-DUMP.
"He's breathing!" Koichi sobbed. "Oh god, he's breathing!"
"He's bleeding," Kaito noted. He tossed the needle into the trash. "That was the pressure release. Now comes the plumbing. The bullet is shattered inside. If I don't close the artery, he bleeds out in four minutes."
He picked up the cheap scalpel.
"Shine the light here." Kaito tapped the sternum.
Makoto's hand shook. The light danced across the gray skin.
"Steady," Kaito hissed.
He lowered the blade.
SLASH.
One motion.
He opened the chest cavity between the fourth and fifth ribs. The skin parted like wet silk. The layer of yellow fat. The red muscle.
Blood welled up instantly. Dark. Thick. It flooded the incision.
"Suction," Kaito ordered.
He shoved the manual bulb into Makoto's free hand. "Squeeze. Put the tip in the blood. Squeeze."
Makoto stared at the blood. She looked green.
"DO IT!" Kaito roared.
She flinched. She jammed the tip into the wound. She squeezed.
SQUELCH. SQUELCH.
The bulb hissed. It sucked the blood into a clear plastic canister. The sound was wet.
Gurgling.
Kaito reached in.
He didn't use a retractor. He didn't have one. He used his fingers. He pulled the ribs apart.
CRACK.
The cartilage popped.
He shoved his hand into the chest cavity.
To Koichi, it looked like a horror movie. To Kaito, it was an engine repair. He felt the heat. The slippery resistance of the organs. He felt the jagged edge of the rib. He felt the frantic, fluttering pulse of the aorta.
'Disgusting. Human interiors are a mess'
-----
He pushed past the lung. It was deflated. A soggy, purple sponge.
He found it. The bone-bullet.
It had shattered.
Three pieces were lodged in the upper lobe of the lung. Jagged shrapnel.
But a fourth piece—a shard sharp as glass—was resting against the pericardium. The sac around the heart.
Every time the heart beat, it scraped against the shard.
SCRAPE.
SCRAPE.
'Damn it. The angle is garbage. The rib is blocking the approach vector. I can't open the jaws of the clamp without tearing the artery.'
Kaito stopped. His hand was deep inside the chest of a dying man, clutching a long curved hemostat.
Koichi was watching him. Pop Step was watching him.
Their eyes were wide, terrified saucers. They were waiting for a miracle.
Kaito didn't believe in miracles. He believed in grip.
He pushed the tool as far as it would go. The metal tip hit the underside of the rib. Stopped cold. He was two centimeters short.
'I'm not breaking the rib. I'm not losing the patient to shock just because of bad placement.'
Kaito visualized the shard. He just wanted the damn thing in the clamp.
'Object Location: Pericardium. Target Location: Clamp.'
His finger twitched on the handle.
SNAP.
Silent. Internal.
The shard didn't melt. It didn't vaporize. It just skipped the two centimeters of empty space.
One millisecond it was scraping the heart. The next, it was wedged firmly between the serrated steel jaws of the tool.
Kaito squeezed the handle.
CLICK.
The locking mechanism engaged.
He pulled his hand out slowly. The metal tool slid free of the chest cavity.
Clamped in the tip, dripping with dark blood, was the jagged white shard of bone.
Kaito held it up to the light. He looked at the impossible piece of debris he had just extracted through a solid bone wall.
"Got you," he muttered.
He dropped the shard into the metal tray.
CLINK.
Koichi blinked. He heard the sound. Metal hitting metal. He saw bullet-like bone in the tray with blood.
"You... you got it?" Koichi whispered.
"I don't miss."
Kaito grabbed the needle driver.
"Lung is perforated. Three lacerations," Kaito said. He watched the rhythm of the chest. "I have to stitch it while it moves. If I stop the lung, he dies."
He held the needle. A small, curved piece of silver.
"Pop Step," Kaito said.
"Y-yes?"
"Don't vomit on the floor. If you feel sick, swallow it."
She nodded, turning pale. She gripped the ankles tighter.
Kaito focused.
Inhale. Exhale. Pause.
'0.4 seconds of stillness.'
Kaito moved.
ZIP. LOOP. TIE.
His hands were a blur.
Kaito wasn't sewing. He was weaving.
The needle flashed under the LED light like a spark. He caught the tearing tissue of the lung on the inhale. He pulled the suture tight on the exhale.
Inhale. ZIP.
Exhale. TIE.
Makoto stared. Her mouth hung open.
She had filmed surgeries for a documentary once. The surgeons were slow. Deliberate. They communicated in hushed tones.
This was violent efficiency.
Kaito was attacking the wound. He was forcing the flesh to obey him. He tied knots with one hand, using his pinky to tension the thread, faster than she could track.
"Cut," Kaito barked.
Koichi froze. He was staring at the needle.
"SCISSORS!" Kaito shouted.
Koichi jumped. He grabbed the scissors. He snipped the thread.
Kaito didn't stop. He moved to the second tear.
ZIP. LOOP. TIE.
"Cut."
SNIP.
Third tear.
ZIP. LOOP. TIE.
"Cut."
SNIP.
Kaito threw the driver onto the tray.
CLATTER.
He grabbed a gauze sponge. He shoved it into the chest cavity. He pressed it against the suture line.
"Wait," Kaito said.
The room froze.
The only sound was the monitor beep.
BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Kaito lifted the sponge.
He looked at it.
Dry.
"Hemostasis achieved," Kaito noted. His voice was bored. "The leak is sealed."
He checked the monitor. The oxygen saturation was climbing. 85%. 88%. 90%.
"Closing," Kaito said.
He grabbed the skin stapler? No. Too messy. Scarring would be ugly.
He grabbed the nylon suture again.
"Koichi. Let go of the arm. Hold the skin edges together. Here and here."
Koichi released the arm. His hands were shaking. He pinched the skin of the chest wound.
Kaito moved.
ZIP. ZIP. ZIP.
The jagged, ugly hole vanished. A neat, black line of sutures replaced it. Straight. Even spacing.
Tension was perfect.
It looked like it had been done by a machine in a factory.
Kaito tied the final knot. He snapped the thread with his own fingers.
He stepped back.
He took a deep breath. The air in the room felt thin.
Knuckleduster took a breath.
A deep, real breath.
HAAAAAA....
His chest rose. It fell. No hiss. No suck. Just air filling lungs.
The gray color in his face was fading, replaced by a faint, bruised pink.
Kaito looked at his hands.
They were red. Sticky. The blood had dried in the creases of his knuckles. It coated his wrists.
He felt the sweat running down his spine, soaking his shirt.
He flexed his fingers.
No shake. No tremor. Just the feeling of drying fluids tightening the skin.
He grimaced at his hands.
"Messy," Kaito muttered.
He walked to the sink. He kicked the faucet handle with his elbow. The water ran cold. He shoved his hands under the stream.
SCRUB. SCRUB.
The water turned pink. It swirled down the drain.
"He... he's alive," Koichi whispered. He let go of the skin. He slumped against the kitchen island, his legs giving out. He slid down to the floor, burying his face in his hands. "Oh god. Master. He's alive."
Pop Step let go of the ankles. She staggered back.
She hit the wall and slid down it, pulling her knees to her chest. She buried her face in her arms.
She didn't make a sound, but her shoulders were shaking.
Makoto didn't move. She was still holding the suction bulb. The canister was half-full of dark blood.
She looked at the sleeping face of the old man. Then she looked at Kaito's back.
She saw the tension in his shoulders. Not from effort.
From disgust. He was scrubbing his skin raw, like he was trying to wash off the concept of the last twenty minutes.
"You..." Makoto started. Her voice cracked.
"Who are you?"
Kaito turned off the water.
SQUEAK.
He grabbed a white towel. He dried his hands. Methodical. Finger by finger. The towel turned pink in spots.
He turned.
"I am the tenant of Unit 203," Kaito said. He threw the towel into the hamper. "I just know things more than others. Just so-so"
"Huh!?" Makoto can't simply process what was happening.
He walked to the coffee machine. It was a chrome Italian espresso maker. He pressed a button.
WHIRRRRR.
The grinder roared. The smell of fresh coffee began to fill the room, fighting the metallic tang of the blood.
"He is stable," Kaito said, watching the black liquid pour into a ceramic cup. "The lung will reinflate fully in six hours. The ribs will knit in three weeks. He needs hydration and antibiotics. I have both."
He took the cup. He blew on the steam.
Kaito looked at Koichi, crying on the floor. He looked at Pop Step, shivering against the wall.
"Stop making that noise," Kaito said.
Koichi looked up. His face was a mess of snot and grime. "What?"
"The crying," Kaito said.
Koichi blinked. He wiped his face on his dirty sleeve. "Thank you. Arisaka-san. Thank you. I... I don't know how to repay you."
Kaito took a sip of his coffee. He grimaced.
'Bitter.'
"You can repay me by cleaning this up," Kaito said.
He pointed a finger.
He pointed at the bloody tray. He pointed at the slashed trench coat on the floor. He pointed at the red droplets smeared near the door.
"You have thirty minutes," Kaito said. "If I find a single drop of type-O negative on my floor when I finish this cup, I am evicting him. And I am billing you for the cleaning supplies and the surgery"
He walked toward his leather armchair. He sat down. He picked up his tablet.
Then.
"Did you know what you did? An unlicensed guy performed incredible life-threatening surgery with limited equipment and saved a critically injured person in just 20 minutes!?" Makoto Tsukauchi recovered from her stupor with a look of disbelief.
Kaito didn't reply. He scrolled through the news feed. The screen reflected in his eyes.
The fortress was secure and the patient was breathing.
Except the floor that was filthy.
~~~~~~~~~
[A/n; I remembered the Funky Town of Mexico and 2025 Vietnam Butcher Case while creating this chapter. I can't eat red colored foods today.
PS. DON'T EVER watch and search for the videos. I deeply regret it myself. Curse to my friends who shared it to me.]
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