Sykes was many things, but being lazy was not one of them. Even late into the night, when most people his age are playing or long asleep, he spent the time studying or training.
Life as an orphan had carved certain truths into him early: the world did not wait, and support was never guaranteed. He had been lucky, got adopted and given a path forward. But luck was not something to be trusted. It could vanish as quickly as it appeared.
His thoughts drifted back to the orphanage. He remembered clearly how Junsei had refused to go with the Picot family, how that single decision had opened the door for him instead. He also understood, now more than ever, that the adoption had only gone through because the caretaker had hidden his own actions from the Picots. If the truth had come out then, everything might have collapsed before it even began.
When news reached him that the orphanage had burned and that everyone there was gone, he had felt a brief sadness. But beneath it lies relief. He had not been there. Whatever had happened must have been terrible, and he did not want to know the details.
The life he led to that point had taught him one rule above all others, if an opportunity appeared, you took it. Seeing Junsei again after so many years was simply another chance. He had never considered approaching the Yaoyorozu heiress directly; children from families like hers were surely raised to distrust strangers who appeared from nowhere. He himself had been taught that much by his adopted parents, and his family was nothing compared to hers. If that was his lesson, then what warnings must she have grown up with?
But Junsei being with her changed everything. It opened a path. All he needed was to act a little in front them. Mend things with Junsei, and with him would come a connection to the Yaoyorozu family. Junsei being a freak was both a blessing and a complication. It meant his words were easier to doubt, that others would see Junsei as overreacting, but it also made befriending him far more difficult.
Still, Sykes saw no risk in trying. There was nothing to lose. With that thought, he closed his notebook, his studying finished for the night.
Then he heard it.
The sound of breaking glass echoed from below.
The Picot house was two stories tall: the first floor held the kitchen, living room, and guest areas, while the bedrooms rested above. Sykes frowned, his heart giving a small, uneasy jolt.
"Father? Mother?" he called out. "Are you okay down there?"
No answer came.
His frown deepened as he rose from his chair, left his room and stepped toward the stairs. From below, the television murmured softly with the droning cadence of late-night news.
"Father?" he called again. "What was that sound?"
Still nothing.
His fingers curled into a fist, and instinct took over. From his skin, a bone-like spear pushed outward. Slowly, carefully, he descended the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he turned left toward the living room and froze.
His father sat exactly where he always did, facing the television on the couch. But his head was twisted completely around, bent at an impossible angle, staring back at Sykes with wide, confused eyes.
Sykes staggered back, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. "Mother! Mother!"
His foot caught on something, and he fell hard to the floor. Pain shot through his back and hands. Gasping, he looked down to see shards of glass embedded in his palms, blood already pooling beneath them.
Shaking, he pushed himself upright and looked at what he had stumbled over.
His mother lay face down on the floor. Her head was twisted the same way, her eyes wide open, a smile still frozen on her face as if she had never realized what was happening.
Sykes screamed.
Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet and ran for the front door. Escape… he needed to escape. He reached the handle, grasped it… and blinked.
He was looking back inside the house.
Then pain flooded his mind all at once, crushing and absolute, as he dropped to his knees. In that instant, he understood. This was what his adopted parents had felt, he was going to die.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was a pair of eyes-like blue glowing lights, floating calmly in the air, watching him.
——————
It was past midnight, and the Yaoyorozu mansion lay wrapped in silence. Every light was out, every corridor still. Then, without a sound, the window to Junsei's room slid open of its own accord. Cool night air slipped inside, stirring the curtains. The room itself was empty, save for a neat pile of clothes on the floor. A moment later, the window closed again, and slowly, as though painted into existence by unseen hands, a body began to manifest in the center of the room.
Junsei stood there at last, fully formed and completely naked. Tonight, he had drawn upon the aspect of metachrosis from various animals, bending the colors of his skin until he became part of his surroundings, completely invisible to the naked eye.
His hand rose to his chest as he stood before his clothes, and he felt the emptiness within him had lessened.
It was a strange sensation, like a bottomless hunger that had been quieted, if only briefly. He had suspected it, but now he knew for sure. When he killed a human, he took their life into himself. The act did not merely end something, it filled him. The sensation of it was beyond fulfilling. The warmth he sensed was euphoric.
Yet euphoria was a fleeting thing.
As the feeling faded, caution crept back in. Humans were dangerous. He might be able to kill most of them easily now, but he was not arrogant enough to believe himself untouchable. Momo had shown him heroes in action, true heroes. The likes of All Might were not merely human; they were monsters walking on this earth. And aside from them were weapons of mass destructive power.
Tonight, he had acted recklessly. He could not afford to endanger himself again.
Junsei dressed quietly and lay down on his bed. Within minutes, the room was still once more.
The next day, the city awoke to horror.
News spread like wildfire: three families had been slaughtered overnight. Eleven people were dead, five of them still schoolchildren. Every victim had been killed in the same way, their necks twisted unnaturally, as though the monster who carried out these horrid crimes wanted everyone to know they were done by a single person.
Police and heroes flooded the areas, searching desperately for answers. They combed through houses, streets, and alleyways, but not a single clue emerged. Cameras lined the streets where the attacks had taken place, yet none had captured even a shadow of a suspicious figure.
In the end, only one connection could be found. The children from the three families had been in the same class. Close friends. Whispers began almost immediately, speculation that the attacker had held a grudge against them.
The investigation turned toward the school. Teachers and students were questioned, and the quirks of everyone was reviewed. They searched for hatred, for jealousy, for any ability that might explain such a crime. But every path led to nothing. Sykes and his friends were spoken of with respect and praise; no one at the school, nor among the students' families, seemed capable of such an act.
And so, as days passed and answers failed to appear, a grim certainty settled over the city.
The vile villain would not be captured.
When it became clear that nothing more could be uncovered, the school made its decision. One day was set aside as a memorial ceremony, held in honor of three promising students, good friends, diligent classmates, children whose futures had been cruelly cut short. All students attended, and so did their families, filling the grounds with a somber hush that no amount of order could truly control.
The principal stood at the front, his shoulders seeming heavier than usual. He spoke at length about Sykes and his friends, about their potential, their kindness, the effort they put into becoming heroes. His voice wavered as he spoke of the pain of seeing such young lives stolen by the hands of a cruel, cowardly villain. Heads bowed. Some parents wept openly. Others stared ahead, eyes glassy with shock.
Junsei stood among them, beside Momo and her father. He listened to every word without expression, his face as still as carved stone.
He already understood this about humans. They felt sympathy toward one another, or at least pretended to, in order to appear civil and good. They saw his actions as cruel and cowardly. Yet to him, there had been no cruelty in it. He had simply removed what he believed to be a threat, he killed them quickly and as painlessly as possible.
And life had not been stolen. It had been returned to where it belonged. He had returned life to the world.
Still, they were not wrong about one thing. He was a coward. He valued survival and self-preservation above all else.
Momo leaned slightly toward him.
"Junsei," she asked softly, "do you feel sad for Sykes?"
Junsei glanced at her. Her face was drawn, her eyes dark with grief that felt heavy and sincere.
"You don't know him, why the sad face?" he said quietly.
Momo said softly. "You feel sad when you see your animal friends die, right? I feel the same when I see poor animals and humans die unjustly."
Junsei was silent for a moment. At last, he said, "You are a good human, Momo. I am not"