𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐂 || BNHA

Chapter 2

After the whole spectacle at the school, I realized with a crushing clarity that I could never truly belong among humans. Isolation had always been my closest companion, a truth I had known but never fully acknowledged until that moment. Social interactions had always felt like navigating a labyrinth designed by someone who spoke a language just beyond my comprehension—each conversation a minefield of unspoken expectations and complex emotional choreography that I could never quite master.

The school incident was merely the culmination of a lifetime of disconnection, a stark reminder of my perpetual status as an outsider. I had never been adept at the intricate dance of human relationships, always feeling like an observer rather than a participant. My attempts at connection were like trying to play a musical instrument without understanding its fundamental structure—awkward, discordant, and ultimately futile.

In that moment of revelation, I embraced the profound understanding that my difference was not a flaw to be corrected, but a fundamental aspect of my existence. Humans, with their complex social rituals and unspoken rules, remained an enigmatic species to me—beautiful and terrifying in their unpredictability.

I stopped by a small lake, its surface a mirror of muted gray-green tranquility, and lay down among the ancient moss-covered stones. My claws traced delicate patterns across the soft, damp vegetation, creating a rhythmic whisper against the emerald-tinged surface. The moss felt cool and yielding beneath my touch, each fragile strand a testament to the quiet persistence of life in this secluded space.

The sudden rustle of approaching footsteps disrupted the stillness. I looked up, my gaze instinctively locking onto a blond boy who seemed to materialize from the surrounding landscape. His face was striking—pale hair catching the diffused light, but what truly captured my attention were his eyes: a startling, almost unnatural shade of red that seemed to pulse with an intensity that defied natural coloration.

The moment our eyes met, something shifted. A visible tremor passed through him—his skin blanched to an almost translucent pallor, and his composure fractured instantly. He stammered, his voice a mixture of confusion and barely concealed fear, "Oh, who are you, and what are you doing here?"

I huffed, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through the air, and lashed my tail in a swift, deliberate arc. Rising to my full height, I watched with cold satisfaction as the boy instinctively retreated, his body involuntarily shrinking back in response to my imposing presence.

"I'm Y/N," I said, my voice cutting through the silence with a glacial coolness, "and I live here." My gaze fixed upon him—analytical, predatory, sizing him up with an intensity that seemed to strip away any pretense.

"You're a human," I stated slowly, each word carefully measured, laden with a mix of curiosity and something darker—a hint of barely contained suspicion. My senses, far more acute than any human's, picked up a peculiar scent clinging to him—acrid, metallic, unmistakable. "Why," I continued, head slightly tilted, "do you smell of explosions?"

"I have explosions as my quirk," he said, a note of pride cutting through his initial fear. With a swift, practiced motion, he demonstrated by igniting small, volatile bursts of energy that danced across his open palm—a display both threatening and strangely mesmerizing.

His initial timidity evaporated, replaced by a sneering confidence. "You're the monster that was bleeding at the beach," he declared, his red eyes glinting with a mixture of accusation and dark curiosity.

I looked down at him, a low, dangerous growl building in my throat. "Why does everyone know about it?" The words emerged as a barely contained threat, each syllable weighted with barely restrained fury.

He shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by the menace radiating from my form. "Well, the smell was pretty bad," he said matter-of-factly, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.

In a lightning-fast movement, I jabbed a claw into his chest—not enough to break skin, but with sufficient force to make my point crystal clear. "You keep quiet, alright?" I hissed, my voice a razor's edge of cold intensity. "You didn't see me."

The threat hung in the air between us, charged with unspoken violence.

Then, in a moment of almost supernatural transition, I shivered—a ripple of darkness consuming my form. I stormed away, my departure marked by the violent trembling of the earth itself. Cracks spread like lightning across the ground, a physical manifestation of the raw, barely contained power that coursed through me.

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The deer lay before me, a trembling shadow of its former grace. Its chest heaved in shallow, uneven gasps, and its wide, dark eyes reflected nothing but pain. Its flank was marred by a vicious wound, the flesh torn and raw, the edges blackened and slick. I crouched beside it, the acrid stench of decay curling into my nostrils. It wasn't the usual scent of blood and fur—this was deeper, fouler, as if the very essence of the creature was unraveling from the inside out.

My stomach twisted. I reached out, hesitating, then pulled back as if burned. My claws itched with an unspoken decision. This wasn't life anymore; it was torment prolonged.

The forest around us seemed to hold its breath, the rustling leaves and chirping crickets falling silent. I placed a steadying hand on the deer's trembling side, feeling the erratic thrum of its failing heart. It was as if the world begged me to grant it peace, to end its agony where nature had failed to intervene.

"I won't let you suffer," I murmured, though the words were more for me than for it. My claws gleamed faintly in the dim light, sharp and unerring.

With a single, swift motion, I drew them across its throat. The movement was clean, almost tender, and the deer collapsed in an instant, its breathing silenced. Its body lay still now, empty of struggle, the weight of suffering lifted.

The forest exhaled. So did I.

I shook my claw sharply, droplets of crimson scattering onto the dry earth beneath me. The smell clung stubbornly to my senses, metallic and bitter, as though trying to linger in my mind as a ghost of the act. My feet carried me to a nearby pond, where the water shimmered in the faint light, its surface a mirror of serenity in stark contrast to the turmoil I felt. I crouched and dipped my claws in, the cold water biting at my skin as I scrubbed away the sticky residue of blood.

The sharp tang of blood mingled with the crisp coolness of the water, a metallic sting that made my jaw tighten. I winced, the contrast almost too much, as if the guilt of the moment etched itself into my senses. The ripples spread outward, distorting my reflection, turning it into something unrecognizable—a monster's face, perhaps, or something worse.

A faint crunch of leaves behind me snapped me back to the present. I stiffened, muscles coiling like a drawn bow. My head whipped around, and my eyes locked onto a familiar figure emerging from the shadows.

Aizawa. Always with his bedraggled, half-asleep look and that perpetually unkempt scarf. His disheveled appearance, coupled with his tired yet piercing gaze, was as irritating as it was predictable.

I straightened, flicking the last drops of water from my claws, my sneer curling into place. "What do you want, hobo?" I snapped, voice dripping with venomous disdain.

He paused, hands tucked lazily in his pockets, his unreadable expression only fueling my annoyance. Typical Aizawa—always managing to make me feel like he knew more than he let on.