Chapter Text
Toshinori Yagi had long since accepted that his life would never resemble anything as ordinary as “normal.” Not with the mission carved into his bones, not with the power roaring through his veins, and certainly not with the crushing, ever-watchful burden of being the world’s Symbol of Peace. Normalcy belonged to civilians, to nameless faces drifting through safer stories—not to him.
And yet… somehow, absurdly, he had stolen fragments of it.
It began as a promise—no, a rule. A line gouged deep into the sand the day his master made the most merciless decision of her life: surrendering her own son and forbidding Toshinori from ever seeking him out. That moment had seared itself into him, a permanent scar beneath the skin. Attachments were liabilities. Love was a vulnerability that could be weaponized. If he cared for no one, then no one could be used against him.
It was a simple rule. Clean. Hollow.
For years, he obeyed with near-religious devotion. He carved himself into something larger than flesh and bone, a smiling colossus the world could lean on. Untouchable. Unreachable. Less a man, more an idea given form.
But underneath all that, he was just a man. And loneliness was not so easily defeated.
It crept in through the cracks—quiet, persistent, patient. Sometimes it took the shape of fleeting company, nameless and temporary. Faces that blurred together, moments that dissolved by morning. They meant nothing. They were never meant to.
Until one of them did.
She had been a nurse. Capable hands, steady eyes. She stitched him back together after one particularly brutal fight, her touch clinical, efficient—until it wasn’t. What followed had been nothing more than an indulgence, a moment of weakness he filed away and forgot.
Or tried to. Months later, fate—cruel, ironic—placed her in his path again.
At first, nothing seemed different. She looked as she had before, composed and self-assured. But then his gaze dropped, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him.
Her stomach. Round. Swollen.
Time fractured. His mind, so sharp in battle, so decisive under pressure, stuttered uselessly as it tried to reconcile what he was seeing. He did the math in his head, numbers snapping into place with horrifying clarity.
Unless there had been someone else… this was…
His eyes lifted to hers, wide and searching, silently asking the question he could not force past his throat.
She didn’t look away.
“I’m keeping it,” she said simply. No hesitation. “With or without you.”
The words landed like a blow he couldn’t block.
A child. His child.
The very concept felt absurd, like trying to imagine the sun refusing to rise. This wasn’t part of the plan. There had never been a plan for this. Love was a liability. Family was a weakness. Marriage, children—those belonged to a life he had already sacrificed.
His thoughts spiraled, sharp and unrelenting.
A baby meant vulnerability. A target. A life that could be taken to break him. A baby meant attachment—something he had spent years training himself to destroy before it could take root.
He could walk away.
The option presented itself immediately, cold and logical. He could turn his back, bury this moment alongside all the others he refused to dwell on. The world needed him unburdened, unshaken. A symbol could not afford hesitation.
But the thought didn’t settle cleanly. It lingered.
Because for the first time in years, the idea of “nothing”—of returning to that hollow, carefully controlled solitude—felt heavier than it should have.
His chest tightened, something unfamiliar and unwelcome pressing against his ribs. Not fear. But something heavier.
Responsibility.
And beneath it, quieter but far more dangerous. A flicker of something that might, if left unchecked, become care.
He didn’t answer her. And she didn’t wait for one.
She simply held his gaze for a moment longer before turning away, slipping effortlessly back into the rhythm of her work. As though she hadn’t just upended his entire world with a single sentence.
“I’m keeping it. With or without you.”
The words followed him long after he left the hospital. They settled into every quiet moment, threading through his thoughts until there was no space left untouched. He had never been this conflicted before.
The answer should have been obvious. He knew what his life demanded. He was still climbing toward becoming the Symbol of Peace. Every enemy he made now would remember him. Every weakness would be studied, exploited.
A family wouldn’t just be a liability. He knew that. He had lived it.
And yet—
A baby.
The thought alone carried a weight he couldn’t shake. It softened something in him he had spent years trying to harden into steel. Something small, fragile, and undeniably his… it took root, refusing to be ignored.
Part of him wanted it. Wanted a home that wasn’t empty. Laughter that wasn’t for show. Something that belonged to him not as a symbol, but as a man.
And that part was dangerous.
The conflict stayed with him. Every fight reminded him why he couldn’t allow it—why the world was too cruel, his enemies too relentless.
But then he’d hear a child’s laughter, see a small hand in a parent’s grip, a sleepy smile from a toddler on someone’s shoulders, and his chest would tighten as the thought returned, quiet and unrelenting: that could be mine.
He never faltered in battle. But the strain began to show. A fraction too slow. A moment too late.
One fight—just one—slipped further than it should have. A villain nearly escaped. Nearly reached someone he was meant to protect before he corrected it.
And then came the call.
Gran Torino.
The old man never wasted time with pleasantries. What started as a sharp observation about Toshinori’s recent performance quickly unraveled into something deeper, something far more uncomfortable.
“What’s got your head so far out of the fight, kid?”
Toshinori tried to deflect. He failed.
Eventually, the truth surfaced—halting at first, then all at once. The nurse. The child. The choice looming over him like a storm he couldn’t outrun.
Gran Torino listened. And when Toshinori finished, the old man huffed, and answered with the same dry tone he always did.
“Kid, you’re not your master.”
The words hit harder than expected.
“She made her choice because she thought it was the only way. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. But that was her life. Not yours.”
Toshinori said nothing.
“Plenty of heroes have families,” Gran Torino went on, voice steady but firm. “They hide them. Protect them. Fight smarter because of them. Just because she gave something up doesn’t mean you’re required to do the same. And if you’re this distracted already? Then pretending it doesn’t matter isn’t doing you—or anyone else—any favors.”
The conversation lingered long after it ended. But even then Toshinori still didn’t know what to do.
Weeks turned into months. And still, no decision came. Until one day, without warning, something shifted. Some deep instinct kicked in. A pull he couldn’t ignore.
He needed to see the child. Just once.
Maybe the baby had already been born. Maybe he could talk to the nurse—figure something out, define what “involvement” could even mean for someone like him.
So he returned to the hospital. Again. And again. Always in passing. Always brief.
The first few times, she wasn’t there, or he simply missed her. Each failed attempt left something restless and unsettled in his chest. Until, finally, weeks later, he saw her.
She was just entering the building when he caught up. She turned at the sound of his voice, surprise flickering clearly across her face. His absence had likely spoken for him all these months. Given her an answer he hadn’t been brave enough to voice.
But what struck him most… was what was no longer there.
Her stomach was flat. The realization hit instantly. The baby was already born.
His throat tightened. He asked her if he could see the child. She studied him for a moment. Long enough to make him wonder if he had forfeited that right entirely. Then, quietly, she agreed. Gave him an address and a time to drop by.
He arrived exactly when he said he would.
She led him inside without ceremony, guiding him down a short hallway and into a small nursery. The room was simple, but warm—soft pastel pink, white, and light gray blending together in a quiet, gentle calm.
A world away from his own.
In the corner stood a crib. Toshinori hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping closer. Then he looked inside. And everything else, the noise, the pressure, the weight of expectation, the endless responsibilities, fell away.
She was awake.
Tiny. Impossibly so. A small, wiggling bundle of life, her little limbs moving with quiet, uncoordinated determination. Chubby cheeks flushed with warmth. Wide blue eyes fixed on the mobile swaying gently above her, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
A girl. His daughter.
The realization didn’t come like a revelation. It came like something settling into place. And in that instant, standing over that crib, staring down at something so small and yet so profoundly important—
Toshinori Yagi understood, with startling clarity, what love at first sight truly meant.
He didn’t tell anyone at first.
The secret settled into his life like a second heartbeat—quiet, constant, and carefully hidden beneath everything else he was. There were no announcements, no confessions whispered to trusted allies. Just an unspoken agreement between two people bound by something fragile and irreversible.
They came to terms with it quickly, if not easily. He would be involved, as much as he could be. But from a distance. For the child’s safety. For hers, too.
Because the moment his enemies learned that the rising pillar of hero society had something—someone—to lose, that knowledge would become a weapon sharpened and used without mercy.
So he was careful.
He kept communication open but quiet. He visited when he could, never on a pattern that could be tracked. On rare days off, he would take the baby—staying close, always close, never venturing too far from the apartment in case the world demanded him back. And always in disguise.
It wasn’t normal. But it was something. And somehow that something became everything.
The first time he brought her to meet Gran Torino, it felt surreal.
Toshinori stood at the doorway, shoulders squared out of habit—but the usual confidence didn’t quite reach his eyes. Cradled in the crook of his arm was a four-month-old baby, bundled securely, her small form rising and falling with soft, steady breaths.
He knocked. The door opened. Gran Torino took one look at him—and then, more importantly, at what he was holding.
He didn’t look surprised. Not even a little.
“…You’re late,” the old man muttered, stepping aside.
Toshinori blinked. “Late?”
“Yeah,” Gran Torino said, already turning back inside. “Figured you’d crack sooner.”
Toshinori hesitated only a moment before stepping in. Gran Torino finally turned to face him properly. And for just a fraction of a second, his expression softened. It was almost imperceptible. But Toshinori saw it.
“…So,” the old man said, folding his arms, voice slipping back into its usual dry tone, “this is the little lady that’s been scrambling your brain.”
Toshinori glanced down at the baby. “…This is my daughter,” he said softly. “Rumi.”
The words still felt new.
Gran Torino snorted.
“Well, would you look at that. The great Symbol of Peace…” His eyes flicked back up, sharp and knowing. “…brought to his knees by a baby girl.”
Toshinori opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“Hope you’re ready,” Gran Torino cut in, utterly unhelpful. “You’re a girl dad now. That means you lose every argument for the rest of your life.”
“…That can’t possibly be accurate.”
“You’ll see.”
There was no arguing with that tone.
“Sit down before you drop her.”
“I am not going to drop her.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
Carefully—far more carefully than he had ever approached a battlefield—Toshinori lowered himself onto the floor, back straight, movements measured. The baby remained cradled in his arms, supported with an almost excessive level of attention.
Gran Torino watched him for a moment, then shook his head. “You’re holding her like she’s about to explode.”
“She’s fragile,” Toshinori replied immediately, voice low, as if volume itself might disturb her. “And tiny.”
“She’s a baby, not a bomb.”
“She is significantly more important than a bomb.”
“…Fair point,” Gran Torino admitted, after a beat.
Silence settled—quiet, but not empty.
Toshinori looked down. She had woken sometime during the exchange. Small movements first. A soft, questioning sound. Then her eyes opened—blue, and unfocused with infancy. But searching.
His breath caught. Every time.
“…I don’t think she likes me,” he said quietly.
Gran Torino made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Probably because she can barely see past your nose.”
As if in direct contradiction, the baby’s tiny hand lifted—uncoordinated, wavering—and brushed against Toshinori’s thumb. It slowly curled around him and held him with surprising strength. He froze as she let out a coo. She had discovered her voice recently and was constantly trying to be heard.
“…She’s holding me,” he said, voice dropping to something almost reverent.
Gran Torino leaned slightly, peering over. “Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You’ve been captured.”
Toshinori didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was staring at that impossibly small hand wrapped around his finger with surprising strength, as if it belonged there—like it had always belonged there.
“She’s strong,” he murmured.
“She’s yours,” Gran Torino replied. “What did you expect? Weak handshake?”
A faint sound escaped Toshinori—something softer than a laugh, but real. Then it faded.
“…I don’t know what I’m doing.” The admission came quietly.
Gran Torino didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer instead, stopping just beside him. For once, there was no sharp reprimand waiting, no immediate correction.
“Good,” he said finally.
Toshinori blinked. “Good?”
“Means you understand what’s at stake,” Gran Torino said. “The idiots are the ones who think this comes naturally.”
Toshinori looked back down at her. At the way her fingers tightened, as if reinforcing her hold.
“…What if I’m not enough?” he asked. “What if I can’t be there when she needs me?”
Gran Torino didn’t soften the answer. “You won’t be.”
Toshinori’s shoulders stiffened.
“You’re not going to make every moment,” the old man continued. “You’ll miss things. Big things. That’s the cost of the life you chose.”
The words landed exactly where they were meant to. Heavy and honest.
“But that doesn’t mean you won’t matter,” Gran Torino added. “She doesn’t need a symbol. She needs you. However much of that you’re choosing to give.”
“…It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It never does. But you show up anyway.”
Something in Toshinori’s chest shifted. He adjusted his hold slightly.
“…She has my eyes,” he said quietly.
Gran Torino glanced down, then shrugged. “Unfortunate.”
Toshinori shot him a look.
“Means she’s stuck seeing the world like you do,” the old man added.
Toshinori looked back at her. At the tiny face, the steady breathing, the small hand still clinging to him like he was something worth holding onto.
“…I hope not,” he murmured. “I’d rather she sees it better.”
Gran Torino didn’t answer. But the look he gave Toshinori—brief, sharp, and quietly approving—said enough.
“Well,” he said gruffly, “guess that’s it.”
Toshinori glanced up. “What is?”
Gran Torino tilted his head toward the baby.
“No more fighting just for the world,” he said. “Now you’ve got something in it.”
Toshinori looked at her again and the weight of that didn’t feel like something pressing down on him. It felt like something holding him in place.
Life unfolded almost exactly the way Gran Torino had warned him it would.
Only Toshinori had drastically underestimated just how chaotic “exactly” could feel when lived in real time.
There was no pause anymore. No quiet space between moments where he could collect himself and breathe. His life became a constant forward motion—an endless sprint split between two worlds that refused to slow down for him.
One moment, he was tearing across rooftops, chasing down some power-drunk villain with a god complex and nothing to lose. The next he was tearing across his living room because somehow—somehow—his daughter had wedged herself into a place no child her size should have been physically capable of reaching.
He had stopped questioning how she got there. There were battles he could win, and then there were mysteries beyond even him.
One minute he was pulling civilians from the wreckage of a collapsing building, dust choking the air, steel screaming as it gave way… and the next, he was crouched in his apartment, prying a suspiciously crunchy, definitely moving object out of a toddler’s mouth.
“No, Rumi,” he said, gently but with the grave seriousness of a man who had faced death more times than he could count, “we do not eat things that move.”
She stared at him. Chewed once. Then swallowed.
Toshinori froze. “…oh no.”
A beat.
“Not again.”
He was already reaching for his jacket, halfway to the door.
The hospital staff knew her by name now.
That, at least, was convenient—especially given that her mother worked there. Familiar faces. Gentle reassurances. The quiet understanding that followed them both without needing to be spoken aloud.
Even so, he had missed things. The first smile, first laugh, first unsteady crawl that had quickly evolved into a determined, unstoppable march toward anything remotely dangerous.
Her first word. He hadn’t been there to hear it. But he was told it was “dada” and he held onto that fact with a quiet, almost desperate gratitude, as if it made up for the absence. As if, somehow, she had reached for him even when he wasn’t there to answer.
He missed recitals. School days and science fairs. Small milestones that flickered in and out of existence before he could catch them. Moments that should have been simple, ordinary—and instead became things he heard about after the fact.
And it hurt. More than any punch he had ever taken. More than any injury he had ever endured. Because this was a different kind of damage. This didn’t heal.
And yet, somehow, whenever he was there… it was enough. It seemed to be more than enough. Because whenever he stepped through the door—exhausted, bruised, sometimes barely held together by sheer willpower—she lit up. Like the sun had been waiting for him specifically before deciding to rise.
She would throw her arms up, eyes bright, voice bursting with pure, unfiltered joy. “DADA!”
And just like that, the weight of the world fell away. Nothing else mattered. Not the injuries. Not the pressure. Not the endless expectations.
Just her.
The first time she’d done it, he barely held back his tears. She’d toddled right up to him with her arms up wanting to be lifted and he held her much longer than usual.
Rumi was a force of nature.
Joyful. Curious. Fearless in the reckless, unbothered way only small children could be—completely unaware that the world contained concepts like danger or consequences. If she had any sense of self-preservation at all, it had clearly filed a resignation and left no forwarding address.
She questioned everything.
“Why sky blue?”
“Why bugs have many legs?”
“Why you fly but not me?”
“That last one feels like a trap,” Toshinori muttered once, crouched on the floor.
She was holding a pair of pliers. Actual pliers. He didn’t even know there were tools in the apartment, let alone how his three year old managed to get her little hands on them.
“…Rumi,” he said slowly, carefully reaching toward her, “where did you—”
She beamed. He took the pliers. Immediately.
She did not protest. She simply moved on to the next mystery. Because that was who she was. She needed to understand things.
Toys did not remain toys for long. They became puzzles. Subjects of intense investigation. She would take them apart with alarming determination, tiny hands working with focus far beyond her years—only to present him with the scattered remains like she had uncovered some great universal truth.
“Rumi,” Toshinori said one evening, holding up what had once been a perfectly functional remote control, now reduced to an assortment of very questionable parts, “this… was not its intended function.”
He paused, looking down at her. Then, softer, equal parts exhausted and fond, “…but I admire the enthusiasm.”
She lit up like he had just praised her for saving the world. Chubby cheeks lifted, eyes squinting with delight.
A tiny menace. But she was his tiny menace.
His daughter. His heart. The reason he stood back up every single time the world tried to knock him down and keep him there. Every punch he threw. Every villain he chased. Every ounce of strength he dragged out of himself when there was nothing left to give—it all came back to one, unwavering truth: get back to her.
Back to the laughter. Back to the chaos. Back to the small, sticky hands grabbing his face and the delighted squeals of “Again! Again!” when he tossed her gently into the air, catching her with the same care he used to save lives.
Fatherhood wasn’t perfect. It was exhausting, loud and unpredictable. Sometimes covered in mud.
Actually, in Rumi’s case, very frequently covered in mud.
But it was also beautiful. In a way no one could have properly explained to him. Because it wasn’t something that could be taught.
It was something that had to be lived.
And now that he was living it, he couldn’t imagine a world without it.
One afternoon—rare, blessed, hard-earned time off—Toshinori found himself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching a five year old Rumi conduct what she had very seriously declared was “science.”
In hindsight, that should have been his first warning.
She stood at the coffee table like a seasoned professional, sleeves pushed up, expression grave with purpose. Spread out before her was an assortment of… materials.
A plastic bowl.
A spoon.
Half a banana.
Something green and vaguely leafy.
And—
He leaned forward slightly, squinting. “…is that dirt?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
“…okay.”
“And water.”
“…okay.”
A pause.
“And bug.”
His head snapped up. “No—no, absolutely not the bug—”
Too late. The bug was already in the bowl.
There was a moment—a brief, suspended second—where Toshinori simply stared. At the bowl. At the movement in the bowl. Then at his daughter, who was stirring the mixture with intense concentration, tongue peeking out slightly as she worked. Then back at the bowl.
“…What exactly is this supposed to do?” he asked carefully.
She didn’t look up. “Make medicine.”
“I see,” he said, in the tone of a man who did not, in fact, see. “And… what is this medicine for?”
“Make you faster.”
He blinked. Once. “…Rumi.”
“Yes, Daddy?” she said—far too innocent for someone mid-poison.
“I am already very fast.”
She turned to him then, eyes bright, lifting the spoon toward him like an offering.
“Drink.”
He leaned back immediately, one hand coming up in instinctive defense.
“I love you,” he said solemnly. “I would fight the world for you. I am not drinking that.”
Her expression shifted. Her eyes narrowed and lips pouted in deep, personal betrayal. “Coward.”
Toshinori froze.
“…did you just—” He sat up straighter, utterly scandalized. “Who taught you that word?!”
Without missing a beat: “Gramp Torino.”
“…of course he did.”
Later that night, after the chaos had settled and the apartment had finally, miraculously, gone quiet, Toshinori sat beside her bed.
Rumi slept sprawled across her blankets, one arm flung above her head, the other clutching a stuffed toy that had—thankfully—not been disassembled yet.
Peaceful. For once.
No bugs. No experiments. No crimes against household appliances.
Just… Rumi.
He reached out, brushing a hand gently over her hair, careful not to wake her.
“Worth it,” he murmured softly.
Every missed moment. Every exhausting day. Every impossible balancing act between a world that demanded everything from him—and the small, stubborn, brilliant child who demanded just as much in her own way.
Worth it.
Even if tomorrow she tried to poison him again.
By the time Rumi turned eight, she had developed a new, all-consuming identity.
Not a hero. But a doctor.
Unfortunately, not the neat, sterile, clipboard-carrying kind. No—Rumi had committed fully to something far more… experimental.
Somewhere along the line, “I want to help people” had evolved—rapidly and with alarming confidence—into “I must immediately begin mixing substances of unknown origin.”
It had started innocently. A book about plants. Then another about insects. Then, concerningly, one about “naturally occurring toxins,” which Toshinori was certain had no business being in the children’s section.
From there, it escalated. Quickly. Every available surface in the apartment became a laboratory.
Leaves.
Crushed berries.
Flower petals.
Tap water.
Sparkling water—because, as Rumi explained with complete authority, “bubbles make it stronger.”
And, with disturbing consistency—dirt.
“Rumi,” Toshinori said one afternoon, standing in the kitchen like a man who had seen far too much in his lifetime, “why is there a jar labeled ‘maybe safe’ on the counter?”
She didn’t even look up from what she was grinding with intense focus. “Because maybe its safe, maybe its not. I’m not sure yet.”
He stared at her. “…that is not comforting.”
She finally glanced up, eyes shining with scientific fervor. “Science takes risks.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Science also uses gloves,” he replied. “And… less… mud.”
Her “practice,” unfortunately, extended to people. Unwilling people.
Primarily him.
“Sit down,” she ordered one evening, dragging a chair across the floor with a screech that could have alerted nearby neighborhoods.
“I’m fine.”
“You look tired.”
“…I am tired.”
“Exactly. Sit.”
Before he could argue further, she had already seized his arm with surprising efficiency.
“…Rumi?”
“Hold still.”
“…what are you—”
Something wrapped around his forearm.
“…is this a sock?”
“It’s a bandage.”
“It has a cartoon frog on it.”
“It’s sterile.”
“It came out of the laundry.”
She tightened it with a decisive tug, nodding to herself like a professional concluding a successful procedure.
“You’ll live.”
Toshinori stared at the sock. Then at her.
“I wasn’t worried about that,” he said slowly, “until just now.”
She beamed up at him—proud, certain, entirely unbothered.
And despite everything—the mess, the chaos, the deeply questionable medical practices—he found himself smiling.
Because somehow, this was his life. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
And then there was the babysitting.
Entrusted, on particularly busy days, to the ever-watchful, ever-grumbling Gran Torino.
Which, in hindsight, may not have been the wisest decision Toshinori had ever made.
Because where most responsible adults would have intervened, stopped the experiments, confiscated the questionable materials, perhaps gently redirected the child away from potentially hazardous science—
Gran Torino… observed. And critiqued. Occasionally improved the process.
“She’s building character,” the old man had said once, arms folded, as Rumi carefully arranged what looked like an alarming quantity of crushed leaves into a teacup.
Toshinori stared at the scene like a man watching his future flash before his eyes. “She’s building a biohazard.”
Rumi, undeterred, glanced between them.
“It’s for healing,” she said, with complete confidence.
Gran Torino leaned in, squinting at the mixture like a seasoned inspector. “…Needs more bitterness.”
Toshinori turned slowly. “Why would it need more bitterness?!”
“To be convincing.”
“That’s not—this isn’t—she’s eight!”
But Rumi had already taken this as expert consultation. Something else—unidentifiable and deeply concerning—was added to the cup. She stirred. Nodded.
“Perfect.”
Toshinori looked at the teacup. Then at Gran Torino. Then back at the teacup.
“…If I drink that,” he said carefully, “I am writing you into my will as legally responsible.”
“Coward,” Gran Torino muttered.
“Stop teaching her that!”
There had been incidents.
Several. Too many.
The time she attempted to create an “antidote” for a bug bite before anyone had actually been bitten.
The time she insisted on “testing resistance” by dabbing a suspicious plant mixture onto his arm.
“It tingles,” she observed, eyes bright with fascination.
“It burns,” he corrected immediately.
She tilted her head. “…same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing—”
Or the unforgettable afternoon when she burst into the living room, clutching a glass jar like she had personally captured lightning.
“I made medicine!”
Toshinori, who had learned caution through repeated exposure, did not move any closer.
“…What does it do?”
She hesitated. Just for a second. “…many things.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “That is not an answer.”
From the couch, Gran Torino took one look and shrugged. “I’d try it.”
“You are not helping.”
“I’m encouraging innovation.”
“You are encouraging recklessness.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not—why does everyone keep saying that?!”
And yet beneath all the chaos, the mess, the near-poisonings, the deeply questionable “treatments”, there was something steady. Something real.
Rumi didn’t want to fight villains.
She didn’t talk about strength, or glory, or standing at the top while the world looked up at her in awe. She didn’t dream of fists or fire or broken streets. She wanted to fix things.
Heal things. Understand them.
And quietly—selfishly—Toshinori felt something in his chest loosen with relief.
She didn’t want to be a hero. Which meant he wouldn’t have to stand there one day, caught between pride and fear, watching her walk the same dangerous path he had chosen. Wouldn’t have to wonder, every time she stepped out the door, if she would come back.
Especially because she hadn’t manifested a quirk.
She was quirkless. Just like he had once been.
He knew what that meant. The invisible barriers. The unspoken judgments. The way the world measured potential by something you either had—or didn’t.
He had lived that reality. Fought against it. Bled for it.
But Rumi? Rumi didn’t seem to care.
If anything, it only sharpened her resolve.
“I don’t need powers,” she said one day, matter-of-fact, while organizing her ever-growing collection of what she insisted on calling “medical supplies”—a term Toshinori interpreted very loosely. “Doctors use their brains.”
Toshinori paused in the doorway. Watched her for a moment. Something warm settled quietly in his chest.
“…yes,” he said softly. “They do.”
And she had that. In abundance. Curiosity, passion, determination—spilling out of her in reckless, unstoppable waves.
If she wanted to be a doctor, that was a good life. A safe life. A life where she could help people without throwing herself into danger. A life where he wouldn’t have to carry that constant, gnawing fear—
Will she make it home?
He leaned against the doorframe that evening, watching as she carefully labeled a row of jars in uneven, determined handwriting.
“Non-poison.”
“Probably poison.”
“Do Not Touch (important).”
He raised an eyebrow. “…you know that last one makes me want to touch it more, right?”
She didn’t even look up. “It’s for you.”
He nodded solemnly. “…I appreciate the warning.”
She capped the jar with finality and nodded, completely satisfied with her work.
And Toshinori made a quiet decision. He would not touch that jar. Under any circumstances.
He had limits.
For all her dramatic “medical science” and highly illegal-looking potions, Rumi was still just a kid.
Which meant that between the near-poisonings and questionable “treatments,” there were quieter moments—the kind that somehow left two fully grown men, one a rising Symbol of Peace and the other a retired legend, completely at her mercy.
Mornings were the worst.
Toshinori no longer woke to alarms. Or danger. Or instinct. He woke to tiny hands on his face.
“Dad.”
No response.
“Daddy.”
One eye cracked open. “…mmph.”
“It’s morning.”
“…hmm.”
“Get up.”
“Too early.”
“It’s not. The sun is here.”
“That is not—”
She climbed onto him. Directly. Sitting crisscross on his chest like it was her territory.
“Up.”
From the doorway, Gran Torino sipped something that might have been coffee—or industrial cleaner.
“She’s been up for an hour.”
“…why.”
“She said she was ‘waiting for your Plus Ultra to turn on.’”
Toshinori threw his arm over his eyes again. “…I’m going to be tired forever, aren’t I.”
A small hand patted his cheek. “I love you.”
That brought a smile to his face. “I love you too.”
“Now get up!”
The most dangerous situations, however, were coordinated.
“Dada said no.”
Rumi paused. Turned. Looked at Gran Torino.
Toshinori also looked at him. “…don’t you dare.”
“What? She’s getting a second opinion.”
“You are not a second opinion. You are a bad influence.”
“Gramp?”
Gran Torino stroked his chin. “Hm.”
“Don’t—”
“I think there’s room for reconsideration.”
“Reconsideration,” Rumi gasped.
“You’re ganging up on me.”
“Yes,” Gran Torino said.
“Yes,” Rumi agreed.
Toshinori stared at them. One small. One ancient. Both impossible.
He forfeited with a bone-deep sigh. “…what exactly did you want.”
Rumi lit up. Gran Torino smirked.
And that was how he knew he’d already lost.
For all the villains he had faced, nothing compared to this.
A tiny girl with bright eyes and terrifying strategic ability, capable of bending two grown men to her will without raising her voice or throwing a tantrum.
And the worst part? He wouldn’t change any of it.
Not the mornings. Not the negotiations. Not even the manipulation.
Because every time she laughed, every time she hugged him like he was her whole world—everything else felt smaller.
Manageable. Worth it.
Even if he was completely wrapped around her tiny fingers.
And judging by the extra snacks Gran Torino kept sneaking her, he wasn’t the only one.