Fractured Wings

My quirk was a powerful one, a unique one. It was called [Paper Master]. 

I can create paper and telekinetically mold it into whatever shape I can think of, whatever I form takes on the function of what it resembles. A bird will fly, a knife will cut, and a shield... well, it'll block most things. 

On the surface it sounds simple, maybe in the hands of someone else it could be almost harmless and left as a party trick. But when you're forced to push it—to train until your mind blurs and your hands bleed—it can become something else. Something they called, potential. 

The Eden Project taught me that. Or at least that's what they said they were teaching. But their version of teaching wasn't what the world would call a heroic effort or even plain diligent in any way. 

It was control, brutality and perfection. I was just a kid when I was dragged to that place. A loud, angry brat who didn't think twice about anyone but himself. When I could finally walk out of that place though, I wasn't loud anymore. 

The Eden Project wasn't a place to be taught, it was a place to be conditioned. I'm sure that no one truly felt like a student there, just subjects. Subjects that they wanted to replace All Might. 

Some days we were pit against one another. You'd learn quickly that trust was nothing but a liability. Lose and you were punished. Win and you were rewarded with cold approval and a temporary reprieve. The fights were never fair. 

But the worst part was the silence. We were isolated, kept from forming bonds. Conversation was discouraged. The worst part of that was the fact that I got so comfortable in that silence. The anger was lost and replaced by numbness. 

That may have been instinct, the easiest way to press on was to be uncaring to everything, even oneself. 

But that was the goal of the project. To turn potential into perfection. To forge unbreakable weapons. But perfection comes at a price. You can only forge something so much before it cracks. 

I don't know how I avoided breaking completely. Whatever reason for them deciding to get me into their program, it didn't matter. By the time I was home, I wasn't angry, wasn't scared wither... just numb. 

The Eden Project wasn't just a painful memory, it was a scar. Some days it burned more than others, like tonight as I walked through the dim streets of Kyushu. I got some spare change for doing some small favours while still around Musutafu so it should last some time. 

The city at night felt suffocating. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting fractured reflections on rain-slicked asphalt. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of rain, oil and a waft of the ocean. A mixture of life and decay hung in the atmosphere. 

This wasn't the Kyushu people wrote about in travel brochures. No picturesque temples or serene gardens here, just cracked sidewalks and alleyways choked with secrets. The city had a unsteady pulse and I could feel it under my feet. 

A man leaned against a wall, puffing a cigarette, his eyes scanning the street like a predator spotting the best spots his prey could appear from. Across from him, a group of young men argued in low, clipped tones, their voices too sharp and deliberate to be friendly. 

I caught snatches of their conversation: product, shipments, names I didn't recognize but filed away for later. 

I walked past them keeping my pace steady, not too fast, not too slow. Eyes forward but not stiff. The trick was simply to look like you belonged without inviting attention. It was an instinct that I'd honed over the years. 

The smell of dried food wafted from a nearby stall, a stark contrast to the stench of mildew that clung to the narrower alleys. The vendor was an old man with weathered hands, chatting with a woman who looked like she hadn't slept in days. Her laugh was brittle, and it cut off the moment a man with a scarred face walked by, his presence silencing everything in his path. 

He glanced at me, a fleeting moment that felt like a warning, before disappearing into the night. 

I turned and headed down an alley that was dimly lit by a single flickering lightbulb. My shoes splashed in puddles, the sound bouncing off the walls in the otherwise dreary quiet. The farther I went, the more the city seemed to fold in on itself. 

A flicker of neon caught my eye, and I spotted a doorway just ahead. The muffled bass of music pulsed from behind it. A club, but not one listed on any of the maps. Places like these were where I could find secrets unknown to the public. 

Two men loitered near the entrance, their postures casual but their eyes sharp. They didn't spare me more than a glance as I approached. 

The bar was dimly lit, with a haze of cigarette smoke clinging to the air like a second ceiling. And then conversation mixed with the clinking of glass. This wasn't a place for drunken revelry; Poker games occupied the center tables, with stacks of cash and chips casually strewn between players who looked far too calm for the amounts being wagered. 

I leaned against the counter at the far end, sipping water. Even if I could, there was no point in dulling my senses here. My eyes scanned the room, catching fragments of conversations. It didn't take long before I locked onto a target: a young man with slicked back hair and a too-perfect leather jacket. His posture screamed over-confidence, his laughter too loud to be natural. He had an air of someone who thought he owned the world. 

He was flanked by two others, but their presence was window-dressing. This guy was their ring leader. More importantly, I'd heard him speaking about distribution areas for Trigger. 

I pushed off the counter and moved toward their table, keeping my steps casual. 

"Mind if I join?" I asked, my voice low but firm enough to catch their attention. I know it looked crazy for someone who looked like a kid to walk up to people like this, I was already on the shorter side of life. But I had walked in the bar with no problems so this should be fine. 

The guy looked up, an eyebrow raised. "And who are you?" 

I ignored the question and gestured to the empty chair across from him. "Just someone interested in your line of work." 

That got his attention. His grin widened, and he leaned back, spreading his arms as if to say I've got nothing to hide. 

"Work huh? You in the market or just curious?" 

"Call it research." I said, sliding into the chair. I kept my expression neutral, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unsettle him. "Heard you distribute Trigger. Right?" 

At that his grin faltered. His companions shifted uncomfortably. They were unexperienced. But he kept his cool. "You don't come in here asking about trigger man, Bad way to end a night." 

"Relax." I said folding my hands on the table. "If I wanted trouble I wouldn't be talking. But I need information, and you seem like the type to deliver." 

Best to play on his ego, there were many more in the room that looked better suited for such a conversation and he knew that. So it's best for him to believe that I thought he was the best option, not like he wasn't for me... he's dumb. 

He narrowed his eyes. "You've got a real mouth on you for someone who doesn't know the rules." 

"Maybe. Or maybe I know enough to find you interesting." My tone was even, almost bored. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a negative reaction from me. 

He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. "You don't seem like the usual type. What's your angle?" 

"My angle," I said leaning forward just enough to match him, "is figuring out how someone like you get's trusted to move product. Must have taken a lot to prove yourself to the boss." 

That hit a nerve and there was a flicker of defensiveness on his face. "I'm trusted because I deliver. Got clients all over the city, different areas on different nights. It's about knowing your territory." 

"Sounds complicated," I said, my voice laced with feigned admiration. "Must be hard to keep track of all the drop points, let alone the timing." 

He snorted. "That's why I get paid the big bucks. Not everyone can handle the pressure." 

I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch again. He was talking now, but I still needed specifics. "So, what's the secret? Certain areas better than others?" 

He laughed, a sharp hollow sound. "You think I'm just gonna hand you my map? Get lost." 

I felt a smirk creep onto my face, leaning back in my chair. "I think you want people to know how good you are. A guy like you shouldn't keep secrets for long." 

His companions exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable. The tension was thick, but I stayed calm, waiting him out. Finally he cracked, if only to show off. 

"Fine. West district on Thursdays, South district on Saturdays. Happy now?" He spat the words like they were worthless, but they were what I needed. 

"Ecstatic." I said, standing. "Pleasure doing business with you." 

___

It was morning, I snuck my way into a cheap hotel and spent the night in one of the unused rooms. I would pay but that would be such a waste. After taking a quick shower I got out again. 

The west district wore a different face in the light of the day, but it wasn't any softer. The sun was an unkind artist, highlighting every crack, every stain, everything that was carved onto the streets. The alleys still yawned with menace, everything felt more exposed. 

My steps were unhurried, blending into the noise of the environment. To the untrained eye, the district might seem normal, a tangle of life without any rhyme or reason. But I saw the patterns, the rhythm beneath the chaos. Delivery trucks came and went with precise intervals. Vendors shouted at the right volumes to cover whispered conversations. 

A man with a polished briefcase lingered too long near a rundown corner store, his posture betraying an edge of unease, 

I started at Shinji's, the same convenience store. The morning crowd was mundane enough, construction workers grabbing energy drinks, an old man buying cigarettes, a mother wrangling her toddler while stuffing groceries into a worn backpack. 

People came and went, their purchases nondescript. No one lingered, not even to count their change. And then there were the one's who didn't buy anything at all. 

I leaned against a lamppost pretending to scroll through my phone while my eyes tracked everything. A black van pulled up, its windows so dark they could've been painted. Two men emerged, one carrying a plain black box, the other keeping watch. 

The exchange was quick. The box disappeared behind the counter, and the men were gone before the van's engine even cooled. 

Too quick and too clean. 

***

A barbershop was my next stop. In the daylight it looked unassuming, old and with faded paint. The type of place that looked like it relied more so on regulars rather than walk-ins. Through the glass I caught a glance of that same scarred man from the night before. He sat in one of the chairs, but he wasn't getting his hair cut. 

Three others surrounded him, their postures stiff with deference. They weren't here for fades and trims. 

I lingered outside, pretending to check my reflection in the window. The conversation was muffled, but the body language was loud. The scarred man was in control, his gestures measured but commanding. The other's leaned in when he spoke, nodding like obedient soldiers. 

***

By mid-afternoon, I'd pieced together enough of the puzzle to know where to press. The west districts eco-system operated like clockwork, and if I wanted answers, I'd need to find the right cog to jam. 

That's when I saw him—a dealer. 

He was standing near a fruit cart, gold chains catching the sunlight like bait. His posture screamed, Look at me, and yet he was too conspicuous to be anything but another small time player. 

I approached the cart, pretending to browse the fruit. The vendor took one look at me and greeted me with a forced smile, his eyes flicking nervously around. 

"You got good oranges?" I asked keeping my tone casual and friendly. 

"Best in the district." he replied with a tight voice. 

The dealer chuckled and cut in to the conversation. 

"You don't look like a local." His voice was dripping with mockery. 

"Just passing through, I wanted to see what this city had to offer." I replied, not bothering to look up at him. 

He laughed again, louder this time. "Oh, we've got all kinds of offerings. Depends on what you're looking for." 

I turned to face him, expression neutral and balls of steel. "I heard trigger runs through here." 

The laughter stopped and the man at the stall stilled, he was scared, he was just an innocent man then. 

"That's not exactly public knowledge." 

"Neither is your supplier," I fired back, nodding at his gold chains. "But you are here flaunting it like a billboard." 

"You've got quite a sharp mouth." His bravado snapped. 

"And you've got a fragile ego for a middleman." I said. "I'm not here to cause trouble, I just want information." 

"What's in it for me?" 

"Your teeth." I said flatly. 

The silence lingered for a minute, I thought he'd test me. The poor man at the stall was shivering in his spot. Then the dealer, laughed, it was a forced and bitter laugh. 

"You've got guts I'll give you that." he sighed, "What do you want to know?" 

"Where do the shipments come in, and no vague answers." 

"Shinji's, The barbershop closest to it as well as the docks." 

Good, I tested him for those answers. I knew of the former two, but...

"The docks?" I repeated. "What time?" 

"Late. Midnight. They like to keep it quiet." 

"I appreciate the tip." 

In quick motion I stepped in close and quickly knocked him out with a hard hit to the jugular. I would have to find a place to stash him, I wouldn't want him waking up too soon and alerting people that I was asking too much questions. 

I patted down his pockets and pulled out a bid wad of cash. I then turned around the the fruit stall attendant. I took out a few bills and said. 

"Nothing happened here right sir?" 

He hesitantly took the money with shaky hands and nodded, he didn't say a word. And if things continued to go right, he wouldn't say a word. 

***