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Rei could still remember the night her father called her into the study.
The air was thick with the smell of old paper and cedar oil; her father sat behind his desk, the lamplight shining on the framed certificates behind him. He didn’t look up when she entered — he just said her name, quietly but firmly, like he was reading a line from a contract.
“Rei,” he said. “Enji Todoroki has approached us with a proposal. A marriage alliance.”
She blinked, unsure she’d heard correctly. “Todoroki… the hero?”
Her father nodded, fingers steepled. “He’s the number two now. Young, ambitious. It would be an honor for our family. He has strong lineage — powerful quirk potential. He believes our bloodline will balance his fire.”
The way he said it — our bloodline, not you — made her stomach twist.
“And what do you believe?” she asked softly.
“That this is an opportunity few families are offered,” he said. “It’s been decided.”
The wedding came quickly, in a blur of white fabric, polite smiles, and cameras flashing like sparks. Rei remembered bowing to people she didn’t know, hearing her father’s proud voice in her ear, and seeing Enji standing tall beside her — serious, disciplined, not cruel.
Not yet.
He was polite to her then, if distant. He spoke more about quirks than feelings, about duty more than affection.
But she told herself, he’s a hero; heroes are serious people.
She was young — barely more than a girl — and she wanted to be good, wanted to make it work.
When Touya was born the following winter, Rei thought it might all turn out alright.
He was small — smaller than the doctors expected — but so loud, so alive. His hair was bright red, his eyes the same turquoise as Enji’s. Enji looked down at the baby and smiled, actually smiled, and Rei thought maybe she could love this man after all.
“He’s perfect,” she whispered, cradling the newborn close.
Enji brushed a thumb along Touya’s cheek, inspecting him like a gemstone. “He’ll be stronger than both of us.”
Rei laughed weakly, not sure how to answer.
That first year passed in a haze of diapers, feedings, and sleepless nights. Enji wasn’t often home — patrols, training, hero work — but when he was, he would watch Touya like a hawk.
When the baby cried too long, Enji frowned. “He’s loud. He needs discipline early.”
When Rei hesitated to hand Touya over, Enji’s voice sharpened. “I said, let me.”
She told herself it was normal. That he just wanted to be involved.
In December, when Touya was barely turning eleven months, she found herself holding another newborn — Fuyumi.
The nurses congratulated her, called her lucky, called her radiant. Rei smiled politely through exhaustion so deep she could barely stand.
“Two healthy children in one year,” Her mom said proudly, standing over her hospital bed. “You’ve done well, Rei. You’re strong.”
Strong. That word would haunt her.
At home, Touya toddled unsteadily through the halls, reaching for her with his tiny hands while she rocked Fuyumi in her arms. The house always smelled faintly of smoke and disinfectant — Enji’s training room kept the air dry and acrid.
Still, Rei was happy, in her own small way. The children laughed easily, and Enji, though stern, wasn’t cruel. Not yet.
When Touya’s quirk manifested at four, the flames burst from his palms like a festival firework.
“Perfect,” Enji murmured, watching. “Hotter than mine.”
Touya’s grin was radiant. “Can you teach me, Dad?”
“Of course,” Enji said, pride swelling in his voice. “You’ll surpass All Might one day.”
For a while, things were good. Enji spent hours with Touya in the dojo, showing him control, posture, breath. Touya would run to Rei afterwards, cheeks flushed and hair sticking out, babbling about his “fire dances.”
Rei’s heart swelled with warmth. Maybe this was what happiness looked like — even if she’d never chosen the life herself.
But at five, Touya came back burned.
The skin on his arm blistered; his tears left salt trails down his cheeks. Rei froze when she saw him.
“What happened?”
“I wanted to show Dad I could do it… I was strong enough.” His voice cracked. “But it hurt.”
Enji came in behind him, face grim. “We will go to the hospital. Get tests done, anything that explains this.”
“He’s just a child!” Rei snapped, kneeling to apply ointment, “You shouldn’t have started training him so early.”
Enji’s eyes hardened. “He’s my child. And if he can’t handle his own fire, then he’s not the one.”
“The one?” she repeated, not understanding.
“The perfect balance,” Enji said coldly. “Fire and ice. We’ll try again.”
That night, Rei lay awake beside him, heart pounding.
“Enji… I don’t want to have another child yet. Touya’s still—”
He turned his head, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “We’re wasting time. If it’s not Touya, it must be another. You know why I married you.”
Her throat closed. “I know. But what if—what if it happens again? What if they burn?”
“Then we’ll try again,” he said simply, and rolled over.
Rei stared at the ceiling until dawn, tears soaking the pillow.
She tried to refuse. Quietly at first. Then louder.
But Enji’s temper was growing, along with his frustration at the media, at All Might, at his own son’s limits.
When she said no, he slammed doors.
When she cried, he told her to stop being dramatic.
When she tried to shield Touya, he pulled her away with rough hands and cold words.
The first time he truly frightened her, it wasn’t a shout — it was the silence afterwards, the way he looked at her like she was an obstacle, not a person.
By the time Natsuo was born, she didn’t even remember consenting.
The nurses told her to rest. Enji told her to recover quickly. She felt nothing but emptiness — the dull ache of a body that never stopped being used.
She wanted to love her children; she did love them. But each new birth came with less of herself left to give.
At night, she stood at the children’s door and watched Touya sleep, his small chest rising and falling under the covers. His hands were wrapped in gauze.
She brushed a trembling hand through his white-streaked hair and whispered,
“Tell me you’re okay… and I’m fine.”
Her voice cracked.
“If you’re okay, then I’m fine.”
But even then, she knew she was lying.
The smell of antiseptic clung to the air like a ghost. Rei’s hands trembled as she dabbed the ointment on Shouto’s arm, tracing the red lines that shouldn’t be there. He sat on the counter, small legs dangling, face blotchy from crying. His sniffles came in tiny, broken sounds that tore at her heart.
“It stings?” she whispered, voice shaking.
Shouto nodded once, eyes glassy. “A little.”
Her fingers faltered. The bruises on his shoulder were shaped like fingers—large ones. She knew exactly whose.
The house was too quiet; the others were at school, and Enji had left for patrol hours ago. Still, she felt his presence like a weight in every room. His voice echoed in her skull, sharp and cold: “He needs to be stronger. He’ll never be great if you keep coddling him.”
She pressed the cloth gently to Shouto’s arm, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Her vision blurred. She wasn’t sure if it was from tears or exhaustion.
“You’re so brave,” she murmured. “My strong boy.”
Shouto looked up, the turquoise of his left eye catching the light. His small hand reached toward her face, and she flinched before she could stop herself.
He froze, startled. His fingers brushed her cheek — the skin still tender from last night’s slap.
“I don’t like it,” he whispered. “When papa hurts you.”
Rei’s throat closed. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Then she lifted him into her arms, holding him against her chest, rocking him gently as if she could lull the world back into place.
“Shh… It’s alright. You don’t have to worry about me,” she whispered into his hair. “I’m fine. As long as you tell me you’re okay, I’ll be fine.”
He hesitated, then murmured, “I’m okay.”
She felt his little heart pounding against hers. He wasn’t okay. She knew that. But the words were the only thing keeping her together — the last fragile thread between her and the abyss.
That thread frayed every day.
Enji’s temper had become something monstrous. Training sessions echoed through the house: crashes, shouts, Shouto’s yelps quickly muffled into silence. When Rei tried to intervene, Enji’s fury turned on her.
“You’re making him weak!” he’d roar. “You think heroes can afford tenderness?”
She would stand between them, trembling, until he shoved her aside. At night, his voice still thundered in her ears. She couldn’t remember the first time he’d struck her; it blurred with all the other times.
Even Touya had changed. He shouted at her now too — his anger sharp, his eyes feverish. When she tried to stop him from sneaking out to train, he spat, “You’re just like him! You don’t understand anything!”
Rei would sit alone after, hands pressed to her temples, wondering when her children’s voices had started to sound like Enji’s.
One morning, the winter light filtered through the kitchen window, cold and gray. The kettle hissed softly on the stove. Shouto’s laughter used to fill mornings like this — but lately, he’d grown so quiet. Even at five, he already knew silence was safer.
She stared at her reflection in the kettle’s metal curve — pale skin, dark circles, a fading bruise near her jaw. She barely recognized herself.
The phone sat on the counter. She reached for it with shaking hands and dialed a familiar number.
“Mother?” Her voice cracked. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Rei?” Her mother’s voice was warm, concerned. “What’s wrong, dear?”
“I can’t… I can’t raise them here.” She was speaking too fast, breath coming in shallow bursts. “I can’t raise Shouto anymore. I look at him and—he looks so much like Enji. His left side—his eyes— I can’t—”
“Rei, slow down,” her mother pleaded. “You need to rest—”
“No, you don’t understand!” Her voice rose, hoarse with panic. “He’s—he’s turning into him. They all are. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop him. I can’t— his left side looks unbearable to me.”
A soft noise behind her made her turn.
For a heartbeat, all she saw was the glint of turquoise — Enji’s eyes, Enji’s fire — watching her from the doorway.
The kettle shrieked.
Something inside her snapped.
The world turned white-hot and soundless.
Her hands moved before her mind caught up — a blur, a motion of fear, of defense.
The kettle left her fingers.
The scream that followed wasn’t Enji’s.
“Mama?”
A small, strangled voice.
The hiss of water hitting skin. The clatter of metal. The smell of steam.
Rei froze.
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Enji. It was Shouto.
Her knees gave out as she stumbled forward. “No—no—Shouto!”
He stood motionless, shock etched across his tiny face, water dripping from his hair. Then came the cry — sharp, high, unending. Rei’s blood went cold.
She grabbed a cloth, pressed it to his face with trembling hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please—please, hold still—” Her breath came in gasps. “I’ll fix it—I can fix it—”
She activated her quirk without thinking, cold surging through her fingertips. Frost formed across the cloth. Shouto jerked back with a sob.
“Tell me you’re okay,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Tell me you’re okay, please!.”
But Shouto only cried harder, trying to pull away, hands pushing weakly at her wrists.
She saw the fear in his eyes — not just pain, fear of her.
Something shattered inside her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over, words dissolving into sobs. “What have I done… what have I done…”
The kettle lay on the floor, steam rising like ghosts around them.
Rei held her child and rocked back and forth, the sound of his cries tearing through the quiet house.
And somewhere down the hall, behind a closed door, Enji’s voice echoed faintly — training calls, the rhythm of a punch against wood — as if the world hadn’t just fallen apart.