The days following the museum trip were a feverish blur of anxiety for Reiji Kinzoku. The facade of normality he presented to Bakugo and the others at the museum was a thin shell over an internal turmoil. His body seemed to vibrate with an unknown energy, cold and potent, but also unstable. His senses were on high alert, the world an assault of details – the smell of chalk dust in the classroom air, the distant creak of a pipe in the group home, the annoyingly loud beating of the hearts around him.
He avoided mirrors, fearing what he might see. He avoided physical contact, not only scared of the strength he felt latent within him but also of the lack of control over it. Small muscle spasms, a sensation of pent-up energy wanting release. And, above all, he was haunted by the memory of the stone mask hidden under a dusty cloth in the museum. That object was the key, the source of the terrible and fascinating change that gripped him. He needed to retrieve it.
The opportunity arose a few days later, a Saturday. Pretending interest in an exhibit he had "missed" during the trip, he managed to convince one of the group home caregivers to let him return to the Municipal Museum. With his heart hammering in a strangely slow, powerful rhythm, he navigated the familiar corridors, this time nearly empty.
He found the forgotten wing of "Pre-Quirk Cultures" and the dark corner where the transformation occurred. With slightly trembling hands (more from anticipation than fear), he pulled back the cloth from the nameless statue. There it was. The stone mask, cold and sinister, waiting. He picked it up, the solid, ancient weight in his hands, and quickly hid it inside his backpack, under a textbook. A shiver ran through his body as he touched it again, a sensation of dangerous power and disturbing familiarity.
He left the museum as quickly as he could without drawing attention, the backpack feeling like it weighed a ton on his shoulders, not from physical weight, but from the burden of the secret it contained.
Back in the relative privacy of his room, he locked the door and finally took out the mask. He placed it on his desk, observing its dark carvings. He didn't dare touch it again just yet. Instead, he turned to the mirror.
The reflection confirmed his fears and the strange sensations. His skin was undeniably paler. His eyes, normally a nondescript dark brown, seemed deeper, and when he focused, an almost imperceptible reddish glint danced in their depths. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth. Yes, his canines were slightly longer, sharper. Irrefutable physical proof.
He decided to test his strength, but cautiously. He remembered the power he had briefly felt at the museum. He looked at his simple bed, with its metal frame. He bent down, gripped the base of the frame with both hands, and pulled. The bed groaned in protest, but he managed to lift it a few centimeters off the floor with considerable effort. His muscles trembled with the strain. It was far more strength than he had ever possessed, strength a normal thirteen-year-old boy wouldn't have, but it wasn't the effortless power he had imagined. He lowered it carefully, panting.
Stronger, he thought, flexing his hands. Definitely stronger. But... not invincible. That was almost a relief. Utterly overwhelming power from the start would have been even more terrifying. This, perhaps, he could learn to control.
He tried with the empty soda can. He squeezed it with one hand. The can crumpled easily, much more than before, but it didn't disintegrate. He had to apply conscious and significant force to twist it until the metal began to tear.
Speed was harder to test there, but he felt the readiness in his limbs, a sensation that he could move faster, react faster. The heightened senses were undeniable, almost painful in their intensity.
And there was the hunger. That hollow, deep sensation that began at the museum was growing, becoming a physical need, a thirst that made his throat scratch. Normal food seemed uninteresting, almost repulsive. The smell of blood from a small cut he got on his hand from the torn metal of the can was... intoxicating. He licked the small drop on his finger, and a spark of energy coursed through his body, a tiny, frustrating taste of what he truly craved. The sensation even seemed to slightly ease the tension in his muscles. Blood... is energy?
The initial fear began to give way to a complex mix of emotions. There was dread, yes – what was he? What did this hunger mean? But there was also... potential. He was stronger, faster. The silent resentment against Bakugo, against everyone who saw him as useless, found new fuel. Maybe... maybe I'm not weak anymore.
The hunger, however, couldn't be ignored or suppressed by thoughts of power alone. The next day, a Sunday, it became a sharp physical pain. His head throbbed, his thoughts grew muddled. He tried to eat, but the food felt like sand in his mouth. The sight of the other children in the group home, the sound of their heartbeats, the scent of their vitality – it was torture. He locked himself in his room, fighting the growing impulse to simply... take what he needed.
By nightfall, he couldn't take it anymore. The pain was excruciating, the thirst a fire in his throat. Rational thought was fading, replaced by a primal, overwhelming instinct: feed.
He slipped out of the group home furtively, moving through the dark streets with a speed and silence that still surprised him. His senses guided him, not towards a specific target, but towards the presence of life. He wasn't thinking about criminals or distorted justice yet; he was thinking only of satiating the agonizing pain.
In a dimly lit park, he spotted a solitary figure sitting on a bench – an older man, perhaps homeless, dozing beneath the trees. The cheap scent of alcohol hung around him, but underneath it, there was the constant pulse of life, of warm blood.
Reiji hesitated for just an instant. A spark of his former identity, of the quiet, harmless boy, cried out in alarm. No! But the hunger was stronger. It was a physical need that overrode morality.
He approached, swift and silent as a shadow. Before the man could even fully awaken from his stupor, Reiji's hand was over his mouth, muffling any sound. His other hand gripped the man's shoulder with a force that, while not crushing, was more than enough to hold him immobile against his weak, drowsy resistance.
Wide eyes full of fear met Reiji's, which now glowed with an uncontrollable red intensity in the darkness. There were no words, no threats. Just raw need.
He bit the man's exposed neck.
The sensation was overwhelming. The metallic taste, the warm energy flooding his system, drowning the pain of hunger in a wave of ecstasy and power. It was repulsive and divine at the same time. He drank, not with fury, but with a desperate hunger, feeling strength return, mental clarity come back, his senses sharpen even further. He felt his muscles, previously tense and trembling, relax and strengthen slightly with the newly acquired energy.
He pulled away before completely draining the man, perhaps out of a vestige of self-control or simply because the initial pain had passed, replaced by satiety. The man slumped onto the bench, unconscious, pale, but still breathing.
Reiji stood there, panting, blood on his lips. The transformation was real. The hunger was real. And the power... the power was undeniable, and it seemed to respond to feeding. He looked at the fallen man, not with guilt, but with a strange detachment. He had done what he needed to survive.
He wiped his mouth, the taste of blood still on his tongue, and retreated into the shadows. As he walked back to the group home, the guilt he expected to feel never came. In its place, there was a cold clarity. He was different now. Normal rules no longer applied. He had power, and he had needs. And it seemed satisfying those needs made him stronger.
Back in his room, the stone mask seemed to watch him from the desk. He picked it up, feeling its familiar coldness. It was the source, the catalyst. But the power, the hunger, the growing coldness – that was part of him now, a power he would need to nurture and control. The path ahead was uncertain and dark, but for the first time in his life, Reiji Kinzoku felt he had the means not just to survive, but to grow.