They dressed him in complete silence.
No voices rose, no words were exchanged—only the rustling whisper of fabric being tightened, the dull metallic clicks of armor snapping into place, and the soft shuffle of boots gliding across sterile tile. Every movement was clinical, devoid of emotion, like a team assembling a machine rather than clothing a boy.
It was a ritual now. Not one of reverence or ceremony, but of pure repetition. Cold. Mechanical. Meaningless.
Just like him.
Gloved hands tightened black armor across his narrow frame, thick plates engineered to flex with his movements, yet firm enough to withstand enemy strikes. Hidden beneath the armor, dozens of thin sensors and data nodes pressed against his skin, quietly transmitting biometric readouts to nearby monitors. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, but it looked more like a simulation of breathing than the real thing—each inhale more habit than necessity, each exhale devoid of life.
He did not look down. Did not glance at the people dressing him. His head remained still, his gaze locked straight ahead, as if the world around him no longer registered as something worth noticing. His eyes were grey now—clouded glass where once there had been sparks of mischief, hope, or fear. What lived behind them now was impossible to read.
The name they'd given him didn't need to be spoken aloud.
Eidolon.
It hung in the air like smoke—unseen, but chokingly present. A phantom of purpose. A scar given shape. No one had to say it anymore; he responded to it with perfect, silent obedience. Because he was no longer a child, not even a broken one. He was a weapon—wired to orders, sculpted by pain, emptied of will.
Across the room, behind a wall of reinforced glass, technicians monitored him like a specimen. One screen tracked his neural activity—still minimal. Another kept tabs on his heart rate—steady, calculated, barely reacting. One more showed emotional response data—suppressed across the board, just as intended. Dr. Kuroda scribbled something on his clipboard, lips pressed into a satisfied line.
He was ready.
The final restraints were removed from his wrists—thin, steel cuffs unlocking with a distinct snap. His arms hung loosely by his sides, and he made no move to rub the sore skin beneath. He didn't need comfort. He no longer responded to discomfort at all. He simply lowered his arms with the same mechanical grace that had come to define every part of him.
And he waited.
From the far side of the chamber, a low hum began to build. The sound reverberated in the floor—subtle at first, then steady. The air shimmered faintly, then twisted into a vortex of shadow and mist. Kurogiri's portal spun into shape, a swirling tear in space that breathed with quiet malice.
Beyond it, the night awaited.
The mission data had already been uploaded directly into his mind: route maps, coordinates, threat levels, and target summaries. Whether or not he had even looked at them didn't matter. He no longer needed to read to understand. The orders had been encoded deeper than memory—etched into his psyche like scars.
Step through. Eliminate. Return.
He moved.
Each step landed with a muted thud, his boots touching the ground as if guided by programming. He walked not like a soldier, but like a ghost with a destination—silent, controlled, inevitable. No hesitations. No glances backward. Just forward momentum.
Rei might have once paused before crossing this threshold.
But Rei no longer existed.
Eidolon did not know fear. He had been stripped of everything that made fear possible. He had no doubts, no thoughts of right or wrong. He was no longer someone who could be shaken by the weight of his own hands. He was a shadow in armor, a hollow echo of someone who once had a soul.
As he reached the swirling edge of the portal, a voice crackled softly in his ear—Kuroda's, thin and cold through the comms.
"Begin test sequence. Confirm operational efficiency."
There was no verbal acknowledgment. No nod. Not even a flicker of recognition.
He stepped forward.
And the mist devoured him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The alley reeked of cheap booze, oil, and the stale remains of fast food left to rot. A cluster of low-level thugs leaned against rusted dumpsters and broken crates, half-laughing through cigarettes and idle conversation. One of them scratched at his neck while tossing a bottle cap into the darkness, the sound clinking faintly off concrete.
"District 4's heating up again," muttered one, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Saw a couple heroes passin' by the tram line. Real tight-lipped, too. Bet something big's goin' down."
"Always somethin' goin' down," another snorted, flicking his lighter absentmindedly. "They show up, flex a bit, vanish like ghosts. Still doesn't stop guys like us from makin' coin."
A third chuckled. "Let 'em come. Ain't no hero gonna walk into this alley. Not without backup. This place is dead space."
Their laughter built, low and ugly, feeding off the night. A few shared a flask. Another sat back down on a crate, kicking his feet out and resting his head against the wall. For a moment, the alley was filled with nothing but the sound of casual lawlessness.
Then—quiet.
It was the kind of pause that didn't feel right. Not like someone had stopped talking, but like the alley itself had just… tightened.
One of the thugs glanced up, squinting toward the far end of the alley. "...You guys see that?"
The rest turned, following his gaze.
A figure stood at the edge of the light. Small. Still. Almost delicate in frame.
"The hell—? Is that a kid?"
They stepped forward cautiously, eyes adjusting. As the silhouette came into view, the tension grew.
He was dressed in something sleek and dark—black armor, faintly angular and matte like obsidian. Pale tendrils of blue, ghostly and flickering, drifted from his sides like mist caught in a breeze. His hair hung in front of his face, and his eyes, if visible, were unreadable.
One of the thugs, trying to mask his unease, laughed and swaggered forward. "Oi, kid! This ain't a cosplay zone. You better run along before someone steps on you."
The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.
"What, you mute or somethin'? What's that outfit supposed to be, huh? You a lost sidekick? A fanboy?"
The man took one more step.
Then his feet left the ground.
His voice died in his throat—because something else had taken it. An invisible force clenched around his neck like an iron vice, lifting him effortlessly into the air. His legs kicked, hands clawed at nothing, eyes bulging with pure panic.
Then, without warning, he was slammed into the wall with a bone-rattling crunch. The others stumbled back, stunned into silence for a single breathless moment.
"What the hell?!"
"Get him! Get that freak!"
The child—no, the thing in the child's shape—took a single step forward, his expression utterly blank.
And the alley stopped laughing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
(Random pro hero POV)
The city had a pulse, a rhythm that beat steadily beneath the surface noise of traffic and distant sirens. I walked my usual route, boots echoing against the damp pavement, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The glow of streetlights cast elongated shadows, dancing with each flicker. It was a routine patrol, the kind that often ended with nothing more than a few loitering warnings and the occasional stray cat.
Still, I stayed alert. You had to, these days. Villains were getting bolder, quirks more unpredictable. Even in the quieter districts, things could go sideways in the blink of an eye. But tonight felt… still. Too still.
My earpiece buzzed, breaking the monotony."Disturbance reported in alleyway 14B. Possible altercation. Proceed with caution."
The voice was calm, almost bored. Dispatch never sounded concerned until something was already on fire.
I acknowledged the message with a quick tap to my earpiece and adjusted my visor, switching to low-light mode. 14B—yeah, I knew it. Tucked between two old warehouses on the edge of my sector. It was a popular hangout for the small-time punks who liked to feel tough when the real heroes weren't looking. I figured I'd find a couple of teens getting rowdy, maybe someone tagging a wall.
As I got closer, the familiar noises of the city—car horns, murmuring voices, the buzz of streetlights—faded into a strange, creeping silence. The kind of quiet that crawled up the back of your neck and stayed there.
The alley loomed ahead, its entrance partially obscured by a pair of dumpsters and a sagging chain-link fence. Trash rustled in the light wind. The overhead bulb flickered weakly, throwing inconsistent beams across the walls. I slowed, stepping into the narrow corridor with measured caution, hand resting on the hilt of my stun baton.
And then I saw them.
Several bodies lay twisted on the ground—thugs I recognized from earlier reports. Blood pooled under one, staining the cracked concrete. Another was slumped against the brick wall, his arm bent at a wrong angle. Scorch marks licked the alley walls. Deep gouges—like claw marks—scarred the metal doors lining the corridor.
"What the hell…" I murmured.
I moved toward the closest body, kneeling to check vitals. Pulse: faint but present. Breathing: shallow. No visible burns or entry wounds—just trauma. Heavy, surgical force.
This hadn't been a struggle.
It had been a slaughter.
My thoughts raced. Whoever did this hadn't just beaten these guys—they had dismantled them with precision. There was no sign of panic in the spacing of the bodies. No blood trail. No struggle for escape. It was clinical. Swift.
I rose slowly, eyes scanning for movement. Maybe I was too slow. Maybe I was too focused on the bodies and not enough on the living.
A whisper of sound, like fabric brushing stone, came from behind.
Before I could fully turn, something slammed into my back like a sledgehammer. I hit the wall hard, pain lancing down my spine. My visor cracked slightly on impact. I grunted, rolling to my feet, weapon drawn—only to freeze.
A figure emerged from the shadowed far end of the alley.
A child. Maybe thirteen at most. Dressed in what looked like black, high-density armor—tight, sleek, and unnervingly silent. The suit was matte, absorbing what little light there was. Thin coils of mist clung to him like smoke that refused to rise.
But it wasn't the suit that made my stomach twist.
It was the eyes.
Lifeless. Not empty like fear or grief, but blank, like someone had scooped out the soul and left a thing standing in its place.
"Hey, kid," I called out, voice firm but steady. "I'm with the patrol corps. Are you hurt? What happened here?"
He didn't answer.
He kept walking forward, boots making no sound at all.
I raised my hands slightly—non-threatening, the way we're trained when approaching a scared civilian. "Listen, I don't want to hurt you. If you need help—"
That was when he struck.
He didn't move an inch. A translucent white hand shot from his chest and grabbed me by the throat, lifting me in the air.
I felt the pressure instantly. Not just strong, controlled. Like he knew exactly how much force it would take to crush a windpipe without killing me outright.
I gasped, kicking out in desperation, but he didn't even flinch. His one ghost hand held me in the air, as though I weighed nothing at all. My radio fell from my fingers, clattering uselessly against the ground.
His eyes stayed locked on mine. Empty.
I tried to say something. Anything. But I couldn't breathe.
And then, just as suddenly, he slammed me into the wall with bone-rattling force. My head struck brick. Lights danced behind my eyes. The last thing I saw before darkness took me was his silhouette walking back toward the alley's shadows—calm, precise, and unburdened by conscience.
That… wasn't a kid.
That was a ghost made flesh.