Ren was four years old, but his soul felt centuries older. To his mother, Naomi, he was a source of constant worry. While other children were scraping their knees on slides or obsessing over hero action figures, Ren was a ghost in his own home. He spent his mornings in his father's office, devouring books on sociology and physics, and his afternoons in the home gym, pushing his tiny, developing body to its absolute limits on the treadmill.
"Ren, sweetie, you're going to turn into a bookplate," Naomi sighed one Tuesday afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of the gym. She watched her son, whose bright red hair was damp with sweat, as he performed disciplined push-ups. "You're four. Go to the park. Get some sun. Make a friend who isn't made of paper and ink."
Ren looked up, his face set in a serious, adult-like expression. "I'm working on my cardiovascular health, Mom. It's important."
Naomi didn't argue. she simply walked over, picked him up under his arms—ignoring his protests—and carried him to the front door. "Park. One hour. Or no spicy curry for dinner."
Ren froze. He loved her curry. With a heavy sigh of defeat, he grabbed his small jacket and trudged toward the neighborhood park.
As he walked, Ren thought about his Quirk. They had discovered it three months ago in the kitchen. Naomi had been busy, and she'd asked him to keep an eye on a pot of water. Ren, lost in thought, had placed his hand against the cool metal of the pot. Within seconds, the water hadn't just simmered—it had reached a rolling boil, steam hissing violently.
He had inherited his mother's fire, but it felt different. It didn't just come from his skin; it felt like it came from his very cells.
The park was loud, filled with the shrieks of children. To Ren, it was mind-numbing. He sought out the furthest corner, a secluded grove of trees behind a large decorative rock. He sat cross-legged, closing his eyes.
Visualization, his mother had taught him. The flame starts in the mind before it reaches the hand.
Ren breathed in the scent of damp earth and grass. In his mind's eye, he saw a tiny, flickering spark. He didn't just look at it; he fed it. He imagined pulling oxygen from the surrounding air, funneling it into the spark. The red glow deepened, turning into a brilliant, concentrated crimson. He felt the heat rising in his palms. It was a slow, agonizing process of patience. He wanted to see how hot he could make it without letting the flame grow out of control.
He was deep in the "zone," the world around him fading into a hum of heat and concentration.
"STOP IT! WHY ARE YOU BEING SO MEAN, KACCHAN?"
The scream shattered Ren's focus like a hammer through glass. The heat in his palms vanished instantly. Ren snapped his eyes open, his brow furrowed in irritation. Can't a guy get some peace?
Ren stood up and followed the noise. In a clearing near the sandbox, he saw a scene that made his blood boil—and not because of his Quirk.
A small, green-haired boy with freckles stood trembling, his arms spread wide to protect another crying child cowering behind him. Facing them was a trio of boys. The leader was a spiky-haired kid with a sneer that looked permanent, his palms crackling with tiny, popping explosions.
"Move it, Deku," the spiky-haired boy—Kacchan—snarled. "Those who have Quirks make the rules. People like him, and people like you, are just losers. You're a wasteful existence. You're just a pebble in my way."
The green-haired boy, Deku, whimpered, his legs shaking so hard he looked like he might collapse. But he didn't move. "I... I won't let you hurt him!"
The trio laughed, a cruel, high-pitched sound. Kacchan raised his hands, the smoke smelling of burnt sugar. "Fine. Then I'll blast you both."
Thwack.
A rock, thrown with the surgical precision of someone who spent hours practicing coordination, struck the side of Kacchan's head. It wasn't enough to break skin, but it stung.
"What the hell!?" Kacchan spun around, clutching his ear.
Ren was standing ten feet away, tossing another rock casually in his hand. His red hair caught the sunlight, and his expression was one of pure, icy boredom. "You talk a lot for someone who's just picking on people smaller than him," Ren said, his voice calm and steady.
"Who the hell are you!?" Kacchan barked. "Get lost, extra! Or do you want to get blasted too?"
Ren stepped forward, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "My name is Ren. And I think I've had enough of your noise."
Kacchan didn't wait. He lunged forward with a roar, his right hand swinging in a wide arc, primed with an explosion. To any other four-year-old, it would have been a blur of terror.
But as Ren watched the fist come toward him, something happened. A sharp, stinging heat flared in his eyes. The world suddenly slowed down. It was as if time had turned into thick syrup.
Inside Ren's pupils, the blue irises shifted. A strange, black pattern swirled into existence—three distinct marks circling his pupil.
Suddenly, he could see everything. He saw the way Kacchan's muscles tensed before the explosion. He saw the exact trajectory of the swing. He saw the footwork of the two cronies behind him.
Ren leaned back, the explosion missing his nose by a fraction of an inch. He felt the heat on his skin, but he wasn't afraid. He stepped into Kacchan's guard, his small fist driving into the blond boy's stomach with the force of his daily training.
"Ugh!" Kacchan doubled over, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
The other two boys charged. Ren didn't even look at them directly. With his new vision, he perceived their movements in his periphery perfectly. He ducked a clumsy punch from the first boy, grabbed his arm, and used the boy's own momentum to trip him into the dirt. The second boy tried to tackle him, but Ren simply stepped to the side and shoved him toward the sandbox.
Kacchan recovered, his face red with fury. "YOU RAT! I'LL KILL YOU!" He unleashed a twin-handed explosion, a massive burst of light and sound.
Ren didn't blink. He raised his hand. Visualization. He didn't just produce a flame; he willed the fire to absorb the oxygen around Kacchan's blast. A wall of concentrated crimson fire erupted from Ren's palm, clashing with the explosions. The sheer heat of Ren's fire pushed Kacchan back, the blond boy's eyes widening in genuine shock.
Before Kacchan could stabilize, Ren was already there. He moved with a grace that shouldn't belong to a toddler. He reached out and grabbed Kacchan by the collar of his shirt, lifting him slightly.
Ren's eyes—with their strange, swirling patterns—stared directly into Kacchan's. The power behind that gaze was paralyzing.
"Listen to me, you little brat," Ren said, his voice dropping to a low, predatory hiss. "Scum like you are the reason this world is a mess. You think having a strong Quirk gives you the right to rule? You think it makes you better?"
Ren tightened his grip. "Strength isn't for bullying. Strength is for protecting those who can't stand up for themselves. If you use your power to hurt people, you aren't a hero. You're just a common villain in training. You're pathetic."
Ren shoved him backward. Kacchan hit the ground hard, his pride shattered more than his body. He looked up at Ren, for the first time in his life feeling true, cold fear.
"If I ever see you bullying anyone again," Ren said, his eyes glowing faintly as the pattern swirled, "I will make it my personal mission to make your life a living hell. Do you understand?"
Kacchan scrambled to his feet, his lip trembling. He didn't say a word. He turned and ran, his two friends following close behind like frightened dogs.
The park went silent. The little boy who had been crying had run off to find his parents. Only the green-haired boy remained, staring at Ren with wide, watery eyes.
"That... that was amazing," the boy whispered. "Your eyes... and your fire... you're so strong."
Ren felt the heat in his eyes fade. The world returned to its normal speed, and the swirling pattern disappeared, leaving his eyes a calm, deep blue again. He felt an immense wave of exhaustion wash over him.
"It's just a Quirk," Ren said, turning to leave.
"Wait!" the boy called out. "I'm Izuku Midoriya! What... what's your name?"
Ren paused, looking back over his shoulder. He saw the hero-worship in the boy's eyes, a spark of hope that hadn't been there before. He sighed. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he did need a friend.
"Ren," he said shortly. "Don't let people like him push you around, Midoriya. You stood your ground. That's more than most people do."
As Ren walked back home, his mind was racing. He had a second Quirk. Something involving his eyes—something that let him see the future of a movement before it happened. He thought about his father's history books. He had never read about a Quirk like that.
He reached his front door and saw his mother waiting. She saw his dusty clothes and the tired look in his eyes and immediately pulled him into a hug.
"Did you play?" she asked softly.
Ren buried his face in her shoulder, the smell of home grounding him. "I did, Mom. I think... I think I made a difference today."