The classroom buzzed with voices, but none of them were meant for him.
Satoru sat by the window—second row from the back, third seat from the left. The same spot every day. His shoulders were hunched, his pencil unmoving over a blank worksheet as the teacher droned at the front of the room.
No one looked at him. Or maybe they did—but only to confirm he was still as invisible as always.
He kept his head down.
Behind him, someone clicked their pen repeatedly. Another whispered too loudly, snickering.
"Still hasn't answered a single question today," someone muttered. "Is he mute or just slow?"
A soft thud—paper hitting the back of his head.
Satoru blinked, but didn't react.
The whispering grew bolder. "He's so pathetic. I bet his quirk is crying on command."
Someone reached out and flicked his ear. He flinched, barely.
"Bet he'd wet himself if you shouted 'villain' loud enough."
The teacher, Mr. Inoue, didn't even glance up. He never did.
Satoru bit down on his lip. Hard.
---
By the time the bell rang, Satoru's fingers were still curled stiffly around his pencil. The worksheet was untouched. No one noticed. No one said a word to him as they filed out in clusters of noise and footsteps.
He waited until the room was almost empty before standing. His knees ached. His backpack's zipper was broken, the fabric frayed where someone had yanked it last week. He hadn't told anyone.
He didn't see the point.
Outside, the hallway was a river of students. Conversations passed him like wind—about training courses, quirks, sports clubs, snacks. Someone bragged about the hero internship they were hoping for. Another person demonstrated a tiny flame in their palm just to show off.
Satoru stepped aside for them all.
He didn't have a quirk. He barely had a voice.
---
The sky outside was a deep steel gray, like it wanted to rain but hadn't quite decided. Satoru stood by the shoe lockers, changing into his outdoor shoes slowly, methodically. Taking his time. Hoping he wouldn't run into—
"Oi. Crybaby."
He froze.
Three boys leaned against the bike racks outside the school gate. Their uniforms were wrinkled, undone. The tallest one—Shun, the leader—had a faint bruise on his cheek from last week.
Satoru knew where that bruise came from.
"You survived another day," Shun grinned. "What's the secret? Pure cowardice?"
Satoru adjusted his bag and kept walking. Head down. Don't engage.
But they didn't move from his path.
"You could at least say hi. That's what normal people do, right?" said another boy, mock-friendly. "Unless you're not normal. Are you even human? Maybe your quirk is just being useless."
"Or maybe his parents threw away the good genes and kept the trash," Shun added.
Satoru opened his mouth. Closed it again.
They stepped in closer.
---
"Touch him again and I'll break your teeth."
Keiko's voice sliced through the air like glass.
All three boys turned in unison. She stood ten feet away, schoolbag slung over her shoulder, one headphone dangling from her collar. Her eyes were tired, her expression blank—but her fists were clenched.
Shun raised his hands mockingly. "Hey, hey, we were just talking."
"Then talk with someone who wants to listen," Keiko said, stepping between them and Satoru.
They backed off. They always did.
"Damn watchdog," one of them muttered as they walked away.
Keiko turned her head slowly. "What was that?"
They didn't answer. Just vanished down the sidewalk.
---
The walk home was silent at first.
Keiko kept pace beside him, hands in her pockets. Her shoes scuffed the concrete with every lazy step.
"You know," she said eventually, "you could at least yell at them. Or throw your book. Or say literally anything."
"I… can't," Satoru said quietly.
Keiko stopped walking. Satoru kept going.
"Why not?" she asked. Not angry. Just tired.
He shrugged, shoulders curling inward. "If I say something… it won't matter. They'll still laugh."
Keiko stared at him for a long moment, then caught up with him again.
"You're not weak," she muttered. "You just act like it."
---
Their house sat above the family flower shop, tucked between a pharmacy and a ramen stand. The windows were lined with potted plants. The sign had faded letters that read: Hanabira Flowers – Since 1993.
Inside, their mother hummed softly as she arranged a bouquet. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the tape dispenser. A cough wracked her chest as she straightened up.
Satoru stepped around her and carried a box of carnations to the front. He didn't say anything—just helped, like always.
Keiko sat on the counter and talked about her day. She did most of the talking. Their mother smiled, but her eyes kept drifting to Satoru.
When she sent him to the back to rest, Keiko leaned in and whispered, "He froze again."
Their mother nodded sadly. "He's always been soft-hearted."
"He's not just soft. He's scared."
"He'll grow out of it."
Keiko didn't answer.
---
That night, Satoru lay on his side in the dark, facing the wall.
He could still feel the poke to his ear, the paper against his neck. Could still hear the laughter. Worse—he could feel how little he'd done about any of it.
He pulled the blanket over his head.
The tears came slowly. Silently.
As always.